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June 2045
Hallee
Summer in Michigan is my favorite so far. The sun feels closer now and my days are brighter. I can finally breathe.
Birds are always the first to greet me, and the spring rain has pushed the flowers into bloom. They line the sidewalks, waving in the wind on my daily commute. Feels like I’m being waved at by a friend.
Dean continues to sweep me off my feet, I have amazing friends who I trust with my life, and I’m happy with my job. Panic has become a stranger, replaced with the friendship of thankfulness. It’s a much better friend to have.
This life is a beautiful one, and it feels true to myself. Never thought I’d know me, but I’m starting to. I think I like her.
With how supportive our friends have been of Dean and me, it’s probably time to officially cross the borders of our social circles. After all, they’re the only permanence we have each year, and that counts for something. But it’s intimidating, introducing the people you love to each other. No one else can love them like I do, but could they love each other like I do?
Marlowe and Avery’s support was secured by the many times Dean acknowledged them like a gentleman. His support for them was secured by the way I feel so much better about myself around them. I’m kinder to myself around them.
He’s the perfect gentleman. They are the perfect friends, and hope keeps airdropping perfect pictures of our future together—of what we’d build in a year, and what we’d build in a lifetime. It’s turned my mind into a scrapbook of images reminding me of everything I’ll lose. It stings, but I can’t stop. Painful, to be a dreamer.
With each step toward The Marmotte, a new dream flashes in my head. We’re dancing together, and he’s leading me, spinning me, dipping me, and kissing me, as if he has a hundred times before.
A few steps further, and I’m opening the door as he picks me up for a date. His shirt is pale blue, but could almost be mistaken for white in different lighting. I jump into his arms, and he spins me around. His hands know just how to hold me, and I feel at home with him.
“Excuse you!” a frustrated man yells as his shoulder bumps into mine.
“Sorry!” I say, smiling at his frown, and my pace quickens to a near skip, the closest feeling to flying I can have unless Dean is lifting me.
Our coffee dates have turned me from a night owl into a morning person. Nights have always been when my deepest thinking takes place, but there’s something special about a fresh, clean slate to be whoever and whatever I want to be, every morning.
With my newfound appreciation for a fresh start, I should be more thankful for The Gift. Instead, paralyzing fits of insomnia leave me awake and craving to be held by Dean—in that moment and forever.
Forever, what a wish.
Should’ve wished on my Happy Bookday cake candles, but how could I have anticipated longing for “forever”?
Will my soul be longing—forever?
A text from Dean flashes on my home screen as I approach The Marmotte.
Running late! No, I’m not mad or hurt or second guessing or any of the other things you are wondering. Hudson caught his towel on fire (and is perfectly okay.) See you soon!
Why am I not surprised? Sometimes, even my favorite routine has its hiccups.
See you soon, xoxo, I reply, hopping up the front steps.
Soon is roughly three minutes and thirty-three seconds .
His clear communication is intentional, and is one of my needs I haven’t yet thanked him for noticing. My man knows me the best. Teaches me how to love me, too.
Stepping up to the counter, I order for us both. The barista takes my payment, smiling as always.
“Thanks, Hallee. I’ll have it right out.”
Shame floats in on a buoy. I smile at this woman every day, but I’ve never treated her like a friend. After all this time, I’ve never learned her name. When I turn to ask, she’s already greeting Jack. Later, then. I’ll ask later. There’s not an expiration date on kindness.
Subconsciously, I walk to our table. Weird to be alone and choosing the middle of the room, but this is what growing feels like. Being alone isn’t going to kill me. Being in love might.
I assumed the initial butterflies would fly away one day, but just when I think they’ve been ceremoniously released, they return. Maybe seeing him will never feel ordinary. I hope it never does. For all the time I get to spend with him, I hope it always feels this electric.
“Hallee, I have your drinks at the bar,” the nameless barista calls out.
Blinking farewell to the warmth of the sun on my face, I walk to the counter. My hands grip both cups as my phone vibrates again.
Walking in now! Dean texted.
Excellent, just in time to walk me to work. The barista doesn’t notice as I raise the coffee in my left hand in an awkward goodbye, so I choose to say nothing. Shouting something generic like “ma’am” or “miss” would only emphasize the absence of her name. I’ll get it next time. There’s always another day.
Dean’s text warned me he was coming in, but I still jump when I see him.
“Oh, hi! I ordered for us bo—” My breath cuts off my words mid-sentence and my hands drop the drinks, pouring coffee all over myself and the floor. Normally, I’d panic and move quickly to minimize the damage, but shock has chained me in place. The flighter has frozen.
“I—” I stumble to apologize, but no words come.
