TWENTY-FIVE
N inety percent of stress can be avoided with planning and forethought. That’s my mantra.
I’ve never entered a situation without a plan. I used to lie awake at night, spinning with hypotheticals about how I could mitigate risk in my life . Maybe if I study another hour, I can ace that exam. Maybe if I go over my list for the student council bake sale one more time, we can avoid hiccups.
So I’m very much a fish out of water at a roadside thrift store called Dead People’s Stuff.
It caught Renner’s eye on Fairfax’s main street en route home from the lake house. Its bright-blue paint stands out among the red-bricked historical buildings. There’s also a life-size cutout of Chucky, the creepy redheaded serial killer doll, in the window.
“So what are we looking for?” I ask Renner. While it isn’t a large space, they’ve managed to pack clothing and miscellaneous items in every nook and cranny. Everywhere you look there’s something odd and obscure. Like the beaded dream catcher dangling from a shelf of assorted snow globes.
Renner tosses an arm around my shoulder as we stroll under the watchful eye of the raven-haired, purple-lipsticked owner. “Our objective, if you choose to accept, is to find each other the most ridiculous outfit possible for our wedding-that-won’t-actually-happen.”
“Oh, I was born for this.” I squint around the chaotic store, already plotting.
My eyes pivot to a black-and-white cow-print vest. It actually feels like real cowhide. Horrified, I stuff it back on the rack.
Renner gives me a look. “Not my color?”
“Not enough drama for you,” I conclude, turning on my heel. Usually, I have a methodical way of shopping. I scour every rack from the right side of the store to the left. But today, I’m content to let my heart guide me wherever it wants to go.
Renner can see from my expression that I’ve taken our mission very seriously, so we part ways in our search.
Then I see it. The perfect over-the-top-ridiculous Renner outfit for our wedding-that-will-not-be. The top is a plain white triple-XL tee with a picture of an adorable golden retriever puppy in a basket. Below the puppy is the phrase You think you know fear? You think you’ve felt actual pain? For his bottom, I select red leather (bumless) pants, which I suppose makes them more like chaps, two sizes too small, paired with a turquoise gemstone belt. Then I find fuzzy brown slippers shaped like bear paws and a thick gold-plated chain with a statement medallion that reads Classy and Sassy to round out the full look.
Renner selects a long-sleeved rainbow leopard unitard that smells suspiciously of cough drops and reckless decisions with a floor-length trench coat that I’m certain was generously donated by a playground flasher. My accessories include a pair of infant-size oval sunglasses with microscopic red lenses and black chunky platforms with plastic fish in the heels. (He says I’m sure to bring platforms back in style.)
“All right, we’ll take them,” Renner tells the poor cashier, who has to scan the items on our bodies.
On the way out, I catch a glimmer of silver in my peripheral vision that stops me in place. Renner crashes into me, gripping my elbow for support.
“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” I ask.
He follows my upward gaze and swallows. “I think so ...”
There, on a shelf overflowing with bits and bobs, is a steel cylindrical object. The engraved letters across the front are partially covered by a massive wide-brimmed periwinkle hat covered in wild flower appliqués. Renner removes the hat, revealing the dirt-encrusted engraving: Time Capsule—Graduating Class of 2024 .
“That can’t be our time capsule, can it?” I ask as Renner pulls it off the shelf. When his fingers make contact, he jolts slightly, pulling his hand back.
“Ouch. It just shocked me.”
I run my finger over the smooth edges, and a tiny jolt rolls through my fingertips. “That happened last time. In the storage room.”
He nods, studying it for a beat before grabbing for it again, forearm muscles flexing under its weight. “But how did our time capsule end up in some random store in Fairfax?”
“No idea,” I say, shaking the capsule, ear pressed against it. “Do you think our letters are in there?” I ask, resting my arm on the shelf behind me, a smidge dizzy all of a sudden.
“We’re thirty now, right? I assume we already opened it.” Sure enough, when he opens the latch, it’s empty. “Guess we’ll never know what we wrote.”
“That’s okay with me,” I say, helping him place it back on the shelf. Maybe it’s the privilege of knowing far more than I wanted to know about my future self, but I know enough at this point. I’m more than happy leaving some things a mystery.
We walk onto the bustling sidewalk hiccuping with laughter. I don’t usually like to stand out. In fact, I’ve spent my entire life desperately trying to fit in. Being dressed like a loon in public would typically send me into hysterics, but it doesn’t, even though we’re being gawked at.
