100 Lovers.

“Hey, baby.” Cal mouthed with a grin influenced by gin. I could tell. I could always tell whether he had a few shots moments before just by looking at the curve of his opening smile. It’s an unimpressive skill I picked up way back when we were still dating. My nose isn’t as good as my eye. Lucky for me though, the slightly higher left corner of his mouth is a dead giveaway.

　　For a minute, he stood there, from across the narrow street appropriately named Perpetual. Perhaps because Perpetual St. was perpetually busy, and bustling with even busier people. I mimicked his cockiness with a slight tilt of the chin, curl of the lip, and narrowing of the eyes. Both of us knew what the other was thinking. “Nope. You follow me.”

　　But even before, Cal was never the one to come running towards you, literally and figuratively speaking. Feeling the defeat, I let my feet trudge in his direction. Carefully, I crossed the street all with intimidating grace because I knew his eyes were on me. 　　 　　“Hello, beautiful,” he said without blinking. Inside, I was amused. Two years of seeing each other was enough for me to learn on my own that he blinks twice when he’s lying, once when he’s nervous, and never when he means it. 　　 　　“It’s a little too early for alcohol don’t you think?” I said jokingly as we walked side by side to someplace we haven’t decided yet. Luckily, the street that intersects Perpetual is brimming with places to eat and we could just walk into one anytime.

　　“But it’s never too late to love me again?” he teased, briefly resting his hand on the small of my back before letting it fall away. 　　 　　“Of course not, baby.” I flirted back, with fluttering eyelashes for added touch. Flirting with an ex-lover is only dangerous if you mean it, or worse, enjoy it. So far, so good, I thought. 　　 　　His laugh was a response as if to say, “Glad you’re playing along.” I sure am glad it’s all just a game now, Cal. 　　 　　Finally, we settled for the nearest coffee shop. I plopped on the beaten, navy blue, leather couch carelessly. He stared at me like I was some oddball before he reached for the armchair right across me. 　　 　　“What happened to you? You’ve changed,” he said, looking at me intently. 　　 　　“Changed how?” 　　 　　“I dunno. First you changed your look, and now you’re more reserved. Is there a new guy in your life?” he replied slowly, but this time he looked away. Taken slightly a back, I hesitated to answer him. 　　 　　“Thank you for noticing. But no. I’m fine on my own. For now. Wait here.” 　　 　　I got up to place my order. Looking back at him while waiting in line, I couldn’t help but notice how Cal also changed. He looked more mature, and around him was an air of subtle melancholy. 　　 　　After five minutes or so, I picked up my coffee and returned to our corner. 　　 　　“Hi, I was just thinking about you.” he greeted. Strangely, he was lighter than earlier. 　　 　　“Hello you, what about me?” I reciprocated his cheeriness as I take my seat. I like cheerful Cal. 　　 　　“Nothing I just remembered how cute you were when one time you randomly said, ‘Bed me on the couch.’ Ah, you naughty kitten,” he said half-laughing without taking his eyes off me. The crinkles on his nose and between his eyebrows framed his bright eyes beautifully. 　　 　　I do remember that time. He and I were in a transitory period, a time long after we became friends and a little before we became lovers. On a date, we walked past a furniture store and randomly, I blurted out, “Bed me on the couch.” while holding his hand. He squeezed my hand gently and looking straight ahead, he whispered, “Later, dear.” 　　 　　“Yep. Cute. I remember that too. But why are you bringing up what happened way back?” I said, intentionally taking my time before I go full-on, straight-faced. Not that it’s not funny, Cal. But what are you trying to do? Take me back to the happier times, and then what? Bait me with my own emotions? For your entertainment? Or do you just want me back, is that it? 　　 　　I kept my mouth shut after the first question. I knew he wasn’t a fan of interrogation. Asking him too much would only tense him up, later resulting in yet again another huge fight. In retrospect, what we had wasn’t at all picture-perfect. Half of the time, we had lengthy arguments about the littlest things, but mostly about the context of what one just said to the other. 　　 　　“Nothing. Why ruin such a lovely mood? Can’t we meet up one evening and just talk casually without you pointing fingers at me again?” he replied as if he just read my mind. He probably did. 　　 　　I answered him with humbled silence. He was right, I was pointing fingers again. Over-analyzing his words, and miscalculating his intentions. Old habits do die hard. Especially the awful ones.

