29. TWENTY NINE
TWENTY NINE
brEE
November, 2019
"Bree!"
The shout pulled me from my thoughts. I looked up, pushing my blonde hair off my shoulder as I peered around the coffee machine. My coworker Nea was wrestling with a basket full of coffee bean bags, having wrapped her arms around it as if it weighed a ton. Her voice pitches higher with urgency as she yells again, "Bree! A little help here?"
I hurried over, sliding around the counter. Her face was scrunched with effort, and the basket wobbled precariously in her grip. Before she could cry out again, I grabbed one side. Together, we wrestled it onto the bar. It hit the surface with a dull thud, and Nea let out an exaggerated groan, her hands flying to her hips as she stood straight.
"You know," I teased, brushing my hands off, "you could've asked for help earlier."
"It's six in the morning," she said, fighting off a yawn. "I'm half-asleep."
"Clearly," I said, raising an eyebrow.
She gave me a saucy wink. "Besides, I forgot you were here."
"Nea," I laughed, shaking my head as I walked back to the coffee machine. "Sometimes I swear you've got early-onset dementia."
She laughed loudly and uninhibitedly, the kind of laugh that could wake the birds. She tapped the side of her head with mock seriousness. "You're probably right. I should check on my last two brain cells before they die."
I tossed a cleaning cloth at her, smirking. "Oh, stop it."
The loud tick of the clock announced six a.m. sharp. The sun had not been bold enough yet to cast its light upon us, and the café was wrapped in the dark. This was my haven-mornings like this. All the nightmares that haunted my nights felt so small under the glowing lights of this warm café. And when sleep at least decided to be a foe, I knew I would be in peace here.
The jingle above the door yanked me back to the here and now. Cold air swirled in, touching my skin, and on its heels came the scent of winter: sharp, clear cold and the earthly, homelike smell of wood.
I turned toward the sound of the door, my gaze rising from the counter to the man who'd just walked in. A black coat clung to the lines of his tall frame. The quiet intensity of him came with him into the air, like a whispered promise, as he turned toward me. Café light caught against his face, and my breath hitched. His eyes as icy as the frost locked onto mine, piercing, freezing me to a spot. His gaze was sharp, hard to forget, and my heart stumbled in my chest as recognition struck.
"Bree?" he whispered low and raspy as if wrenched from him.
He seemed to look as shocked as I felt; his exhalation froze in the cold air between us. It had been far too long, far too bloody long since I'd last seen him. Even through a cold swirl, stirring around, I felt the warmth inside, melt something frozen in me that was there for far too long.
I walked toward him, my steps slow, I didn't say a word. There was nothing left to say. The pain wasn't sharp anymore, just a faint ache I had learned to carry, but my heart still held the same fractured pieces I picked on that day when he walked away.
He sat at the table, his shoulders slightly hunched. I stopped just short, my fingers brushing the edge of the table, gripping it to steady myself.
"What can I get you?"
His eyes lifted to mine, his face unreadable at first. Then his gaze dropped to my hands, lingering there.
Was he searching for a ring? There wasn't one. Not since him. Not ever.
"How are you?" he asked, his voice careful, his fists pressing together on his lap.
"I'm good," I said, tilting my head slightly, keeping my tone cool, detached. "You?"
He hesitated, the movement of his throat betraying the words he was struggling to find. Finally, he said, "Can I have an espresso, please?"
I nodded and turned away quickly before the tears in my eyes could spill over. His silence had told me everything I needed to know. He was still the same Thor I remembered. The one who tried so hard to hide his cracks but never could when I was around. And now, sitting there, the pieces were slipping through his fingers all over again.
"You okay?" Nea asked in a hushed tone, glancing over at him.
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat, but I didn't speak. I let the tears fall silently instead. Let the memories wash over me like they always did. Like they always would.
The bell above the door jingled again, startling me back into the present. I turned, and there was my mother, carrying my daughter.
"Mama!" her tiny voice rang out, her hands reaching for me. She wore her favorite pink sweater, her teddy bear tucked under her arm, her blond curls bouncing as she squirmed in my mother's arms. Her eyes, icy blue eyes, met mine, and my heart clenched.
His eyes.
I took her in my arms, pressing her close as she giggled against my neck, her small fingers tangling in my hair like they always did.
When I looked back at him, his face had changed. His breaths were shallow, his eyes locked on her. He didn't say anything at first, but I could see unspoken questions. His mask was slipping, no matter how hard he tried to hold it in place.
I walked toward him, each step breaking me apart, and when I reached the table, I pulled out the chair and sat across from him.
"What's her name?" he finally asked.
"Snow," I said softly, my chest tightening with every word. "Her name is Snow."
A tear slipped down his cheek, his jaw clenched tight. Before I could say anything, he stood up, his fist slamming the table. The sound made Snow cry, her wail cutting through the room as he turned and rushed to the door. I watched through the window as he stopped outside, bent over, his hands on his knees, trying to hold himself together. But I could see it—he couldn't. He was breaking apart.
And quietly, so was I.
He left again, and it felt like my heart broke all over again.
I turned back to Snow, pulling her into my arms, her cries shaking her small body. I held her close and whispered, "Shh, mommy's here. Shh, baby."
"Is scary man gone?" she whispered against my chest, her tiny voice muffled as I pressed my palm against her head.
"Aha," I managed to say, but nothing else would come. My chest felt tight, words stuck in my throat.
How could I tell her?
How could I tell her that the scary man was her dada ? The man I told her stories about every night before bed? How could I tell her that when he finally saw her, after all this time, he walked away instead of holding her? How could I tell her he wouldn't be there for her first day of school, for all the milestones that mattered?
He wasn't there when she took her first steps, or when she fell and scraped her knee. He didn't see me bandage it while she clung to me, while her cheeks drowned in tears. He wasn't there for her first word that wasn't "mama" or "dada," just a curious little "hi." He missed all of it. Her cries, her laughter, her playing "mom and dad" even though she didn't really have one.
He missed her first day of kindergarten, the excitement in her eyes, the way she lit up meeting other kids. He didn't hear everyone say how kind, how wonderful she was.
And I hated him for it. Not because he left me, but because he left her. He chose to leave her.
But what broke me even more was knowing that if he tried, if he even made the smallest effort, I'd let him back in. I'd let him break me all over again. I forgot too often that she was the one who saved me after he walked away. She was the one in my arms on nights when I cried for him. She was the one who gave me a reason to keep going. She gave me hope, gave me life.
And yet, I named her after the man who chose to leave us both behind.
Snow.