People are even moving a little to the side to give us a wide berth. Renner has a huge grin, and I can tell he’s living for this. Each glare or gasp provides extra pep to his bumless-leather-pant swagger. (Don’t worry, he has boxers underneath.)
“We’re from the past. Time travel,” he happily tells an elderly woman with bulging eyes. She shoots us a stern look and walks a little faster in the opposite direction.
Renner continues on this course, telling everyone who makes eye contact that “we’re from the past.” I can’t stop giggling. I’m not one to talk to random strangers, but with Renner, I’m starting to feel brave. By the time we reach the intersection, I whisper, “We’re time travelers,” to a cherub-faced baby. (His dad has earbuds in, but everyone has to start somewhere.)
High on adrenaline, we skip hand in hand over an air vent and into a magenta-colored store that reminds me of a carnival fun house meets Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory . The store exclusively sells candy, even vintage candy, with rainbow lollipops the size of dinner plates. There’s a giant wall of clear plastic boxes filled with candy, scoops, and tiny rainbow-striped bags to fill. It’s a child’s dream come true. Renner and I go wild, filling our bags to the brim.
The clerk, a bushy-haired guy with a goatee, stares us down as we set fifty-five dollars’ worth of candy on the checkout counter.
Giddy at the prospect of sugar, we stumble into a lush green park and flop into the thick grass, a cushion for our sore bodies. We’re on a slope overlooking a flat area where a group of teens are playing night Frisbee.
“Oh god. It feels good to lie down.” Renner groans, reaching into his bag for a gummy worm. “Is this thirty? Being too tired to get through the day?”
“If this is thirty, I’m scared to know what fifty feels like,” I say, tearing open the bag of Skittles.
“Why are you touching all the Skittles, you little freak?” He eyes me sideways, attempting to snatch the bag. I pull it out of reach, and he’s too lazy to fight for it.
“Everyone knows the green ones are disgusting.”
He holds his palm out. “You’re a wasteful monster, Wu. Give me the green ones. Just don’t touch them all.”
“Scared of my germs?”
“I’m scared of everyone’s germs. Like your hair in the Skittles.” He points toward a rogue strand of hair in the bag.
I grimace. “Ew. Sorry. My mom says I shed like a dog.”
“Yeah, I saw the bathroom sink this morning.”
“Welcome to married life,” I tell him, pulling my hair back into a ponytail. “If we’re stuck here, you’ll have to snake the drain of my hair too.”
He studies me, eyes softening under the yellow glow of the lamppost above. “Why don’t you wear your hair like that more often?”
I hesitate. “Do you really want to know?”
He dips his chin and nods.
“Ninth grade. When Ollie’s mom rented out that go-karting place for us. You told me my head was, and I quote, ‘humungous,’ and that no helmet would fit me.”
Renner’s eyes cut to me, horrified. “Are you serious?”
“Yup. Haven’t worn my hair up since.”
“Char, I didn’t mean your head was humongous literally . I meant it’s big because you’re a know-it-all.”
My cheeks heat. Frankly, I feel a little foolish I took it that way. “Oh. I’m a tool.”
“No, no. I never should have said that. It was dumb of me. But hey, listen.” When I turn away in embarrassment, he cups my chin and turns my face back toward him. “Your head is a perfectly normal size.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say, hiding my face.
“Perfectly proportioned,” he adds. “You know, the first time I saw you, I—I remember feeling out of breath, like I’d just run drills in the gym or something, even though I was just sitting there. You’re beautiful. Big brain and all.” My entire body heats at his words, and my whole face flushes.
“You’re one to talk,” I say, deflecting so he won’t notice I’ve turned into a human tomato. “I actually wrote about your face in my diary once. I think it was like, a five-page entry,” I confess.
“Let me guess, you wrote an essay on how horrible my face is?”
“It was more of a feverish, unhinged rant about how beautiful your face was. How I didn’t think you deserved it. And how I thought you should have been born with a huge upper-lip mole, or a weak chin at the very least,” I admit through a snort.
“I come from a very long line of strong chins, unfortunately for you.”
When he nudges my shoulder affectionately, I think about tomorrow and how we’ll inevitably have to find a way back. It’s the last thing I want to think about right now.
It’s completely dark now, and the white lights strung around the trees twinkle like stardust all around us. It’s magical, somehow.
Until the sky opens up and it begins to pour.