I fear your lips as much as you fear the worsening crack of the spine of your favourite book. It surprises me how well the pages are still holding together even after repeatedly reading it to me for days on end. You are much of a cynic as I am a idealist– an odd combination, our friends would say. We both secretly enjoy our back and forth wrangling over the littlest of things, only you and I are both too stubborn to admit. You know the only way I’d give up an argument was to succumb to your touch. I’d run my fingers through the valley between your shoulders, tugging at the bronze curls you always hated as you bring your chapped lips against my neck, sending electric currents through my veins and flame to my lungs, enough to bring me to life.

The early morning air woke me up but I refused to open my eyes. It’s too damn early, I wanted to groan, but that would give me away. I stirred, unnoticeably I prayed, when I recognized the smell of coffee brewing. After which, I felt Castor’s light kisses raining down on my face.

“Good morning to you too,” I sat up, yawning and stretching.

He shot me a devilish smile as he gets up to get the coffee. Again, I silently thanked the stars for they’ve paired me up with someone who shares my love for caffeinated beverages. I watched him dart across the room. Castor is clad in nothing but my robe, stirring away while he hums Maroon 5’s Sunday Morning. Timely, I thought, it is in fact a Sunday morning. Looking at him looking like that, I am convinced that he is exceptionally talented at making any mundane task look sexy.

“By the way, that couch is unbelievably....sturdy.” he looked back at me and grinned. His dark tousled hair, more tousled than ever. His eyes, still a bit droopy. Accepting my silence gracefully, he returned to his masterpieces.

I look down from where I’m sitting and smile at the mess we’ve made. I wrapped the blanket around me and got up. Careful enough to avoid stepping on the clothing strewn all over the floor, I followed him to our loft’s tiny kitchen counter. From behind him, I planted a quick kiss on his shoulder and helped him with the coffee.

“And by the way, you were unbelievably.....” I looked for the perfect word. Tight-lipped, Castor tried to hide his anticipation, but his eyes were betraying him. This I found way too adorable.

“Vigorous.” I finally said, beaming. He gave me a quick kiss on the lips and handed me a mug as we returned to the couch.

The downpour of last night thoughtfully left us a souvenir, a refreshingly cold morning. The weather was perfect for a mini staycation. We snuggled quietly as we enjoyed our coffee.

“As always, Cas, you make the best-tasting foamy goodness.” I said, after downing the last drop. I stood up to get us both glasses of water and breath mints.

“Thanks, Daph. Uh, something’s bothering me though.” he said slowly and seriously.

I took a dive on the couch, and let my legs rest on his lap. The light tapping of his foot often revealed that he’s about to say something remarkably cute. I mentally took out my mental notepad and mental pen.

“What’s bothering you?” I asked.

He looks at the ceiling, furrows his eyebrows, and then looks at me. “It bothers me that I was named Castor, and not Apollo. You see, Castor in Greek myth is but a plain old mortal horse-tamer. Son of Zeus yes, but still very much mortal. Unfair, right? Right? And he dies, goddammit. Apollo, on the other hand, is immortal, a sexy musician, and he gets to pursue this ridiculously gorgeous Daphne girl.” He forgot to wink.

There goes my cue.

“Ah, but you’re forgetting the part when she turns into a tree so she could evade him. Boo-hoo. Now that’s big-time rejection. ‘It’s not you, it’s tree.’” I teased.

Out of feigned annoyance, he pursed his lips and withheld a chuckle. His eyes though, his ever honest eyes, were letting out a laugh.

“If it’s any consolation, Castor, along with his brother Pollux, were often called by Poseidon to save ships in distress. Do you feel better now?”

“Only if you were a sinking ship, and Pollux is out of the way, heh. I’d definitely save your ass or stern, stern ass. And maybe the whole of you too, if I’m in the mood.”

