The Heartbroken - S01 E164

Story 2 years ago

The Heartbroken - S01 E164

Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 164

He raised an eyebrow at me.

“Really.”

“Seriously,” I said, “It portrays real

life in a way that most stories don’t.

It shows how it doesn’t always end

the way we expect it to.”

He raised an eyebrow at this. “Well,

thanks a lot for this depressing

analysis of life.”

I cringed. “I really s--k at cheering

people up, don’t I?”

“Yup,” he replied, and before I

could call him out for being

ungrateful, he sent me an amused

smile. “But it’s working.”

—

Rarely did I ever talk about my life

before my father’s death. Not even

to Cedric.

Back then, talking about the past

made me feel like I was

acknowledging my dad’s death,

and I couldn’t handle that. I was

convinced I needed to focus on the

present and the future because it

was easier to pretend that the past

had never even existed.

With Seth, it was different.

The night I told him about Dad and

he told me about his sister,

something had shifted between us.

Before that, I never would have

openly talked about my father,

afraid that doing so would only

make me weak, but I was wrong.

Seth might have been right when

he said I didn’t like getting into

terms with my feelings, because for

a long time, I’d run away from the

past, and only when I found myself

talking to Seth about my childhood,

seated in the comfortable booth at

Snowflake, did I realize that the

only way to really move on is to

face the past.

So we stayed long after he finished

his yogurt, unaware of how quickly

time had flown by, and by the time

we decided to leave, it was already

well past dinnertime.

He was in the middle of telling me

the story of the time Sam had

accidentally given him a black eye

as we pushed past the glass door

of Snowflake, and I couldn’t help

but notice the way his eyes lit up as

he talked, his hands making

animated gestures as he relived the

past through his words.

“So I was standing there, about to

open the door, and all of a sudden,

it flew open,” he was telling me,

“and the doorknob hit me right in

the eye. I started crying in front of

everyone.” He shook his head, but

the smile didn’t leave his face. “God,

it was so embarrassing.”

I watched him, unable to keep

myself from smiling as well.

I wasn’t sure how long we’d stayed

there when we decided to leave. He

was still limping and I deliberately

slowed down to match his pace

when we walked across the

parking lot.

I tried to drink in the simplicity of

the moment; to revel in the thought

that I’d successfully cheered him

up, and it was weirdly satisfying.

Perhaps it made me feel like he was

relying on me, too; that he trusted

me just as much as I trusted him,

and to me, that was more than

enough.

I was about to unlock the driver’s

side door when he suddenly said,

“Thanks for bringing me here.”

He was standing on the other side

of the car, poised in front of the

passenger side, but despite the

distance and the chunk of metal

separating us, I felt as though we

were standing way too close to

each other.

“It’s the least I could do,” I told him,

dropping my eyes to the keys in my

hand. “Take it as my thanks for the

midnight picnic.”

“Are you free on Saturday?”