I’ll Paint You a Sunset Someday

- prologue -

Hallee (December 31, 2041)

Note to self—manifestation requires diligent attention to detail. It seems I’ve willed into existence ending the year with a bang. Unfortunately, said “bang” is my face landing a bullseye on the corner of a barstool as I mosey over to my friends huddled in the corner of the club.

Well, friends is a relative term, at least in these circumstances. A more appropriate title would be forced acquaintances or predestined companions. The truth is, I can’t remember the last time someone called me a friend.

I can’t remember much at all.

Because it’s New Year’s Eve, we’ve cast our votes for the final labels to define us, celebrating the memories we made and the personalities we grew into. Least Coordinated —that was the superlative awarded to me this year. With only ten minutes left, I’m properly fulfilling the given title. However, I can’t say I’m sad to see it go. Surely it can’t be my best.

Embarrassment welcomed me in a warm embrace but did nothing to slow my fall, and judgmental eyes laughed as the cold smack of the concrete floor rattled my hollow bones. Well, they aren’t actually hollow, are they? I’ll have to research it tomorrow if I remember. Which, I won’t. In a mere few minutes, this spotlight moment will be forgotten. Hopefully the secret of my clumsy past won’t be revealed by a purple and blue shiner highlighting my cheekbone in the morning.

Air —the ultimate opponent. Who knew?

Attempting to reclaim my final ounce of dignity, my hand grabs the end of the barstool. It was rude of it to assault me, so the least it can do is help me up. Too bad I can’t sue it for emotional and physical damages. The crowd’s lingering, mocking stares would close the case in my favor.

“What the fu—”

“Oh my gosh!” I gasp, suddenly drenched in the nauseating smell of a freshly mixed whiskey sour. “ Really , it couldn’t have been vodka?”

“Excuse you , whiskey is a perfectly respectable drink for a man,” the extension of the drink grumbles, steadying me with his hands.

Tears lock and load in my eyes, preparing to send streams of self-consciousness down my face, but my laughter soaks them up before they can ruin my makeup. What an unplanned, messy end to the year.

Least Coordinated, indeed.

One glance into Whiskey Sour’s eyes burns my cheeks more than whiskey burns to drink, and the smug little smirk on his face only raises the stakes. I hate that he knows I’m embarrassed, but at least he doesn’t look like he wants to fight anymore. As his hands unclenched, he must’ve inhaled a shred of empathy for me. Or maybe he’s hoping I’ll buy him another drink.

Using his beverage as my evening shower surely warrants an apology, but Least Coordinated seems to have forgotten how to hold a conversation. How typical of me. After a year of trying, I still haven’t won the battle against my timidity. Will I ever?

“If you wanted to shower with me,” he slurs, taking a single step forward, “you could’ve just asked.”

Verbal denial isn’t my strong suit, so a shy smirk and a quick shrug will have to suffice. Of course I don’t want to shower with him. But maybe I would, if I could? I mean, look at him.

In a half-hearted attempt to end the year on a good note, he reaches out. It wouldn’t matter if it ended poorly, but it wouldn’t kill me to shake his hand either, and I might as well put the icing on the cake with my winning smile. It’s the sweetest one I have, but like anything these days, it’s forgettable at best.

“Hallee,” I blurt, “but my friends call me Hal. So either one works, I guess.”

Time slows as my name sails away in the sea of his hazel eyes. Criminally attractive, that’s what he is, and my cheeks heat as his sparkling gaze crashes over me, flowing from head to toe. Someone arrest him for looking this good on a night we won’t remember.

Those eyes of his are the kind you can’t say no to. They’re a momentary escape to an infinite galaxy, speckled with an immeasurable amount of shooting stars to wish for all of your dreams to come true. Clearly, my red bralette was the right choice, because his wish-granters are fixated on my chest, and his jaw might actually cut me if I get too close. It’s a compliment, I think, but does he have to stare like that?

Like he’d never get enough of me.

There’s something endearing about him, innocent almost, although that’s highly unlikely. Those eyes, that smirk—he’s checked out plenty of girls in his lifetime. I wonder if any of them were worth remembering.

Am I worth remembering?

“Hi, Hallee, I’m—”

Strong hands grip his shoulders, hauling him away before his name’s grand reveal. They must be his roommates. It’s common to end the year with the only people we truly have forever.

I blink three times, my heart palpitating as the three musketeers run off to make a memory they will only forget. That is the one guarantee we have these days—the endless fulfilled promise that, on New Year’s Day, everything will be forgotten.