“Ah, it took me a while to figure that I’ve been dating a madman for two years now,”

Believe it or not, our relationship had thrived on conversations like these. We weren’t at all keen on the physical, with the exception of last night’s impetuous lovemaking. Instead, we founded our relationship on mutual interests, like coffee, books, random facts, and traveling, and a few key elements like trust and companionship. I guess we just love each other, just as much as we love learning from and with each other.

Am I in love with him? I should say that I am. I never tell him this, but of all the men I’ve met, only with him did I encounter this strange, foreign feeling. A sort of tender fondness. Though, I’d often wonder if he ever feels the same way. Who’s to say what’s on a man’s mind or heart for that matter.

“Oh. But every lover is in his heart a madman, and in his head a minstrel.” he replied.

Recognizing that line, I nodded in affirmation. “Gaiman. I never took you for a guy who reads his books.”

“But then, I am.” he smiled.

And on that note, the magic that we so easily conjured had finally left the room. We simultaneously let out a sigh, as if our brief conversation on Greek gods and Gaiman drained us both of our energy, symbolically maybe. For a moment there, we acted like flirty college students spending their semester breaks in a pub, using their recent learnings to get it on with each other, in other words, to pique that intellectual boner.

And in an instant we sank back to our more reserved, pragmatic, mid-twenties selves.We both felt the transition, and we were both okay with it.

We settled for silence, because at this stage, silence wasn’t at all unsettling.

Only when I glanced at him did I realize that he was again fast asleep, despite the coffee fix. I gazed at him lovingly, his lips were parted, his head turned slightly to the side. I got up, let him lie down and have the couch to himself, and got dressed.

I decided to spruce the place up a bit, pick up the clothes on the floor, and clear away the dishes on the side table. After which, I plopped into an armchair, contemplating. How on earth did we fit in that sofa while we slept? Scanning the area, I think I found my answer when I noticed a pillow from the bedroom, and a spare blanket on the carpet right beside the couch. It turned out, even after I fell asleep, he didn’t move to our bedroom. He stayed with me through the night.

That very minute, I wrote down a memorable line I once read somewhere. I just felt like I needed to be reminded.

“Mere passion may die, but impassioned love not always, and calm love never.”

Right on time, the school bell rang and almost immediately the hallways were as crowded as hell. And what luck, I was flung, against my will, in the middle of the sweat-smelling inferno.

“We need less people in the world,” I heard someone from the back yell out right before I got elbowed in the ribs by some sweaty junior. I disagree. We need less pushy jerks in the world, I wanted to yell back. But knowing better, I kept my mouth shut.

Realizing that struggling and squirming and shoving my way through would soon lead to my early death, I decided to stay put on the side, near the janitor’s closet, and let the river of people drain out into the cafeteria. I count to forty and by then the hallway’s deserted. Shit, I thought as I briskly walked, Drew, Charles and the rest of the gang are waiting for me at Shirley’s Pit. Which reminds me, I have yet to ask Taylor why he christened our regular lunch table after our school librarian.

The cafeteria was still about seven classrooms ahead, and on my way there, I thought, what better way to celebrate the fact that I have the entire hallway to myself? First, I looked around, and made sure the coast was clear. Then I skipped a little, glided a few. My little celebration got a little too out of hand when I decided to sloppily remake those ballerina twirls my little sister does in her ballet recitals for the hell of it. I knew I should have stopped at the fourth twirl when near the end I missed my footing, and tripped, sending my bag and its contents flying. And the mess it made was phenomenal. Hastily, I gathered my things together and placed them again in my backpack.

“Hi, are you okay?” a girl’s voice squeaked behind me.

I froze. I knew exactly whose voice that belonged to. Sophia Marie, the girl of my dreams. But I can’t ignore her or pretend she’s not there and then walk on, she might think I’m a creep. But if I turned to face her, and blurt out enough nonsense to drive her away, she might also think I’m a creep. Well then, since I’m doomed either way, might as well be the doomed guy who gets to see her face.

I turned to face her and what I saw blew me away. Sophia Marie was in a cream colored lacy camisole, blue jeans, and sneakers on that blessed Monday afternoon. Her usually untied hair was surprisingly tied messily in a braid, falling strands framing her face.

