- 18 -
March 2045
Hallee
My alarm expects me to get up and participate in society, which is a little rude, honestly. I could snooze it for the eighth time, but the angle of the sun shining through the curtains is higher than it should be. For how important keeping a schedule is to me, starting the day on time should be more of a priority.
Should be, but isn’t.
Sleep—the ultimate defying factor to any and all schedules for today, tomorrow, and always.
Releasing a sigh to whatever spirit is listening, I kick off the comforter. The bitter bite of the cold floor pisses me off every morning, so I shuffle to the bathroom quickly to speed through the steps of making myself presentable. Regardless of the late start, I’ll stop by The Marmotte on the way to work. Morning coffee is a requirement now, and I’m not too proud of that, but it is what it is. There are plenty of worse things I could indulge in.
Within fifteen minutes, I’m grabbing my keys and muttering goodbye to Marlowe and Avery. Their keys are missing from the hooks so they aren’t here to hear it, but leaving a room without acknowledging it dooms me to fulfill a bad outcome of fate.
A character I read about didn’t tell her boyfriend she loved him before he left. He never came back, and it’s haunted me since the moment I read it. Now, I’m destined to a lifetime of sharing a whispered farewell to the places and people that have carried me this far everytime I leave a room. He had a mantra about not being afraid, and it’s stuck with me. Every morning, I look at my reflection and declare the words over myself. My anxiety has shuddered at the strength growing inside me, trained and sharpened by a book. That is a gift.
Goodbye , I mutter as I step out of the elevator, and again as I open the first-floor door. The fresh air is still cool, but the breeze is less biting these days. We’re in the calm before the great awakening of nature. That’s how the nature documentary Avery and I watched had described it—a great awakening. Why does it feel like my soul is a part of it?
Experiencing things for the first time all over again is one reason I’m thankful for my circumstances. Life would be so dull if I became desensitized to the little moments. How long would it take before that happened? Before I didn’t notice the light glistening on the snow, a smile from a stranger, the smell of a new book. Blooming flowers, the grass turning green, the birds chirping a little louder than before. Little love notes from the universe to us. Thinking of them brings a smile to my face, and I share it with every stranger I pass on the way to The Marmotte.
I’ve run into Dean a few times since staying at his place a few weeks ago. It hasn’t felt uncomfortable, but he hasn’t taken the initiative to see me again, and the lack of effort has stung—more than I’d like to admit. He smiles, hugs me long enough to make me question everything, and then runs out the door. Walks to work like I do, which is probably a sign we’re soulmates. Those don’t exist anymore, but maybe they could? He could be mine for a year or mine for a hundred, but having him for one rather than a hundred doesn’t make it matter less . . . right?
Call it self-preservation or acting old fashioned, but I’ll follow his lead, even if it’s only stale breadcrumbs from weeks prior. It’s not like time is completely fleeting and the overarching deadline of our memories is approaching or anything—that would be totally crazy. Even crazier than loving a stranger, which I don’t. He’s simply a force of gravity, constantly and unknowingly drawing me to him.
The Marmotte’s line is long, filled with the unfamiliar faces of later morning regulars staring at me because they know I don’t belong. At this rate I’ll be twenty minutes late to work, proudly displaying the explanation of my tardiness. Surely Miles will understand—I’ve only been late once. Still think about it, too. Am still ashamed of it.
My feet step forward, following the line. An older couple is snuggled up on the same side of the booth. What would their story be if they had the collection of their lives to tell? How many loves have they had, jobs have they worked, lessons have they learned?
The line moves again. A woman not much older than me is waiting by the bar in a chic pinstripe pantsuit. Her hair is pulled into an elegant ponytail that hangs down her back in large curls, and her stilettos click when she walks. She looks like the epitome of success, but does she feel as alone as me?
A gentle touch on my arm pauses me mid-step, and comfort overwhelms my senses. There’s only one person who does this to me—his touch is ingrained in my heart.
“Did you know . . .” Dean asks, “that sunflowers turn their face toward the sun during the day?”
A sarcastic chuckle escapes me, as I glance up. Did I hope to see him? Yes, but I didn’t plan for it. I’m already running late, and those eyes could be the final thing to derail my emotions for the rest of the day. It’s confusing how even a good thing can set me off.
“Well, I wanted to test that theory. Upon further review, I can confirm.” He smirks, raising a flower and turning it to me. “They do, in fact, face the sunshine.”
An uncontrollable smile lifts my cheeks, squinting my eyes so much I can barely see. Sunshine is a nickname I’d like to get used to.
“One hot vanilla latte for Hallee,” the barista calls out.
My name and my drink? But I haven’t even ordered . . .
Dean smiles at me, eyes flaring slightly as he says, “Better go get it, Hal.”
