When I was at The Purple Onion today, I saw Nick. (I was actually at another coffee shop, but I still don't want you hunting me down.) He had bags under his eyes, but he smiled when the barista gave him his change and handed out his coffee. I shouldn't've been staring because Nick caught my gaze and stuttered over to me. (I know that's not the proper word. But the hesitation, that back and forth before a final jolt of motion— it's wrong but right.)
"Mind if I sit down?" He gestured at the chair next to me, rather than across the table, and I was oddly grateful.
I nodded. I'm still not sure why I said yes. His tired eyes? Or his smile to the cashier?
"How are you?"
There was no need to dignify that with a response, so I just picked at the sleeve of my coffee cup.
"Right." He sighed. "M., I won't make you talk, but listen for a sec, okay? Everyone's worried about you. You don't want to talk to me, that's fine. But talk to someone, okay?"
I didn't look at him. I could see him out of the corner of my eye, but the pattern on the chair across from me was incredibly interesting in that moment. The silence dragged on.
"Good chat." There was a hint of steel in his voice, though he was trying to mask it. A sigh. "I'll see you around."
Defeat in his voice.
I'm not sure what they're worried about. My atonement? All I have is the past. (They're there too, even if they think they've moved past it. If we could rewind time, we'd unwalk these steps we've taken and all be back there. They still exist there and I do and she does too.)
Not that it matters. They just shouldn't worry.
And I am talking. That's why I have you.
YOU ARE READING
Minnesota Goodbyes
Teen FictionM., a college sophomore, is haunted by the events of a year ago that ended another girl's life. In an attempt to clear her conscience, she writes her confession down in a battered notebook addressed to a stranger. This search for redemption is far m...
