- 49 -
January 2046
Hallee
Happy Bookday hasn’t changed at all over the course of my many first days here—seven, to be exact. This is my seventh first day of work, and my body still remembers my nerves from the very first one.
It never got easier, like I assumed it would. I assumed over time my body would grow tired of living in a constant state of fight or flight. Assumed that after years of blisters from the friction of forcing myself to fit their mold, my heart would callous over. Instead, I bled out.
The first two years, my greatest wish was, let me lose myself completely. All my nights were spent screaming back and forth between who I was becoming and who I always dreamed I’d be. Eventually, the former drowned out the latter, and I wilted away like a fragile flower in the winter. There was not enough antiseptic in the world to prevent the infection that flatlined my soul.
I needed a miracle, and then he came along.
Dean was the resuscitation paddles that gave purpose to my pulse, shocking me over and over until the best parts of me came back to life and the worst parts laid to rest. After that first revival, he became a crucial part of me. In his absence, I was constantly struggling to find my way back to him, but in his presence the stars aligned into a map, leading me to achieve all of the dreams I had wished away.
He celebrates the wildest parts of me and values the ones the world convinced me were a waste of time. All of my scattered pieces were gathered together by the gentle consistency in how he cared for me. This is art , and we’re a masterpiece—beautifully broken but cemented together by our love. Together, we are priceless. So, as he asks me for the fourth time if I’m ready, I’m able to nod confidently. The world isn’t so scary with his hand in mine.
The bell in Happy Bookday dings, and I don’t startle at its loud jingle.
“Happy New Year!” Miles cheers, shuffling around the fantasy aisle.
He’s shelving. That would’ve been the second thing he trained me on, after we did our initial walk-through of the store. Back to front, front to back—remember?
Books block his view as he turns the corner to meet me . . . again. Peering around them, his eyes fall on Dean’s hand holding mine. The shield of his calm facade is stripped away as the books cascade to the floor. With each crash, his face blanches more.
Letting go of Dean’s hand, I walk toward Miles, arms open wide in invitation for him to receive the hug he desperately needs. Timidly, he accepts.
“Hello, Miles,” I whisper.
“Hello, Hallee,” he responds, crying as I hug him a little tighter. It’s the least I can offer my friend who has spent so many years in social isolation, patiently and graciously keeping me company throughout my journey while I regularly abandoned him on his. It wasn’t my fault, but I still wish it had been different.
“You actually did it. You remember. Both of you?” His trembling hands grip my forearms.
“We do.”
“It’s conclusive,” he breathes. “How did you—”
“We’re not exactly sure, but it all started with your mother and her balloon.”
His sigh of relief could blow over a town.
“I promised I’d remember her, and I keep my promises.”
“The greatest gift you could’ve ever given me.” His eyes squint as he smiles, and tears pour down his face.
“I could never forget the woman who was the catalyst for change. She reunited me with the greatest gift—the gift of remembering.”
A sob escapes him as he recalls his late mother.
“Miles, I have to know. What was her name?”
Standing tall, he proudly replies, “Laelynn, and my father’s name is Jack.”
Chills snake up my spine as I recall the man from The Marmotte. “L” was for Laelynn all along. Jack was lost, and now he’s been found.
“Would you tell us about her?” Dean softly asks, and unashamed joy pours out of Miles as he wipes away his tears.
“Where would you like me to start?”
For the entire day, we sit in the children’s reading nook, listening to stories about his mom. He speaks of his childhood, all the way to her final years where he was merely her favorite book salesman. We hold space for his grief and cherish his vulnerability. We laugh until we cry, and cry until we laugh again. This is the irreplaceable heartbeat of life—the ability to connect with one another.
Laelynn must’ve stopped time for us to have this intentional conversation, because not a single customer came in all day. She’s taking care of her son, even now. The setting sun is our only cue that the day has passed us by.
While we finish stocking the shelves, golden light streams in through the windows. With the three of us, it only takes about fifteen minutes before we walk out together. Miles fumbles with the keys, and a familiar push begs me to ask, “Do you know what her name meant? Your mother.”
“Actually, yes!” Again, the joy in his voice has returned. “Laelynn is of English origin, meaning flower of hope .”
“What a fitting name,” I say with a smile. My voice cracks as emotions pour over me, and I blink away the tears pooling in my eyes.
“Do you know what your name means?” he asks.
No , I shake my head.
The world stops spinning as we turn and behold the sunset painted before us. It’s a sea of colorful dots surrounded with wisps of clouds. Pink and yellow are mixed together in this absolutely stunning arrangement. It’s unprecedented in beauty, really. Some might even say it looks like—
I can’t believe it; Laelynn painted us a sunset. A beautiful bouquet of balloons.
Standing and staring at me with tear-filled admiration, Dean answers Miles’s question.
“Heroine, Hal. Your name means heroine.” He hesitates, reaching up to cup my cheek. “In other words—a very brave woman.”