Sound is replaced with ringing and feeling is replaced with numbness as time glitches. Dean’s face flares with worry, and his gentle touch pushes play on reality. His voice is an airplane soaring through my clouded head.
“Hallee?”
“Dean?”
“Hi,” he says gently, as his hands grip my forearms.
“Hi! I’m so sorry . . . I don’t know what came over me!”
My strained voice is iced by his comforting embrace, but my eyes won’t close. They can’t. They’re transfixed—on his pale blue shirt. A blue so light, it could be mistaken as white in different lighting.
Surely the light is tricking me again, like it did on our first date, but shaking my head doesn’t change its hue. Backing away, I nervously pull my hair into a ponytail.
“Are you okay? Do you feel sick?” he asks, reaching for napkins to clean up the mess I’ve made.
“I’m okay. I—I like your shirt.”
He’s never worn it with me, and what I think is happening can’t be happening, so I just need to hear him tell me.
Tell me it’s new.
“Thanks, I thought you might like the blue.”
See? Totally new. Except, it’s not.
It’s not. It’s not. It’s not.
My heart accelerates as I frantically grab napkins, fighting through my increasingly shaky hands.
There he is in first date trick of the light blue. In daydream from this morning blue . . .
“ Ha, ha, even with your warning I still got startled,” I joke, laughing at myself to cover up my oddly delayed reaction to his entrance.
There’s no reason to tell him until I’m sure this isn’t a mistake but—it’s not.
It’s not, it’s not, it’s not.
His hands reach to steady my shaky ones, and my face shamelessly displays a garden of emotions. Fear, confusion, excitement, hope, the gang’s all here, because deep down something is whispering the truth.
My desires haven’t been a vision of the future at all.
They are memories.
I remember him.
Dean
Miles approved her day off, reassuring me that he’d cover Hallee’s work for the day. Now, I need to convince Hallee that it’s a strength to allow others to help you when you need it. She tries so hard to be strong for everyone else and fatigues herself in the process, but when my woman makes up her mind, she doesn’t change it without a fight. Especially when she believes someone else will be inconvenienced because of her.
It’s cute when she’s frazzled, her raw emotions all out on display. But she wasn’t just spooked when she dropped the coffees. She looked stunned.
Confused.
Afraid.
Her deflection was clever, but I know her. She’s my girl, and it’s absolutely ridiculous that she’s claiming to be fine when she can barely form a sentence. I’ve never seen her like this, and I’ve seen her a lot of ways. Something is very wrong, but if she isn’t ready to talk, then I’ll hold her in silence until I flood her with every ounce of peace I have.
“Here you go, guys. I’m so sorry about that!” The barista, Lea, slides two fresh coffees across the counter. Leave it to a woman to apologize for something that was in no way her fault.
“Oh, let us pay! That was totally my bad,” Hallee insists.
“No way, you’re here every day. It’s on me.”
“Thank you, Lea,” I say, cutting off the polite female back-and-forth. “That’s extremely generous.”
Makes me flinch a little, the way Hallee’s head snaps to me.
“You know her name. It’s Lea?” she whispers.
“Yeah! You didn’t—?” I stop as her face falls. It’s odd that she didn’t know that, right?
“Hallee, please prepare the runway for round two of landing!” Pretending her coffee is an airplane, I fly it directly into her open hand. “Got it?” I ask, raising my eyebrows as I smirk.
“Yes.”
Oh. That crash landing was brutal but probably should’ve been foreseen. Lacing her fingers in mine, I nod and lead her out the door.
“Alright, let’s get you home,” I insist.
“No, Dean, I have to go to work. Really, I’m okay.”
“If I didn’t know better, Hal, I’d say you are trying to avoid me.” I wink, but her eyes don’t find mine.
Wait, shit. Why won’t she look at me? Is she actually trying to avoid me?
“Miles insisted.”
Oh, I’m in for it now. Her eyes pierce me with arrows of fiery rage.
“You called my boss?!”
“Who did you think I was on the phone with in there? Do you know another Miles?”
With the chaos of the spilled drinks, she didn’t even realize she left her phone on the counter. Unlocking it was easy—her passcode is set to our first date, and she’s talked about Miles enough to know who to call.
“It’s already handled. Come home with me, Hal. Let me hold you through it.”
Her hands search frantically for her phone as I dangle it in front of her. One look at my cocky smirk, and she taps out in the fight, the quick surrender confirming that she’s definitely not okay .
“Let’s put Mr. Stand and Stare to work.” Spinning me around, she hops onto my back. “Carry me home, Dean.”
“Home,” I say, turning and ignoring that her definition of home is different from mine.
“My apartment is the other direction!” She laughs, and I’d do anything to hear it again.
“You will come to know that I’m not very good at following orders, Hal.”