It’s my favorite gift I’ve ever been given.

Dean (December 31, 2040)

My hands tremble, pulling up the suspenders on my uniform as a faint yell urges me to get to the truck.

“We are ten minutes out. Let’s go, Dean!”

This is my first year as a firefighter. At least, I think it is. Honestly, I can’t remember. This is just the job that was assigned to me, no doubt because of my muscular build. It’s as enjoyable as it can be, I guess. I can’t recall what I wanted to be before this.

The drive to the house seems endless, as it always does when someone is relying on us. Keeping it together during the anticipation of disaster is the most challenging aspect of firefighting. The silence before the scene almost tears me apart, every single time.

We don’t discuss it as a team, the horrors we walk out of together. It’s not our job to be each other’s therapists. That role is reserved for government officials. The keepers of our minds also being the keepers of our hearts seems dangerous, but in these circumstances, there’s nothing to be done. The government occupies all of the jobs that require extensive training. Somehow, firefighting didn’t fall into the extensive category, and they settled for relying on one week of practice to protect the city. That fairly risky gamble is their choice, so the casualties should rest on their shoulders.

Should, but . . .

Well, the memories won’t haunt us for too long anyway. There’s a time limit on our trauma because of The Gift.

A house fire on New Year’s Eve is a horrible end to the year, especially when the scene looks like this . We got here fast, but it doesn’t take long for our government-assigned housing to burn, so the flames have already reached the outer perimeter of the residence. This is unsalvageable. Nothing, and no one, walks away from tragedies like this one. Regardless, the mission remains the same. Save the civilians, stop the spread, and extinguish the fire.

My gear weighs heavily on my shoulders as my feet sprint toward the unstable structure. I have minutes, if I’m lucky, before the bones of this house give in, obliterating everything left inside. No pressure, but I better not be inside.

“Fire department!” I yell as I walk into a completely decimated home, and my initial assessment rings true. There are no remaining survivors here. My hands are of better use outside, but as I turn to leave, my feet lock into place.

The crackling of burning wood, accompanied by the pitter-patter of splitting boards starting to fall, is the sounding alarm that I need to flee the scene, but as I try to run, my feet protest. What do they know that my mind doesn’t?

The neighbors’ mournful cries coat the air outside as they witness the tragedy we’re desperately trying to contain—the tragedy I’m about to be.

Then, like a whisper in the wind, I hear it. A faint and hopeless cry.

Every thread that binds my panic burns apart as the whimper echoes through my head. Surely I imagined it. Surely my mind is betraying my heart with the hope of a soul to save.

I’ll wait thirteen more seconds. One for each of the lives I have personally carried out this year.

Thirteen stories that got to continue.

Thirteen faces that I will soon forget.

Popping wood counts the seconds as they pass, and my foot finally lifts off of the melting ground at second fourteen. As if I’ve stepped on a trigger, an unmistakable desperate plea rings out in a last-ditch effort for salvation.

“I hear you! I’m here!” I scream as adrenaline surges through me, stealing the remainder of my active consciousness and propelling me to the back of the house.

There on the kitchen floor is my fourteenth life to save, covered in the rubble of the home that once protected her. Debris rains piece by piece as I lift her into my arms.

“You are a very brave, clever girl,” I affirm, turning to make our escape.

She covered herself in wet towels, which could’ve just saved her life, but as I race against time, her fragile body leaves me hoping that her desperate plea was not a cry of death.

The universe cuts the final tether holding up the house as we clear the skeleton of the front door. Collapsing to the ground, I shelter her body with my own and absorb the brunt of the debris. She’s so limp, so unresponsive. Was I too late to save her?

Don’t let it be too late.

Please, let her be alive.

Fear medicates my adrenaline, lowering it enough to draw attention to the shrapnel impaling my left side. A sound I’ve only heard from victims escapes my body. Scares me a bit. Scares me more that she didn’t flinch at my scream. It must’ve scared them too because within seconds, helping hands surround us both.

Reassurance and comforting words are drowned out by the ringing in my head as I look around for the other survivors—some proof that this precious fourteenth life will not be alone, but no civilians step forward in concern for the angel on earth that might leave too soon. The punch to my heart hurts almost as much as my injury, and reality sets in.

She’s alone.

We all are.

During these final moments of the year, her unconsciousness is the only gift that this universe can give her. As pain blurs my vision, the only peace for my soul is that our memory of this will be wiped clean in an hour.