All This Time(9)

I stare at the window displays of the shops along Main Street. Striped Tshirts and propped-up books and bouquets of flowers. Every time I crane my neck to look inside, I feel myself searching. Looking for something. But it’s something I know I’ll never find on a dusty shelf or hidden in a corner. I have no idea why I’ve even walked here.

I wipe a bead of sweat from my forehead and find myself in front of Ed’s Ice Cream, the vintage red-and-white sign swinging on its squeaky metal hooks in the faint summer breeze. Weakly, I collapse into one of the black metal outdoor chairs, my body exhausted from even this short walk, one of my crutches chafing the hell out of my armpits.

I stare longingly at the front door, the cool, air-conditioned room on the other side of the glass feeling so close but too far for my broken body to manage right this minute. I don’t think I could take another step now if I tried.

Headline: WASHED-UP VARSITY FOOTBALL STAR BARELY MANAGES A MILE WALK.

The skin under my arm burns where a painful blister is starting to form, hot and irritated.

Just great. As if a head injury and a fucked leg weren’t enough.

After a few minutes of scalding myself on the black metal chair, I pull myself back up and head inside. The bells on the door jingle noisily above me as I’m hit with a blast of cool AC, well worth the extra strain.

I order two scoops of chocolate on a cone and sit down automatically in the seat by the window. The ice cream melts in my mouth as I stare at the empty seat across from me. Sam, Kim, and I were usually always together, but going to Ed’s for ice cream was something just for the two of us. On warm fall days after practice, or on a random half day of school, I’d make up some excuse to walk into town, surprising her with a cup of mint chip. She’d always snap a picture before her first bite and post it on Instagram.

I realize now that it feels like a real long time since we were last here. I wonder what I would see if I pulled up her Insta. When was the last mint chip?

I can’t remember coming after my injury. Not even once. And I don’t have a single good reason for it.

I stare at the empty chair across from me and feel a pang of guilt, her words from that night making me wince.

I pull my eyes away and my breath hitches when I catch sight of the girl working the counter. She’s leaning over the giant freezer to get a customer a scoop of butter pecan, her blond hair in a messy bun. A painful sensation claws at my head, like the icy burn of brain freeze.

Kimberly.

I hold my breath, expecting to see those high cheekbones, that megawatt smile that makes everything feel right in the world, her blue eyes rolling as she asks me what the hell I’m staring at.

She raises her head to smile at the customer and… it’s not her. Of course it’s not her.

I quickly get up from my chair, tucking the crutches under my arms. The girl’s brown eyes watch me from behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses as I move to the door as quickly as I can.

“Have a great day!” she calls to me, bright and friendly. I manage a small smile, but the corners of my mouth strain from the effort. Even the simplest human interaction feels harder than running laps during practice. The reality of Kim being gone is a series of everyday heartbreaks. Moments and reminders that chip slowly away at me until there’s nothing left.

I need a distraction.

I push back outside and restlessly head down the street.

I can’t go home right now. To my room with the empty spot where her picture used to be. To my couch where we’d stay up late on Friday night, watching scary movies until the sun came up. To the cabinet, still stocked with two unopened bags of the Lay’s barbecue chips she loves.

The gold doors of the historic movie theater on the corner of the block swing open as an older man shuffles inside. The vintage marquee’s thick black letters call to me.

I crutch over to the ticket booth and buy a ticket to the next showing, not bothering to even ask what it is. It doesn’t matter.

There are a dozen or so people in the theater, scattered all around, trying to beat the midday summer heat, but no one I recognize. I catch sight of a young couple giggling in the very back, their hands interlaced, and make it a point to sit as far away from them as possible.

Just a minute later, the lights dim and I stare blankly at the screen, watching the characters float in and out of their scenes while my mind does the exact opposite. It stays stubbornly on the throbbing pain in my leg, the sore skin under my arm, the fact that Kimberly isn’t sitting next to me trying to guess the plot and ruin it.

A belly laugh from the guy in the middle of my row snaps me out of my attempt to stretch my leg, and I realize what an enormous waste of time this is.

What an enormous waste of time everything is.

Grabbing my crutches, I shift my weight out of the squeaking red chair and toss the practically full tub of popcorn in the trash on my way out.



* * *




By the time I get home, every part of my body is on fire, my T-shirt completely drenched with sweat.

I stand on the front porch, my hand on the doorknob, lungs heaving as I steady myself before I push inside.

From the entryway, I glance into the living room to see my mom getting up from the couch, concern tugging at the corners of her mouth and the crease in her brow. “I’ve been so worried about you—”

“I’m fine.” I cut her off, meaning for my voice to sound certain, but it comes out all wrong, harsh and whiny.