Her breathing hitches, and the strong thump of her heartbeat pounds against my back.
She liked that, then.
One point for Dean.
“That could be an issue because I can be very demanding.”
Her breath touches my neck, tensing every muscle in my body, and I force the vision of her below me out of my head.
Ten points for Hallee.
The game clock is swiftly decreasing, counting down the time that our flirtatious teasing is no longer just that. There are only so many places I can look to distract myself from her body, and only so many ways I can hide my trembling hands.
I want to take my time with her, leaving no room for her complex mind to question the order of my priorities. Her body matters, but her heart matters more, and I’d never forgive myself if she ever believed that all she is to me is a successful day of catch and release.
The closer we get to the apartment, the more she demands that I set her back down. Regardless, I don’t want her to get any ideas and make a break for work, so I only obey when we reach the foot of my bed.
Immediately, she crawls to the left side. Seeing her on that side makes sense; she belongs there. Funny, I always sleep on the right. Never wondered why I don’t sleep in the middle, until now.
She’s most comfortable in my shirts. Makes her feel safe, I think. Makes me feel valued, so I grab the largest T-shirt in my closet and toss it in front of her.
I’ll never grow tired of watching those eyes fill with different emotions. A twinkle of trouble is the last thing I notice before she tugs her dress over her head and tosses it on the floor in front of me.
White matching lace hugs her curves, and her chest dips into my line of view as she reaches for the shirt. The respectful thing would be to look away, but I can’t. Don’t think I ever will again. Hesitating, she shoots me her familiar inviting look.
“Put it on, Hallee.”
Woah, that was more tense than I’d intended, but dammit, look at her—I’m doing my best here. My feet back me into the bookshelves, parking my body until she puts the shirt on.
“Now look who is the demanding one,” she jokes, and her nose scrunches up in the cute way I love when she giggles.
I’m barely hanging on here, and she’s giggling? This woman .
With a wink, she pats my side of the bed. My feet don’t wander, but my eyes do, following the outline of her body.
“You are astonishing,” I whisper. Can’t say it too loud. It would be my final undoing.
She pats the bed again, but I hold my ground, emphasizing every word as I insist, “Put. It. On.”
To my surprise, she listens.
“Happy?”
No.
Yes, but no.
Her cheeks blush as she twirls her ponytail. Somehow, I thought seeing her in my shirt would make it easier to maintain my self-control. Clearly I didn’t realize how much trouble I’m actually in. Have to clench my hands to not rip it right back off of her.
“Ecstatic,” I reply and slide in bed next to her. “Talk to me, Sunshine.” I reach up, brushing her ponytail over her shoulder.
“You know I love it when you do that,” she groans.
“What happened, Hal?”
“I was startled. It happens all the time!”
“You were—startled.” My voice lowers at the last half of the sentence. She wants to go head to head? Fine. We’ll go head to head. I’m not settling for a lie.
“Yes,” she snaps.
“Did you see my text that I was coming in?”
“Yes.”
“So, you were expecting me.”
“Yes.”
Her stubbornness is sexy, but her silence is deafening, and my skin crawls with anticipation of getting kicked to the curb. Can you get dumped if you’ve never even labeled it?
“Hallee?”
Tears burn in my eyes as I reach up slowly, tilting her chin so she’s in the perfect position for a kiss. I lean in and stop just before her lips, ready to shut her up if she tries to end it. If I’m going to lose her, I want to kiss her goodbye.
“Come on, Hal, don’t let the clouds win. Shine for me.”
Her exhale is warm on my lips.
“I don’t want to talk about it. I can’t talk about it.”
“You always want to talk.”
“I can’t,” she whispers, and the crack in her voice feels like stepping on a LEGO brick.
Unshakeable worry explodes out of me. “Then talk about something else. Anything else, Hallee. Please, talk to me. I can’t handle you slipping away.”
“Slipping away?”
She shoots up and I follow, sliding backward and leaning against the wall. This is it—we’re driving full speed on a crumbling bridge.
“Yes, slipping away. Looking afraid. Dropping our coffee. Avoiding me. Are you ending this?”
Sympathy shines in her eyes as she replays the morning from my perspective.
“Ohhh,” she draws out. “I don’t know what to tell ya, babe. There’s not a world where ending us is an option. I’m your girl.”
Those words on her lips—that is my undoing.
My last chain of self-restraint snaps as my hands cup her face, pulling her mouth onto mine. Tastes like sugar and strawberries.
In a split second we’re back in the position from the flower field, me on top of her. This time, her legs wrap around me and nothing else exists. Our kiss deepens as she slides her hands into my hair. The sparks leave a smoke trail, pointing to where we’re headed—us tangled up in these sheets, riding the high of surrendering to loving each other deeply.
