Page 92 of Snowman

"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 herdada? 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.

---