“Hi. We’re in the same math class, I think? Uh, are you hurt? I saw you trip.” she said. This is the first time we ever spoke. I never knew till now that Sophia Marie’s bedroomy voice, when directed to me, had the ability to paralyze me for a few seconds.

“Oh, I-I’m fine. Yeah. I’m good.” I spoke finally. My words came out robotic. In her presence, I crumbled. I never even thought this would happen, really. Well, I only imagined the many ways we would meet. In an amusement park, in a party, anywhere but this crappy school’s crappy hallway.

“Well that’s good to know.” she smiled. But not just any smile. A rare, alarmingly disarming smile that vexed, pulled and twisted the insides of my heart. Painful as the feeling would sound, it was indeed painfully good.

And then it dawned on me. How long was she behind me anyway? What if she was actually there the whole time? What if she saw me ballerina twirl and skip? Oh shit.

“Uh listen, uhm I-I gotta run. Yeah. So, uhm. Bye.” I said. I’m amazed at how I managed to even speak at this point.

“Oh, ok. Bye, Jude.” she replied and smiled, again, that deadly, heart-wrenching smile. I dashed to the cafeteria quickly after, thinking only one thing: Sophia Marie knew my name, goddammit.

I found the gang immediately. And they found me, panting, shaking, and smiling from ear-to-ear. From the looks they were giving me, they thought I finally got laid.

“Idiots, I just ran into Sophia Marie.” I said, still with a smile plastered semi-permanently on my face.

“And you did it where?” Drew snorted. I kicked his shins from under Shirley’s Pit as I took my seat.

“Again, what is it about this Sophia girl that’s got you hooked? I mean, she’s not really a 10. Man, we never really noticed her until you told us about her. She’s pretty, yeah, but quite forgettable,” Thom chimed in.

“Hmm. Firstly, I think I’m hooked because I found her first, as if it’s fate. Imagine, of all the girls in this school, in this town, I find myself mostly gravitated towards her. And yes, she’s not really a 10. But then, so am I. In all honesty, I don’t think that even matters. I don’t know why but sometimes, possibilities of certain futures are not only conceived in your head, but can also be felt. And with her, I felt a possibility. And get this, we all know possibilities come in numerously. And so we’re presented with choices, options. But-but with her, she’s not an option. She’s my destination.”

I’m hooked because I found her first, and that day she found me. And it was hard not to believe that that brief collision may be the beginning of history.

“So go talk to her, Jude. Don’t you think it’s time she starts noticing you? Graduation’s coming up and all. You might never see her again.” Taylor said, munching on some Cheetos.

“Don’t be crazy, man. She belongs to gods, not me. How could someone like her want me?” I snapped.

“Well you’re being crazy. How many years have you been putting her up on a pedestal? Four, five? How many chances did you blow? Uh, countless?” Drew said. Being the unofficial alpha male of the group, he seemed to think his opinions always mattered. Everyone laughed and shot me pitiful looks.

Pissed, I got up to get myself some sloppy joes. While in line, I muttered angrily, cursing them under my breath. Maria, our lunch lady began belting out Hey Jude and somehow I eased up.

“Hello again, you.” a cheery voice from behind me said.

The minute you let her under your skin, then you begin to make it better.

I turned around to face her.

“Hi! Intentionally miss the bus today and walk home with me?” I blurted out way too enthusiastically. This is disastrous. Prepare yourself for the let-down, buddy.

I watched her put on her thinking face. Oh god, she’s probably coming up with some excuse to blow me off.

“Okay. Meet me later. Where we first met.” she replied, and smiled that smile I knew all too well.

It felt like a lifetime ago when Julian and I used to sit at the steps of this then empty apartment sharing a cigarette. If my memory served me right, across from it where now stood a small Mexican deli used to be his favorite record store where he got me Love Is Hell on the eve of my seventeenth birthday.

