Robyn

~Chapter 15~

I stare out of the window, watching as the snowflakes majestically fall to the ground where they slowly begin to accumulate. I turn to Ryland watching as he tries to drive cautiously down the slush filled street. Ryland has been driving me home frequently for a couple of weeks, because the winter has finally decided to arrive in full force by dumping foot after foot of snow on the New York City streets, and he tends to worry about my wellbeing during these storms as though I'll be swept away into the wind. I insist that I have no problem taking the subway home but he persists.

After experiencing my cathartic release of emotions a while ago, I suppose one could say we've gotten closer. It isn't as though we now speak about anything and everything, but rather we find solace in each other's silent understanding. It is the comfort of knowing someone is there for you. If I was any other person, Ryland would be my confidant but with the many secrets I have to keep, divulging in my personal secrets is not an option.

"Can you drop me off at the park?" I ask. I haven't been there in a while, and I need to be there for a minute or two just to clear my thoughts.

Ryland furrows his brow. "In this weather?" He shrugs. "Can I come with? I have something I want to show you anyway."

I nod. "Yeah, sure." My eyes return to the road, watching the buildings pass as we arrive at Central Park. When we exit the car, we walk in silence for a while. I stroll over to the bridge where my usual spot is. Because of the snow, there's no real way for me to sit on the bank without treking through at least three feet of snow. Therefore, I stand on the bridge, leaning against the railing to watch the frozen water below.

"So," Ryland begins. I watch as his gloved hands dig though his bag, pulling out a large, burgundy binder. "I was planning on telling you about my art project, but I decided to show you instead." His hand stretches toward, handing me the binder. Pulling my hand from out of my pocket, I reach out to take it from him. Lightly placing it on the railing of the bridge, I open the cover and begin to leaf through its contents. Each picture shows different areas of New York skillfully shot by a high definition camera. From the Empire State Building to Coney Island, he takes these usual landmarks and transforms them into something amazing by showing the simple beauty of it all.

Yet, the pictures that really make me happy are those of Central Park. They are all of places I've taken him to, from the gazebo to my own personal spot, but they're not of the whole scenery. He zooms into one element, such as the vines entangled on the gazebo or the still water of the lake, focusing on the beauty and life that eminates from each place. "It's gorgeous," I murmur.

"Thanks, I guess my art teacher thought so too. She gave me an A. Her favorites were of the park and I wanted to thank you. I wouldn't have gotten these shots without you," he says with a genuine smile, his lips becoming slightly chapped by the cold.

I shake my head, flipping back through the pictures. "I just took you to these places. You did the real work."

"Still, thank you. I would have never seen all the beauty right in front of me if it wasn't for you, pige."

I shake my head and hand back the binder. "Who would've thought?"

"What?"

"That I wouldn't mind you call me pige," I say.

He nudges me with his elbow. "See I told you it wasn't nearly as bad as you thought."

"You're still calling me a dirty bird," I remind.

He smiles smugly, his cheeks red from the cold air. "That's what you think. If you watched more movies, you wouldn't think that."

"Are you making fun of me?"