This wouldn’t be the first time my mind’s played a trick on me, but I swear he winked as I walked away.
As I reach for my drink, the barista spins the cup. There, written on it, is a note. One simple question, proving that he feels it too.
Can I walk you to work?
Dean
The timing of that plan couldn’t have been executed more perfectly. I did wait for over an hour and order five different vanilla lattes under her name to try and get it right, but when it really counted, it was as flawless as her. The barista, Lea, rolled her eyes the third time she wrote the question on a cup, but her smile was hopeful that my plan would work, and the surprise on Hallee’s face when Lea called her name? I’d buy endless amounts of lattes to see it again.
My gut is pushy these days, insisting she’s not an ordinary hookup. This delicate beginning might grow to redefine my idea of love. Nothing and no one will stop me from pursuing her like a prince would.
“Well, Hal?”
She taps her cup three times before mumbling, “I’m running really late, but if you walk fast, then yes.”
Message received.
Meeting her step for step, I push open the door and follow her onto the sidewalk. Her hurried steps call out, begging me to break the silence. She’s on edge, like one wrong move could push her over the cliff. Won’t make eye contact and is biting her lip as if she’s trying to keep it from trembling.
What the hell did I do?
It’s been a bit since she stayed the night, but it’s not that I didn’t want to have her back over. I didn’t even want to drop her off! I wanted her to stay all day, tangled up in the blankets and bliss, but she seems to startle easily. I didn’t want to suffocate her with too much attention too fast. That night was the flint to spark a flame that requires a steady and consistent effort to burn.
Steady and consistent—that’s what I’ll be for her.
“You look really beautiful today, Hal.”
“Are you bullshitting me?” she asks, glancing at the flower in my hand.
“What?! No, you’re gorg—”
“Do they really face the sun?”
“Oh! They do. Hudson and I watched a whole nature documentary on it.”
“Intriguing,” she mumbles, squinting suspiciously to hide her growing grin.
“Although, I think they should rename it,” I bait her with a mischievous smile.
“Is that so?”
“The Hallee Detector is much more accurate. After all, they follow the sunshine.”
She scoffs, but her shoulders relax a little.
“I got it for you, but maybe I should keep it so it’ll lead me back to you.”
Playfully shoving my arm, she giggles, and I swear that sound turns the gray sky blue, the cold air warm, and a boy into a man. I’d give my whole life to hear it again.
“Sunflowers face the sun . . .” She pauses, nodding as if the gesture will lock the memory into place before her shoulders tighten up again, uncomfortable from the moment of silence.
“Talk to me. What’s going on in that pretty little mind?” I ask.
Her weighted sigh is crushing, and she does that adorable thing where she twists the ends of her hair. You know, the way she did while standing in the doorway of my bedroom. Man, she looked like she belonged there.
“I don’t like being late.”
That was, at best, an incomplete statement. She’ll continue if I stay quiet. Did I mention how much she hates silence?
“Do you not have work today?” she asks, shifting her demeanor to hold her head a little higher than before.
The change of topic is a clear protection against something bordering on too personal. She must not realize I don’t startle as easily as her.
“Not today.”
Honking horns fill the pause in conversation and I’m not going to lie, her icy exterior is flustering. Not startling, just . . . nerves aren’t something I’m used to. If I wait any longer, the butterflies in my stomach will carry away the rest of my thoughts.
“Hallee . . .” I grab her arm, conscious to keep my grip a soft request rather than a forced decision.
Her usual glow is absent—hidden by clouds on her face—and her eyes are ready to rain, still refusing to meet mine.
“Would you like to go on a date with me this weekend?” I ask, and tap my feet to distract from how long it takes her to answer.
The clouds on her face darken, lightning strikes, and then nothing. Her eyes are a ruined city, exhausted from weathering the storm, and I can’t get myself to look away.
How do I rebuild it?
“Well,” she pauses, finally raising her glassy eyes to mine. “What took you so long?”
Oh.
She isn’t preparing for battle, she’s recovering from feeling discarded. Makes me feel sick, so I clench my jaw tightly to keep it from gaping open.
“There—” I try to explain, but every thought sounds like an endless list of excuses rather than an actual reason for waiting so long. Nothing was good enough in my strive for perfection, but now I could lose her to the wasted time. Maybe love is less about perfection and more about the intention.
“There was a brief lapse in my judgment about what amount of excitement would be flattering, but not scare you off.” I swallow down my nerves. “Let me make it up to you, Hallee. Let me take you out. I promise it will never happen again.”
Fighting a smirk, she side-eyes me and asks, “You’ll never take me out again, or you’ll never make me question your intentions again?”
“Hallee,” I sigh. Her tone may be playful, but the words still feel like a punch to the face. Stops me in my tracks, actually.
