Epilogue - Two months later
Dylan
Christmas music rings in my ears, background noise to the chatter of everyone in the cafe. I’m seated at a table in the corner, facing the counter, of course, and sipping the latest seasonal creation at Pleasant Coffee. A chocolate-peppermint creamer. Delicious. And all Lucy’s idea.
I watch as she tucks a loose stray of golden-blonde hair behind her ear, a smile growing on her face as she answers a customer’s question, punching their order in on the till.
My sketch pad is open in front of me, but I haven’t put pencil to paper yet.
I can’t look away from the woman of my dreams, in her element, at work.
My fingers itch to trace the outline of her curves and sketch the faint spattering of freckles that lie across her cheeks and nose. But I can’t look away.
I can never look away when it comes to Lucy Brooks.
She laughs, and it’s better than any music I’ve ever heard.
Finally, she catches my gaze and scrunches her nose up at me before turning to pour a coffee.
I watch as she adds just the right amount of creamer before coming out from behind the counter and walking over to me.
She smells like peppermint and vanilla, and when she places the cup down on the table, a red mug she keeps here just for me, I gently cup her chin in my hands and pull her down toward me, bringing my lips to hers.
I know she’s at work, but she’s a supervisor now, so I like to think she can get away with these things. Sarah moved to Halifax a month ago to help open the second Pleasant Coffee location. I don’t know that she’ll be missed, but we wish her all the best.
“Dylan,” she giggles as she swats at my shoulder. “You can’t kiss me at work.”
“I’d like to do more than kiss you right now, Luce, so count yourself lucky that I’m holding back.”
A blush creeps across her cheeks, bathing her in a pink glow as her hazel eyes sparkle. “Later.” She grins and turns to walk back toward the counter, a view of her I also enjoy. Today, she’s in tight black leggings and a soft knit sweater—red for the holidays.
As I try not to ogle her too much in public, she quickly turns around and raises an eyebrow at me. “I forgot to ask, did you email the community centre back yet? About the job?”
“She only sent over the contract two days ago.” Lucy put me in touch with the community centre when they put out an ad looking for an art teacher.
She insisted I’d be perfect. We shook hands and made a deal, but I haven’t sent over my signed contract.
“Not yet. I was going to do that at home, on your laptop.”
She playfully rolls her eyes. “Dylan, use your phone. We’ve been over this. You can do anything on your phone that you can do on a computer.”
My phone. More like a Game Boy, but not as fun. The screen reacts to the slightest touch of my fingers, and the buttons and text are so small. I’m still getting used to it. “I know. I just prefer the computer. Easier for me.”
She lovingly pats my shoulder. “Whatever you say.” A smirk grows on her lips, and she adds, “You’ve sure nailed the whole texting part down.” And with that, she flips her hair as she turns and saunters back toward the counter to help the next customer waiting.
Texting. Sure, that’s what we can call that.
I love to text Lucy when she’s at work and I’m here drawing.
I text her all the things I want to do to her.
Where my hands would like to touch and roam.
Then I watch for her to sneak her phone open and gasp or blush from my words. It’s become a fun pastime for us.
I finally bring my head down and start to draw.
I think about the lighthouse and everything we’ve gone through and begin to sketch it from memory.
I outline its white and red stripes, the smooth stone that surrounds it.
The wildflowers that find a way grow from the cracks in the rocks.
If you don’t know to look for them, you can miss them.
So small, growing despite having proper soil and being taken out from the harsh wind and spray of salt water.
I draw the red door on the attached building, a slight crack as it’s being opened, a hand ready to slip out.
Coming into the future—or, I guess for me now, the present.
2025 is strange. Social media is something I could never have predicted. But we have community here. A tiny apartment above a corner store. Weekly japchae dinners with the owner, Mrs. Kim. Drinks with Priya, and even the odd lunch with Lucy’s parents when they fly down for a visit.
I couldn’t imagine anything better.
I look out the window at the snow-covered streets, watching as snowflakes swirl around, sticking to the glass and melting, leaving a line of water in their wake.
Then I see her, hobbling toward the coffee shop, a hand covering her face to block the harsh wind.
I stand and walk toward the door, holding it open for our friend, coming in for shelter from the falling flakes.
“Great to see you again,” I say to her as I wave Lucy over for her break, leading my friend’s frail body toward the table, tie-dyed cane in hand and hair as long and wild as I’ve ever seen it.
“Thanks, dear,” Iris says as she sits down in the empty chair beside mine. “I’ll have a tea, please. And a black coffee for my new friend. He’s meeting me here. I think you’ll like him.”
THE END