99 Reasons Why It Wasn't Love

3 | The Second Reason

Ok, here's me again to present the next chapter! Yay! Right now it's ranking number #412 in the Watty Awards category! Better than nothing, right? Which makes me emphasize even more that if you could please, please vote that would be great :) This chapter is dedicated to an supercalafradjalistic member called georgieberry28! You should read her stuff, she's really great and an inspiration to me. The ah-mazing cover on the side there was made by iloveyou4ever. She put a lot of hard work into it! And so, without further ado, The Second Reason.

The Second Reason

Thatcher slipped into the driver’s side, slightly breathless, his hair mussed. He stared off into the distance for a minute before announcing, “The bike’s all set.”

So I had heard. Based on the bangs, thumps, and sickening thuds, I’d determined that my bike had been too big for his trunk, and that he’d been forced to go to extreme measures. I should have given him fair warning – my bike was the closest thing I had to a family unit. Mess with it, and you have to deal with me.

“That didn’t sound like ‘all set,’” I suggested lightly. But for the sakes of his ego, I didn’t pursue the topic.

“Whatever,” he said, starting the ignition. “Where do you live?”

I traced the route in my head, the route that would have been my – silent – bike ride home. “It’s on Greene Street. You go past the train tr –“

“I know where that is,” Thatcher cut me off. He actually seemed way too happy about saying something that could mistake him as a stalker. “I used to live near there. There’s a house with a huge tree in the back right? It’s blue or something?”

“White,” I corrected. Force of habit.

Thatcher turned to me for a minute, perplexed, but turned his gaze back to the road as he dodged a fire hydrant. He was going 52 in a 45-mile per hour zone, but I didn’t dare mention it. Rule 10 – don’t diss a man’s driving ability. It’s like insulting a woman on her makeup. It makes them go super defensive and it just isn’t done.

Finally, Thatcher piped up, “You know, it’s kind of scary how you can remember everything.”

“I don’t remember everything.”

“Well, ok, close to everything. A lot of things.”

“A lot of things,” I repeated. Frankly, this conversation was taking a weird turn. I’d just gotten used to my extended memory, just like if your deaf you learn sign language. It had it’s side effects – I was an insomniac, not being able to sleep because that was when my memories came back to haunt me, ghosts of my past. But I didn’t think it was as paranormal as Thatcher made it.

“I mean, I can barely remember how to tie my shoes, or what color house is on my old street. Sometimes I can’t even remember my phone number or Gina’s face. It’s part of being human!” Thatcher tried to explain, seeing the expression on my face. “Which leads me to believe you are some sort of alien species.”

It took me a minute to realize that he was being completely serious. I laughed, incredulous. “I’m not an alien.”