I need to hit the brakes. Slow us down. Take it in. My heartbeat protests, pounding against my chest as I pull back. Her face is flushed, and man it feels good to be wanted, but if I don’t stop now I never will.
“You’re my girl,” I whisper, kissing her forehead. My lips already miss hers. “Now, unwrap your legs.”
Hesitantly, she obeys.
“Good girl.”
Ten thousand points for Hallee.
Hallee
How did he think I was breaking it off? We’re not even official yet! He led me down this reckless path on our first date, so whatever we are, I’m his until memory fails us—if mine does. This new development has thrown a wrench in the security of knowing what comes next for me.
Laying in his bed is so natural, as if I’ve been here enough to have established this side as my own. As if my weary bones have been wandering around homesick, and he is the precious cure.
How much of this has happened before? Tossing me his shirt, demanding I put it on, crawling into bed next to me all flash through my mind, and every time he’s wearing something different.
This must be a psychotic break.
It’s impossible—emotions are making me irrational. Except maybe they aren’t. Do I really think they are, or was I taught to think they are?
Every part of me came to life during that kiss, responding to his soul’s call for its long-lost partner. Everything and nothing made sense all at once, but hasn’t it always been that way with us?
His peaceful embrace smothers anxiety’s uncontrolled burn into a mere ember, glowing in the dark without the pain of panic. Our breathing unites in a steady rhythm as we lay together, my nose nuzzled in the nape of his neck. The silence is comfortable, but internally I’ve been conducting a heated debate over telling or not telling him about the vision turned memory, future turned past.
He wouldn’t judge me. In fact, he’d be the first to believe me capable of nonconformity, but it wouldn’t change anything—would it?
What would I even say? I think maybe . . . I might have . . . possibly . . . had a memory of us?
We’d still be on the same path, riding straight toward a dead end at full speed. He’d be crushed under guilt because he’s entirely incapable of walking me through this unless he remembers too, but my heart isn’t prepared for the likely denial. I’m not ready to hear that he has permanently marked me, but I haven’t done the same to him.
I need to tell him, now.
I can’t tell him, yet.
“Sunshine,” he says, hammering down the gavel in my mental debate.
I’ll tell him—later. Dangling the hope in front of him would be cruel.
“Mr. Stand and Stare.” I hug him a little tighter, suddenly aware of how much I have to lose.
“I’ve been thinking . . .” his voice trails off.
Is he as lost as me?
“I would hope so,” I joke, trying to cover the complicated tone with a laugh, but he caught it. Skipped a breath because of it. When will we stop feeling like such a fragile, breakable thing?
“Would you like to label us? Would you formally be my girl?”
His question rings through my head, again . . . and again . . . and again, transporting me to a multitude of places. We’re here tangled up in the sheets, we’re in the park eating a meal we haven’t had this year, and we’re in the wildflowers staring at a solid pink sunset.
Three visions, clear as day, all linked to those words— will you formally be my girl?
I grasp for more memories to reassure me of reality, but nothing comes. Crazy, is what I am. I’ve officially gone crazy. Yet, a montage of answers to his echoing question rings through my head.
Of course, in the sheets.
Of course, in the park .
Of course, in the wildflowers.
“Of course!” here, lying in his arms.
The same response I gave then, and then, and then, I’ve given now, and it’s the only one I’d ever give.
“Yeah?” He laughs, pulling me on top of him and squeezing tight.
“I can’t breathe,” I say, dramatically gasping for air.
Have I breathed at all today?
He spins me back over and lays me down gently. Brushes the side of my face as he leans in. Our lips meet softly and the trigger is unleashed, shooting memories through my mind of today and years past.
Our first, our third, our thirteenth kiss.
What number kiss is this?
A shock runs through my system, troubleshooting years of caged passion. I could stay here with him forever, and it would be enough for me. It has been enough for me. Our hearts have been fighting a secret battle, continuously coming out victorious by repeatedly reuniting us.
Love is unstoppable. At least—ours is.
It’s not such a gift, to be forced to forget. Losing the hardest days doesn’t outweigh losing the best ones. Maybe the real gift is living a life built of experiences that make us wonderfully human. Sickness, pain, heartache, loss, laughter, growth, passion, love—it’s all a gift. We’d never appreciate happiness without sadness.
The hope of a lifetime with Dean radiates off of me. With all that I have, I’ll fight for us.
Somehow. Somewhere. Someday, the old woman’s determined belief rings through my head.
The Polaroid camera on Dean’s bedside table catches my eye. Please, don’t let falling asleep reset the progress I’ve made. Please, let him stay. I’ll help—I’ll do whatever I can, just please—don’t take him away.