Page 25 of Falling Like Snow
So even though the senior center always brings me back to the time I spent with him there, shattering my heart all over again, I continue to return.
“Yeah, I’m pretty jazzed after the night we just had too,” Mom says, as if I can’t sleep because of the post-event rush. “Great turnout, don’t you think?”
“Yeah. It was.”
“Well, I’m going to hop in the shower. Thanks for all your help tonight—and leading up to tonight. You’ve got a knack for event planning, you know? If I don’t watch out, you’ll be stealing my job soon.”
I offer her a smile, but her job is the last thing I want.
“You want to come to the soup kitchen with me tomorrow?” I ask. “Asher can’t.”
If I hadn’t lied and told him Mom was coming, I know he would have bailed on decorating his house for his mom so he could be there with me. But my hope is that Mom will come with me, even if it’s a long shot.
Mom goes rigid. “Oh. Um, I don’t think I can.” She turns away from me to hang her coat in the closet. “We only have a week until the reindeer farm, and I haven’t worked out the details with the Garcias yet.”
She was so busy planning tonight’s event, I believe that she hasn’t had time to focus on next weekend’s events. But she’s also evaded anything that reminds her of Dad for the last three years—including talking about him. Instead she buries herself in work to keep busy.
And I go along with it so that my sadness won’t be a burden.
“Okay,” I say, doing my best to offer a smile.
She pulls me into a quick hug. “I’m sorry. But let me know how it goes.”
Then she heads upstairs, leaving the silent understanding between us: Avoidance is how she holds everything together. How she stays strong. How she copes.
And not pushing her is how I help keep her head above water—even if it means I’m drowning alone.
When I get to the senior-center activity room at noon the next day, round tables covered in red plastic tablecloths are set up and pre-lit garlands with plastic pinecones have been hastily hung from the curtain rods. People have already formed a line and are waiting for someone to open the kitchen window. I push through the swinging door and find Laurie, the manager on duty, placing a pile of disposable bowls next to the pots of soup.
“You’re here!” she exclaims with a wide, enthusiastic grin. She gives me a once-over before she turns to grab spoons. “I love your outfit!”
“Thank you. I came dressed for the occasion,” I tell her, striking a pose to show off my cute wide-legged red pants and cropped black turtleneck before walking my bag and coat to the bench along the back wall. Then I wash my hands and join her. “What do you need me to do?”
“I think we’re all set,” she says, her smile still gleaming. “And we—”
The door swings open, a large frame filling the space. My lungs stop working.
No.
“Micah!” Laurie exclaims. “I was just about to tell Sloane we have some extra help today.”
Those green eyes widen as they meet mine.
“Do you two already know each other? Probably, since Bramble Falls is so small,” Laurie says, placing a stack of napkins on the window ledge.
“We’ve met,” Micah says when I don’t respond—because my tongue feels like lead in my mouth. He takes off his coat to reveal a beige sweater that hugs his muscles perfectly, and as he sets his coat next to mine and washes his hands, I take in his hair, freshly washed and still damp. He stalks closer, and the scent of vanilla fills my nostrils.
I definitely don’t hate it.
“Great!” Laurie takes off her black apron and tosses it onto the stainless steel counter in the middle of the room. “I’m going to go talk with our visitors. There’s chicken noodle and tomato this time. Sloane, you know the drill, so I trust you can answer any of Micah’s questions.”
“Um, sure,” I manage.
“Thank you both so much for your help!” With that, Laurie shoulders her way through the door, joining our waiting patrons in the activity room.
“Okay, well”—I step over to the soup counter, trying not to be too awkward as I gesture at the pots—“do you have a preference?”
“If I were eating, yes. But handing it out? No,” he says.
