A Year of Winter

eighteen

I blinked at her, confused. I narrowed my eyes, “…What do you mean?"

“Well, I mean, about what happened. About me, and how I…” she paused, like she’d lost her words and couldn’t find them for the life of her. “…And how I left.”

I averted eye contact with her, staring down at the words. I tried to make it look like I was reading, but it was more of a distraction than anything. I didn’t want to seem averse, but I felt like I’d been slighted; like I’d been pushed away onto the sidelines, just like so many other times before. I had to admit, I was hurt, but I didn’t want to talk about it just yet. I was happy to see her again, and I didn’t want to ruin it, because this time, I wasn’t sure how long it would last.

“It’s fine, Winter. It’s in the past. 

Winter pursed her lips, irate. Narrowing her eyes at me, she nudged me with her brace. “Come on, look. I know you must be annoyed,” she said. “Bronwyn told me that the doctors wouldn’t let you in because you’re not family. She told me that you waited for me.”

My nerves tightened, my muscles straining. I bit down on my tongue to stop from saying something stupid, but I worked out a small word for measure. “It was nothing, really. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Ugh, you’re so modest. It’s nauseating.” 

“What?” I said, “Would you have me be arrogant?" 

She shook her head hopelessly, her eyes tired and glassy, like they were here but somewhere else entirely, ignoring me. “They said…they said you were really shook up,” she paused, clenching her fists. “And I’m sorry.” 

I looked up from the book, long enough to see contrition written on her face in bold. I frowned, the curious question that’d been burning in my head all week wanting to burst from my head. “Winter,” I mustered, my throat sore and weak. “Why’d you just get up and leave?”

She frowned. “I told you this before. I don’t want to talk about—”

“—No, not that. That’s not what I’m asking you about,” I said nervously, shaking my head. “I mean why did you leave me. Up there. In the tree house.”

Her face fell suddenly, all of a sudden and all at once, her eyes, nose, mouth, freckles and all just fallen, as if they were all shooting stars, streaky across the skies. “Henry,” she said tentatively, and I knew suddenly, by the way she said my name so carefully, that something was amiss. “I’m not good with goodbyes.”

I felt my throat tighten like a noose, “Was that supposed to be goodbye?”

Her face hardened like stone, “It was supposed to be ‘so long.’”

“You were going to leave.”

“Yeah,” she said, sullenly. Hearing her say it suddenly felt so much more definite; so much more concrete. “I was going to leave.”

I was groping for any answer I could find at this point. “But why?” I begged.

“Because,” she whispered softly, under her breath, but just loud enough to hear,  “I can’t do this anymore.”

My face hardened, and my fingers clenched around each other, like vines of ivy around a post. “So you decided to just get up and leave,” I said, the prospect of such a thing still tasting foreign on my tongue.

“I suppose so,” she said with a frown. A moment of silence settled between us, and she nudged me with her injured foot, “Look, Henry, I’m sorry. But I’m not gone now, okay? I’m here”—she gestured up and down herself, like she was proud of her own presence—“satisfied?”