My bike is in my parents' garage now. She's been there for a while. After, I couldn't bear reminders of the past (and couldn't bear not remembering, but that's a different issue.)
But flying down the highway doesn't feel like freedom anymore. It's just salt in the wound, a cold reminder of all those never agains.
So Baby Blue might always sit under a tarp in the back of a garage, waiting, like me, for things that can no longer happen. It makes me sad to think of her like that. Maybe I don't deserve her.
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...
