The Rain

I glanced out the huge window. It was raining, and the raindrops formed streaks on the window that looked like tears.

The phone rang, and I answered. It was Dan.

“Hello?”

“Hi Ann, its me.”

“Yeah?”

“Could you come over? Its kinda important.”

“Ah. Is it that important that I have to brave the rain to walk 2 miles?” I teased.

“Yes.”

“I’m coming.” I said, and hung up.

My grandma, whom I lived with since my parents were out of town, was at a meeting to discuss something about the upcoming winter revival. I left a note for her, and without an umbrella. The rain had let up a little and the water was dripping into puddles on the road. I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt over my head.

 Dan and I loved the rain. When we had been younger, we used to sneak out of the house to go play, and we got our fair share of scolding for that too.

 He had been my best friend since childhood. Our mothers had gone to college together, and it was only natural that their offspring should get along as well as they did.

We had similar tastes in music, politics and everything in between, and we got on like a house on fire. There was nothing mushy about our relationship, though. As much as everyone thought we were together, we never did anything to give anyone that idea.

We both went to school together, as sophomores, but took different classes, except history and bio. But we had our differences too. Where Dan was a sporty, outgoing all-American boy, I was more of a shy and quiet person who had to refer to the atlas for her parentage.

Despite all this, we had always been close. We had our fights, we had our disagreements, but deep down, we both knew each other, through and through.

My grandma’s house was at the end of town, a simple but elegant cottage in a decent, relatively middle-class district.

His house was an enormous mansion, Woodside Hall, with imposing black gates fifteen feet high and a long, winding driveway framed by tall oaks and willows over a  hundred years old. When Dan’s dad, Edgar, had bought the land, the trees had already been there, and he did not want to remove them.

“Stupid hippie.” Dan had said, when he realized that the oak leaves collected water and unleashed them on unsuspecting and unlucky passers-by.

The gate was locked, and I rattled it. It swung open a moment later. It was one of the gadgets wired to the things in his house that I could never understand.

Dan was waiting on the wooden porch swing, rocking gently. He looked up morosely as I walked in.

“Hey.” I said, taking in his slumped shoulders and windswept hair.

He shut his eyes and leaned back on the frame of the swing. He returned my greeting with a cracking voice. I was shocked when a tear slid down his cheek.

I dropped to my knees and grabbed his shoulders.

“Dan? Are you okay?”

He sniffed and stopped crying for a minute. Then he started all over again. It was heartbreaking.I let him cry, but did not let go of him. Though I had no idea why, I could form a vague picture. Dan’s mum, Liana, had walked out on him and his dad just a few months ago.

“Is it your mum?” I asked gently.

He didn’t reply, but stopped crying. We sat in silence. I didn’t want to push him. For a long time, the only sound was the rain, that had taken a turn for the worst, and was now coming down in sheets.