“Dean.” She freezes, batting her eyelashes as a grin breaks free.
“There will never be another question about my intentions here.”
“Are you sure about that? Because I ask a lot of questions. Queen of the questions,” she jokes, tapping her forehead three times.
“Queen of the questions!” I exclaim, grinning from ear to ear. “Thou shall never again be put in a position to feel anything less than irreplaceable!”
As I pretend to bow, the star finally shows up to the show. Her full smile is worthy of a record-breaking standing ovation. Before she can notice, I snap a picture with the Polaroid camera hanging off of my shoulder.
“Hey!” she shouts, laughing through the end of the word. “Have you had that the whole time?”
“ Someone was too distracted by her change in routine to notice,” I tease.
“Ugh, Dean!”
My name on her lips is like seeing a familiar face in a crowd of strangers. Her laugh? Has me flying. She’s feisty for her size, quick on her feet, but not quick enough to get this picture from me.
“No fair, you’re tall!” Pouting, she crosses her arms over her chest.
“Oh, and that’s a bad thing?”
“Yes!”
Tipping my head to the side, I shoot her a knowing smirk. “Really? Wow, ladies and gentlemen, mark it down in the books! A man being tall is a no go.”
“Are you done?”
“Are you?”
Letting out a frustrated grunt, she circles me like a shark on a hunt. She disappears, and I’d think she’s given up . . . if that were something she’s capable of.
Her full weight slams into me as she conducts her sneak attack. Bold move, to jump on my back without warning. Already trusts me enough to know I’d never drop her.
“Clever girl.” I laugh as she pulls at my raised arm.
“Move your arm down!”
“Your wish is my command.” As she hops off my back, I obey, but slip the picture into my front shirt pocket.
“Happy?” I chuckle through the word, letting her spin me around to meet her wild glare.
“Picture,” she demands, holding out her hand like she’s commanding a dog to drop its toy.
Flirtatious irritation looks good on her. Has her cheeks all pink and lips all pouty.
“I think that this,” I tease, plucking the Polaroid from my pocket, “is what you’re looking for.”
Her eyes flare as I brush her hair over her shoulder. The touch holds her attention while I slide the Polaroid into my back pocket.
“You can have the picture, Sunshine. You just have to get it.” Her breathing stops as I continue, holding her stare. “It’s in the back left.”
She swallows as I turn my pockets to her. Hesitating for a second, amusement raises her eyebrows.
“Now I’m really going to be late to work.”
Rolling her eyes, she resumes her speed walk.
“So—is that a yes?” My heart skips at her nod, but she’s extra cute when I tease her, so I continue, “Need to hear ya say it, Hal.”
“How could I say no to those eyes?”
“Ah, it’s the eyes you like, then?”
Hers widen, and suddenly cracks in the sidewalk become more interesting than me.
“I’ll pick you up on Saturday, 9 a.m. sharp. That is, unless you have another date we should work around?”
It’s a joke, mostly. Also my way of finding out if she’s seeing other people.
“That works! Don’t be late.”
Not exactly a jackpot of answers to my question, but it’s enough for me. She always will be.
Her fingers interlace in mine as if we’ve done this every day of our lives, and it feels like we have. The walk to Happy Bookday doesn’t feel long enough this time, and as we turn the corner, her pace slows.
“You better take the sunflower with you,” I insist, smiling as she turns to face me. “It belongs in the sun.”
Pink paints her cheeks as her hand grazes mine.
“One more thing,” I say, doing my best to not come apart at the way her touch lingers for a mere few seconds. “Will you take a picture of me?”
“Why?”
“Trust me.”
Tipping my head barely to the right, I tuck my hands into my pockets and give the biggest smile I can while keeping my eyes locked on her.
Click.
I grab it before she does, but immediately hand it over.
“A picture to permanently wash away any doubt of how I feel about you. Look at your effect on me.”
She smiles and I wink, and I want to stay here forever.
“Remember me happy, Hal.”
It hurts my heart to walk away without another word, so I sneak a glance over my shoulder after a few steps. When I do, she’s already inside, but through the window her eyes find mine, and the smile she gives me makes it true—my life will never be the same.
Hallee
It’s official. My life will never be the same, all because I love a man.
Miles throws me a taunting grin as I cradle the Polaroid in my hand, extra careful not to bend the corners. He doesn’t say a word, but his eyes tolerate my late arrival for the day. They tolerate it, even if I don’t. I’ll be thinking about this until the day I forget.
Choosing to run late rather than rush here this morning contradicts my goal of being the world’s most reliable employee. Not that it’s extremely pressing; there are no customers yet, but the sentiment still matters to me. It was my turn to help open, and I wasn’t here for him. The guilt string of my heart stretches so thin it hurts. What age did I start to believe that every single moment has such high stakes?