He took my hand as I trailed behind him, making our way to one of the store’s listening booths. The stall smelled of stale cigarettes and had yellow-stained walls where a record sleeve of The Beatles’ Abbey Road hung. “This is what real music sounds like,” he teased as he slid a huge pair of headphones on my head. “Says the guy who only listened to Top 40 pop songs before finding out about this place,” I said a little too loud, my voice muffled in a temporary state of deafness. Just as the record started to spin, Julian planted a gentle kiss on my lips. “Happy birthday, Margot.” It had been almost ten years since the night we waltzed at that cramped booth by the corner of the store. And it had been four years since I last walked the streets of downtown Manhattan. I found myself a few blocks away from Julian’s apartment with a few hours to kill when I did the unthinkable. I quickly pressed my phone’s keys and hit send before I had too much time to argue with myself. “Hey, I’m back in town. Drink? Margot.” I realized he may have changed his phone number, or he was probably out on a Friday night, but I took my chances still.

To my surprise, my phone lit up minutes later. “Sure! I’m right by the corner of W. Thames. See you at 7?” To say that I was nervous was an understatement. Dragging my boot-clad feet along the pavement, I decided a long stroll would be enough to nurse the queasy feeling I had in the pit of my stomach. I arrived at Gibb’s Pub thirty minutes past seven. Through the window I saw Julian already helping himself with a bottle of beer. I noticed he outgrew the long mop of hair he used to have that always got in the way of his sight. Nevertheless, he had the same confused look when he furrowed his brows at the door, and the same glint in his eyes upon recognizing me. “Fashionably late, as always,” He greeted me with a hug. “Of course,” I said. “It’s so great to see you.” We dove right into a conversation, as if the last four years apart had never occurred. “I work as a photographer for Newsweek,” he said when I asked what he’d been up to lately. “That’s huge!” I had always found it intriguing how Julian carried an old film camera wherever he went. It seemed like what only used to be his casual hobby was now a career. “It’s not as glamorous as it sounds,” he contested. “But it pays the bills.” He told me he met a girl a few months after I left for Chicago, but had to call it quits after a year due to his busy schedule and constant travelling. I didn’t ask too many questions. “What about you? Got any guy to torment?” He asked, playfully nudging me. “Lucky for both the guy and I, no.” I told him I had been dating, leaving out the part where I’d been actually avoiding serious commitments for the last four years. Within a few moments of clinking bottles and laughing to ourselves, Julian grabbed me gently by the wrist as he left twenty bucks on the bar counter. “I have a proposition,” he declared with a cheeky grin, obviously buzzed from the alcohol. “The world is ending tomorrow, and tonight is my last chance to show you something I’ve been meaning to.” “Someone’s had too much to drink.” “Hear me out,” he said. “We survive, but the aliens wipe out the memories of the few remaining suvivors the next day.” “You’re ridiculous,” I laughed but I played along, following him through the stretch of 32nd Street. “So technically tonight’s our last night together, and tomorrow we’ll have no memory of any of this, or any memory, for that matter.” “Exactly.”

"So tell me, how do we survive an alien invasion? And if this is some trick to lure me into bed, I’m telling you, you’re not getting lucky tonight.”

We arrived at an alley across from Julian’s place where a secluded café was hidden. A couple got up to leave just as we entered when suddenly I was overcome by the smell of pastries and freshly brewed coffee. Realizing what beer does to an empty stomach, I clutched my belly in a sudden pang of hunger.

“I was just about to close,” said the waitress as she took off her apron, revealing a tight fitting tank top.

“An hour, tops. C’mon Marie, don’t be such a grinch,” Julian coaxed. “Lunch is on me tomorrow.”

She finally surrendered to Julian’s charm, tossing him the keys. “Don’t get me in trouble,” she giggled, shooting him a flirty look before leaving.

“That actually worked?” I laughed in disbelief.

“You underestimate my ability to persuade,” he said as he worked his way in the kitchen. “Have you forgotten what got you here in the first place?”

It was almost completely dark save for the few street lights outside and the yellow drop lights hanging from the low ceiling. I marvelled at the picturesque café; from its dark walls to its wood panelled floors and vivid blue chairs.

Julian emerges with a two plates: Eggs Benedict and croissants, and a cup of coffee for the both of us.

“Breakfast at 10:53 in the evening,” he declared, glancing at the old-fashioned wall clock that hung across from us. In between bites he recounted the story of how his brother was able to acquire the place.

“Jamie runs the place, with a little help from me occasionally,” he said as he cleaned butter off his plate.

