99 Reasons Why It Wasn't Love

9 | The Ninth and Tenth Reasons

So, here, finally, is the long awaited ninth chapter. I know, I know, it shouldn't have taken me this long, but I've been so crammed with schoolwork. Hopefully, it doesn't suck, and I can get some more chapters sooner.

The Ninth and Tenth Reasons

Sometimes it was easy to make believe that Thatcher was a real person. But, more often than not, just when you forgot he was incapable of saying anything inoffensive he would blurt out something that made you question his existence.

“’Ook! Snow!” Sofia shrieked, halfway to my front door before I could snag the collar of her frilly shirt. “Melissa loves snow!”

I could only nod lamely. How do you respond to something like that? It’s not like I was acquainted with many pink giraffes. “Well, who doesn’t?”

Very simply, she pointed. “Uncla.”

“Uncla?” I turned, aghast. “Uncla is incapable of loving something?”

After hearing this new token of trivia, I half expected him to be curled up in the fetal position. Thankfully, I was wrong.

“Ha, ha.” He narrowed his eyes. “It’s not like it’s the embodiment of death or anything.”

“Sarcasm?”

“No.”

“Word of the day.”

Good ole Thatcher rewarded my witty remark with a classic eye roll/chuckle combo, slowly backing himself in the corner. He thought I wasn’t going to catch on. How cute. “Two hundred thousand people die in snow related road accidents a year. It kills babies, Bronwyn. And kittens. Think of the kitten funerals.”

“Kitten funerals?” I raised an eyebrow. “That’s the worst thing you can –“

He held out one hand to stop me, horrified. “Kittens. Dead. In coffins. Eulogies. What part of that isn’t tragic?”

That was not going to be dignified by an answer, at least on my part. Sofia was more than happy to contribute, “I like kittens,” to the conversation.

Thatcher had completely cornered himself behind my lamp, pretending, maybe, that if he stood still enough he would just blend in with the wall. It’s not like I was a bear, incapable of eating you unless you made a noise. Or tasted like chicken.

“Look,” I started, making him visibly flinch. “I am not going to force you into a vehicle. We are just going outside. To watch the snow. With your niece.”

There was some ineligible muttering from behind the lampshade, so I assumed he was either praying or damning my soul for the rest of eternity. Either was fully plausible, seeing as I was witnessing some inner childhood trauma. Or something.

“Bronwyn.”

“Thatcher.”

“Bronwyn Sonnenschein Kirk.”

Ouch. Low blow. “Thatcher Wenceslas Lucas.”

He took a couple steps out from his hiding place, scowling. “Your going to poison her mind with those fluffy white flakes. I swear.”

Yes, because fun and the spirit of the approaching holiday season was going to kill her.

As if.

It seemed, momentarily, that the two of us had switched places. The bravest guy I knew was cowering – and to some extent, trembling – in fear, while I, a true coward, forged into the unknown. Maybe it was the effect of the long day, or just Thatcher’s weird paranoia with slush that was making me reach out to him, like he did to me. But I was beginning to sell my reasons for way less than they were worth. It was, to some extent, memory prostitution. Huh.