What age will I be when I start to believe that my existence isn’t an inconvenience?
It’s all-consuming, the swell of my degrading voice repeating all of my shortcomings. Being late, burning dinner, being too distracted to remember to smile at a stranger who looked sad. Has my brain always been this mean? Forgetting really is a gift if the alternative is a lifetime of being my own worst enemy.
The corner of the Polaroid pokes my finger. I forgot it was in my hand, but my pocket isn’t safe enough for something so irreplaceable. I flip it over, finally looking at the developed picture. Dean’s joyful smile reaches into the darkest corners of my mind, illuminating them until every degrading thought scatters. There is nothing but hope in the presence of the light.
This morning he proved he has enough hope to carry us both. Regardless of the terrain, I’m ready to walk the path with him. If we end the year holding hands, the journey was worth it. If I end up alone, at least I was brave enough to risk it—to risk my heart in the fall for the man that brightens up the darkest parts of me.
My feet rarely carry me to the romance aisle, but here I am. Seems like a sign, but before I can choose a book, the bell dings and the familiar click of a walker announces my favorite customer’s entrance. A pink balloon floats slowly through the doorway as if it’s rolling out the red carpet for her. She’s only a few feet inside when I skip to greet her.
“Good morning, ma’am. I see you chose a pink balloon this morning. It complements your lipstick well.”
It’s almost identical, actually, as if it were color-matched and created for this moment entirely.
“Thank you, dear.” The raspy texture of her voice is proof of the many lives she’s lived so far.
Content to be alone, she disappears between the aisles. It must be nice to be happy spending time in the company of yourself.
Her balloon renders it impossible to lose her location in her quest for the next adventure, and I follow along from afar as it pauses in the romance aisle. Love must be in the air today. Signs all around.
After about thirty minutes of shuffling back and forth, she turns the corner. Miles rushes to her side, immediately offering to carry her three books.
“I like your balloon! French Rose pink suits you well,” he compliments loudly, biting back at the passing judgmental stares of the other customers.
“Oh my stars, you know your colors!” she cheerfully replies, approaching the counter.
“Did you find everything you were looking for?” I ask as clearly as I can without sounding like I’m talking to a child.
“I sure hope so, dear. I always allow the characters to choose me.”
That’s a crazy idea, but I’m a reader, so to me it makes perfect sense. What doesn’t make sense is that she didn’t apologize for saying something that could be labeled as odd. Time has made her bold. Could it make me bold, too?
“Would you mind sharing your story about the balloon?”
Her face lights up, negating my assumption that she is asked about it often. Perhaps fewer people are brave enough to connect with strangers than I thought.
“There’s not much story to tell, dear. I like balloons. Life is too short to not spend it in the space of things you love.”
“Like books?” I giggle, gesturing to the hundreds of companions on the shelves.
“And balloons!” she exclaims, and our laughter intertwines.
“Between you and me, I have always thought that names are forgettable. It’s our hearts, and their unique characteristics, that are worthy of being remembered. At the end of the year, my name will be lost in the wind along with every other civilian’s. Yet deep down, something calls to me, promising that somehow, someday, someone will remember the old woman hobbling along with her balloon.”
Her unsaid words linger in the air between us.
“It’s an act of defiance,” I breathe, quietly enough that her aged hearing fails her, and quickly mask my widening eyes behind the same face I give to every customer as they check out. One that says, We are thankful for your business.
“The top one is for you, dear,” she says, and her shaky hands slide the book off of the other two, plopping it onto the counter.
“No, take it with you! I get a free one each week for working here.”
A stubborn edge sparks in her voice as she replies, “These characters didn’t choose me. They chose you.”
“Thank you,” I whisper as tears well in my eyes, and we pause for a moment, holding hands and slowing down the day.
Together, we take in a breath so powerful my bones rejoice. Connection—how I’ve missed it. Pockets of it have started to weave their way back into my life, and it only makes me want more of it. With a wink, she pulls her hand away and walks to the exit. Her pink balloon marks her path the entire way out the door.
The book she left is face down on the counter, so I skim the summary on the back. It’s a forbidden love story about two people with the entire world against them, and—
A gasp of shock flies out of me as I flip the book over, and chill bumps cover me from head to toe. Lingering tears overflow in streams down my face at the title.
The Symbolism of a Sunflower.
The entire world stills as I glance behind me to the sunflower Dean gave me, hidden underneath the checkout counter. My pulse pounds, guiding me toward the question I didn’t dare ask her.
An act of defiance implies that there’s something to be defied. Could what she believes really be possible? Somehow, somewhere, someday, will I be brave enough to defy authority?
I ponder the question for hours, but hope is the only answer I land on.
I hope that I will.