Speechless(96)

                “Hey.” Sam steps forward, holds my wrist and pulls me off the                     wall, wraps his arms all the way around me. “Hey, come here. It’s okay. Shh.                     You’re okay.”

                I bury my face in his chest, rubbing my wet cheeks against the                     worn fabric of his shirt. I can’t remember the last time anyone hugged me like                     this. Like they’d hold me as long as I needed. And I need it right now. I don’t                     try to pretend that I don’t. I dig my fingers into the back of his shoulders and                     cling to him, letting out choked sobs.

                I cry and cry and cry until I can’t muster up the energy to cry                     anymore. Even then, I keep my face hidden in Sam’s shirtfront, sniffling and                     taking deep, hiccupy breaths as he strokes the top of my snow-covered hair. My                     throat is all thick and gross, every breath of freezing air like tiny needles                     piercing my lungs, and my hands are totally numb to the point where they could                     snap off like twigs at the wrist.

                None of that changes the fact I’d still rather be here than                     anywhere else in the world.

                * * *

                Once the crying has stopped, Sam offers to go back into                     the school and retrieve my messenger bag and jacket for me. Thank God. No way                     can I set foot in there again—at least not today. He lets me warm up in his car,                     a white Olds Cutlass with torn red leather interior. A few books rest on the                     passenger’s seat, and while he’s inside, I take a brief look at the book                     sleeves. I haven’t read any of them—they’re by authors I haven’t heard of, like                     Chuck Palahniuk (whose last name I’m sure I mangle trying to pronounce in my                     head) and David Sedaris—with some comic books stuck in between. After a minute,                     I put them down on the floor next to my feet and turn up the radio instead. The                     station is set to NPR; two people are arguing over the estate tax.

                If a car says something about the person it belongs to, this                     means Sam is really into talk radio. And reading books written by dudes. And, if                     the wrappers on the floor and the half-a-pack in the glove compartment are any                     indication, eating Twizzlers. Which just so happen to be a guilty pleasure of                     mine.