“What exactly do you contribute, besides leading on the poor barista?”

“Aesthetics,” he said, pointing to the accent brick wall where a non-working fireplace stood. A plethora of monochrome photos with frames of different colors and sizes were strategically placed. I rose from my seat as Julian followed suit.

“Jules, this is amazing,” I said, running my fingers through a red lacquer-painted frame where a photo of an abandoned railway was placed. To its right was a black-and-white candid wedding photo of his brother and his wife, another was of an Indian lady, a busy crowd walking past an old movie house, and a lot more— twenty-three in total.

“These are none of my doing,” he said in a humble tone. “I was just in the right place at the right time, only fortunate enough to capture all these. I’m merely a spectator.”

As I stood there in awe, an oddly familiar photo caught my eye. Slightly bigger than the others and the only one in color, it was a panorama of a laughing girl fiddling on one of the coin-operated binoculars on the Empire State observatory. It didn’t take long for me to recognize the happy, young girl, with her favourite, patched-up red beanie.

Before I came up with the right words to say, Julian caught my hand and pulled me closer to him. He pressed his lips to mine, starting as a soft and innocent kiss that lingered. I pulled away gently, gasping for air. Julian held me close, his lips lightly grazing my bare shoulder.

My voice cracked. “What happens now?” I ask in a mixed feeling of confusion, uncertainty and longing.

11/100

“Do me a favor and stop being marvelous, ok?” I teased.

Isobel rolled her eyes at me and stuck out her tongue. 

“Oh please, Milo, you flatter me too much,” she replied in her signature sarcastic tone.  In the golden afternoon light that managed to creep its way inside the metro’s abandoned warehouse, she ran around, pirouetted, tumbled, and cartwheeled in that order. 

“So why’d you choose this place? I mean, are you not afraid of getting raped or murdered in here while you work?” 

She turned to face me. I continued to walk towards her. Inches apart, I could the feel the fuzzy warm air around her on my cheek. 

“One, it’s secret and nobody ever comes here. Two, fear is for sissies, and like I said, nobody wanders around here. And three, this isn’t work, this is my love. Plus, I paid the kids who live nearby to spread stories about this place. You know, urban legends and all. Demonic possessions going on. Witch sightings. The usual. ” she said, and then she pranced away. 

“Genius idea. So am I her first visitor?” 

“Mm-hmm.” I stole a glance at her just because. 

“Isobel, your works are amazing,” I said as I casually ran my fingers through the  colorful cement wall. Everywhere, there were splashes of color, abstract figures, textures, landscapes, and nudes. “So when are you opening this place for public viewing?”

“No idea. Probably soon.”  

I watched as she moved cans of white paint to one side. She looked so stunning in her denim over-alls, untidy ponytail, and black worn out converse. 

“Hey Milo, get over here and help me wipe this paint off my hands. It’s starting to stick. Be quick.” 

“Ok, love.” 

“What did you just call me?” Isobel shot me a suspicious look. 

“Nothing. Here, take this.” I hurriedly unbuttoned my long-sleeved, plaid shirt. I thanked my 7am self for not forgetting to wear something underneath.

“There, it’s almost gone. Thanks again.” she muttered. 

She and I continued to walk around, unspeaking, until we decided to sit at the center of it all. We were surrounded by colors, and all were illuminated in that golden hour. In that moment, I was hers. And I knew she figured it out long before I did. 

“Isobel,” her name escaped my lips.

“Say my name again, but with a little less love in it this time,” she teased. I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to do all sorts of things to her. I want her. 

“Bitch,” I smirked, trying to save face. 

“Better. Infinitely better. Let’s get outta here, Milo.” 

The sun was beginning to set. Stretches of flamingo pink, orange, and indigo painted the western sky. We heard the wind howl, and from the east, a storm was kicking in. Under a blanket of purple-pink sky, the abandoned industrial site began to look as if it were an apocalyptic setting. I liked the idea of it, Isobel next to me when the world ends. 

“Where do you want to go now?” she asked. Isobel caught my dangling hand and interlocked our fingers. She rarely did this. 

