Every Little Thing

11

Georgie and Hale decide to leave halfway through our little outing, promising a hasty return, but neither of us believe them. I prop my feet up on the now-empty chair opposite of me, and Reed adjusts himself so that he's facing me. His glasses are slightly fogged from the heat of the coffee, and he smiles a little as he looks at me.

"Sorry for going off on you back there," he says, with a contemplative sip of coffee, "I didn't mean to."

"It's okay," I say, discomfort rising in me at the memory, at the intensity of his voice that was so often calm and collected. "I shouldn't have made assumptions."

"Nobody means to assume," he says, with another quick sip, "They just do. And you weren't assuming. You were expressing your feelings."

I glance down, clearing my throat.

"Evelyn, that's nothing to be ashamed of."

I look back up at him, at his soft eyes and kind face, and for a split second, I want to talk to him. Like really, actually talk to him. About my mom, about me, about my life, about my problems.

But I can't, because I hardly know him, and the last thing I want to do is screw up something that has been utterly and completely surreal.

So I don't talk. I just offer up a smile and nod, and that seems to be good enough for him.

________

"Want to go somewhere else?" he asks me, and it doesn't even take me a second to answer.

"Sure," I say immediately, and he smiles.

"How about the pier?" The suggestion makes me laugh, remembering what Hale and Georgie had said about the pier and their canceled plans. "Aw, come on, Moore. One man's ruined plans is another man's treasure."

"I'm pretty sure that's not how it goes."

"Pretty sure it is."

I roll my eyes, but laugh nevertheless. We leave the coffee shop, and a gust of wind sends shivers all up and down my spine, and suddenly I will my shirt to be thicker, my sleeves to be longer. My entire body quakes, and I find myself pressed into Reed's side to keep from freezing to death.

"Here," he says, unzipping his jacket, but I hold up a hand in protest.

"No, don't give me your coat," I say, "I'm fine."

"I'm not giving you my coat," he scoffs, "Then I'd be freezing, and then where would we be?"

"So much for chivalry," I scoff, and he shakes his head.

"This'll help us both," he says. "Hold still."

I watch as the jacket opens, and he motions me towards him as he slips one arm in the oversized sleeve and then takes my own, easing it into the other sleeve, making it so that we're side-by-side in the same jacket, and the warmth is slowly making its return to my body.

"This is genius!" I say, and he lets out a laugh.

"See? My sister and I did it all the time when we were kids. Just be careful with your walking. One foot in front of the other, okay?"

I do as he says, and it actually begins to work, albeit we probably look absolutely ridiculous. I can feel his warmth through the fabric of his sweater, and I'm finding it harder and harder not to lean into him, to soak up the smell of lemon soap and the heat radiating from him. But I keep my distance (as much distance as one can keep when bundled up in the same coat as someone), and manage to get comfortable.

Getting onto the trolley is what may be the hardest part. I swing myself up onto the steps first, and Reed follows suit, careful not to be too far behind, as not to tug the coat in different directions. With a bit of shuffling and readjusting, we manage to get on. The bus driver looks extremely unamused.

"The Pier," Reed says, and the driver gives us a thumbs-up, closing the doors with a loud crash and starting up the bus, which is completely empty save for the two of us. I wriggle out of my half of the jacket and stretch out on an empty bench as Reed warms his hands by rubbing them together vigorously.

"My mom used to take me to the pier," he says, out of nowhere, and a small smile graces his features, "When my dad was off at work. She'd wake up me and my sister on a Saturday morning and all she would tell us was that she was going on an adventure. And we both knew what it meant. Candy and fried food and ferris wheels—that was the life."

"I've only been a few times," I admit, "But that sounds really nice."

"It was," he says, with a smile that seems almost melancholy. "I just wish I could have thanked her while I had the chance."

My throat tightens, and a wave of sadness threatens to consume me.

"What happened?" I ask quietly. He doesn't meet my eye as he says,

"She got sick."

I reach out my hand, and he takes it, still not looking at me.

"I'm really sorry."

"It's fine." He clears his throat, giving my hand a squeeze and smiling as if it doesn't hurt, as if nothing hurts.

And then I find myself blurting out,

"I lost one, too. A parent."

He looks up at me, curiosity and sympathy and a million other things in his eyes. I take a deep breath and say,

"Not the same way, but—he was my mom's high school boyfriend. Got her pregnant, packed his bags and left before she even had time to throw away the pink strip. All I know is that his name was Nathan. That's all she'll tell me."

Reed's eyes involuntarily widen, and then it's his turn to squeeze my hand. I smile anyways, through the pain, even though I'm not as good at hiding it as he is.

"Sorry," I say, easing my hand out of his as reality slams into me and I realize what I've just done, that I've just opened up to him about something deeply, deeply personal, "I—I didn't mean to—"

"Don't apologize." he says, "That sucks."

"Yeah," I say, through a little cough, "So does—"

"I know."

We both fall silent, and as the trolley rattles and rocks against the pavement, I close my eyes. I feel his gaze on me as I breathe in and out, gently, trying to erase the thought of my father and whoever he may be from my mind, trying not to think about a young Reed Bishop playing at the pier with a mother who no longer exists.

And yet, somehow, it is all I am able to think about.