We arrived St. Mary’s Garden shortly after the sun had set. Luckily, there were streetlamps everywhere. On the benches, young couples shared kisses. Near the pond, children, supervised by their parents, fed the ducks.  

“Way to end this day.” she smiled faintly at me. She loves this place. It reminded her of her parents, she told me. 

She led me to the swing set where she held out a seat for me.

“My king,” Isobel curtsied slightly, suppressing a giggle. 

I played along, taking her hand and giving it a quick kiss. 

“Many thanks, my loyal subject.” I chuckled as I took my seat. 

“Boo, I thought I was your queen.” she said as she sat on my lap. 

“Well, in this life you are.” I brushed away strands from her face and stole a kiss on her cheek. 

“Promise me, idiot.” 

“I promise, so when are you going to love me, Issie."

"Hold on." she paused, looking at me intently. "Done." 

"If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast."

“Poor bloke, Hemingway.”

"Sorry?" The girl by the window seat beside me asks, her dark eyes illuminated by the faint reading light above us.

"The alcoholism, life in recluse, bullet to the head?" I ask, eyeing an ancient, tattered copy of A Moveable Feast placed on her tray table.

"Oh," she smiles as it dawned on her. "A mad genius, too."

I must be mad myself, striking up a conversation with a stranger who clearly looks like she doesn’t want to be disturbed. Nevertheless, I decide a bit of small talk won’t hurt with what’s left of this tedious 11-hour flight.

"I’m Luke."

"Malia."

"So, Malia, what brings you to London?"

"Circumstance," she sighs. "My mom got me a trip to London for my birthday. I was supposed to stay for only a week, but ended up staying for a month with my bastard of a father in Brighton."

"Blimey."

"Yep. So that’s the whole summer gone."

"Did you make it though? To Paris?" I say, pointing again at the book.

"No," she shakes her head. "But I will on my own time."

Once in a while the fasten-seatbelt sign lights up following a slight turbulence gently rocking the plane. The plane is quiet save for the occasional coughing and shuffling of passengers on their seats, trying their best to endure the last few hours before landing. I glance at Malia occupied by the sight outside the window as she fumbles at the pages of her worn out book.

Breaking the sudden silence, she mutters, “This is his, my dad’s.”

I smile, reclining my seat so I was closer to her.

"I snatched it from his library before he left home. I dunno, I guess I was looking for a piece of him in here. I’ve read it fifty times over and brought it everywhere I go since."

"I’m sorry."

"He’s a writer, too. He traveled a lot, always in search for something. Apparently my mom and I are far less interesting."

"Clearly your old man doesn’t know where to look."

She smiles apologetically. “Enough of my sob story. What’s in California?”

“My home outside England. I go to Berkeley.”

"What’s your major?"

"Philosophy. For now." I chuckle. "I guess I still haven’t figured it out yet. What about you? Besides your ardent love for Ernest Hemingway and being a Parisian born in the wrong continent, I don’t know the basics. Tell me, what are your fears, your strange fetishes?" I ask in an attempt to lighten her up.

"You’re ridiculous," she laughs. "Fears? Buses. Strangers in bars asking for my number when I’m trying to have a good time. Death."

"Buses? What could possibly be worse than buses?” I ask with a grin. “I take it I can’t ask for your number then.” She rolls her eyes.

"We’re 30,000 feet above the ground, how can you be scared of buses and not of this hunking piece of flying metal?"

"Are you kidding? I love flying," she beams, glancing at the darkness outside the window. "I love how we’re both high above the ground but still below the entirety of universe, just lingering in between."

And I love how your mind works, I thought.

We talk for what feels like hours, almost as if we’re completely alone— no cabin, no crew, and no passengers; just the two of us, drifting along the in-betweens of the ground and of the sky.

There is something inviting about this smart, mysterious girl sitting beside me, with her carefully chosen words, her dreams of a city she’d only seen in movies and read of, and her memory of a father she once knew quietly tucked in her favourite book. It almost scares me, the inevitability of it, that soon enough we’re both going our separate ways, and all this would only become a mere memory of a girl I once met.

By now we’re probably somewhere past the Atlantic, and the plane is almost completely dark. I see Malia from the corner of my eye, scribbling on her little black notebook. As her gaze watches me with such intent, I find myself drifting into unconsciousness.

I wake up at the sound of a flight attendant’s voice announcing we’re 17 minutes ahead of the expected time of arrival.

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty," Malia teases. "We’re almost there."

And so we are. San Francisco. The city lights outside the window start appearing through the thin clouds, looking like tiny specks of white and yellow dust as the plane lowered to the ground.

"Did you sleep any?" I yawn, jerking my seat upright.

"Yeah. Til your snoring woke up half the passengers on the plane."

I feel my cheeks redden. “I did not,” I laugh.

"Kidding."

The wheels hit the ground and we lurch forward, with only the seatbelts keeping us in our seats. The plane comes to a full stop after a speedy stroll on the runway.

The passengers start unlatching their seatbelts and collecting their luggage from the overhead bins. I give Malia a hand with her suitcase and we head towards the plane exit.

"So this is it," I say.

"Home."

"More or less."

Malia tiptoes through the crowd. I point to the blue arrow labeled Arrivals.

"I’ll see you out there?" I ask. Malia nods.

Finally making it to the front of the queue, I hurriedly make my way through the checkpoint and to the baggage claim in search for my green suitcase.

Standing in a sea of unfamiliar faces, I scan the crowd for Malia. The place is jammed by hundreds of people with as much bags and suitcases, going about their business, asking for directions, waiting for their friends and family. There are unruly children with their stern parents on the phone, a tourist couple taking pictures, an old man in a straw hat— a million people it seems, yet no sign of her.

Luckily, I find an empty seat between a crying baby desperately cradled by her mother and a girl engrossed in her phone.

Malia, where are you? I glance at the huge wall clock hanging above that read 10:52, sighing in exasperation. I fish my phone from my pocket, suddenly remembering I owe my mum a phone call. Instead, I find a wrinkled piece of paper, with ten digits and eight words scribbled in purple ink:

“Thanks for dinner!” I called out to my office mate, Kyle. Handsome guy. successful, smells good, this could work out. Maybe. Or not.

He honked twice and drove off, back to his fancy-ass apartment in the city. For a minute more, I stood there staring at the void he just disappeared into.

Kyle Sandrino has had his eyes on me even before The Split. Everybody at work noticed those subtle flirty signs. How he’d casually brush the back of my neck every time he’d walk by my office cubicle. How he’d bring me my favorite kind of coffee every Friday. And when news of my breakup broke out in the office one afternoon, he sat next to me the entire time without saying a word. They all thought he was involved, that he caused it.

Snapping back to reality, I took my keys out of my purse and let myself in. Luckily, my parents just left for their Euro-trip this morning so I have the whole house to myself. I ran upstairs to my room, quickly undressed, and lied carelessly in bed. I’ve been mindlessly staring at the ceiling for a full minute when I felt paper underneath my bare back. Rolling over, I discovered a crumpled letter envelope with my name scrawled on it.

From the looks of it, it’s from Jacob. I recognize the enlarged “H” in my name. My parents must have brought this in right before they left. They’ve always rooted for him. Still, I had no idea how they felt about the breakup. They never asked me about it.

My heart began to pound a little faster than it’s normal pace. It’s been 5 weeks since The Split and the last I heard from him was when we broke up. Is this news about a new woman in his life? A “Finally I’m Over You Bitch” speech? I secretly wish it wasn’t. Even after we parted, I still held on to the idea that he’s still out there, waiting for me to call him, to take him back. The thought had always comforted me.

I got up, bringing the letter with me to the bathroom and ran myself a warm bath. I lit some scented candles to calm my nerves. For half an hour, I sat there staring at the rectangular piece of yellowish paper as I held it against the light of the candle nearest me. To burn or not to burn, that was the question.

To burn would mean to completely annihilate the last remaining connection I’ll ever have with my first sworn love. To read would mean to carry the weight of what the message would bring. Be it regret or envy. I don’t know which. Dare I?

But without a care, I proceeded to open the envelope.

Dear Helene,

Last week, to take my mind off you, I decided to visit my grandmother down south. She asked about you, why you’re not with me that day. So I had to tell her we aren’t together anymore. What she told me after is the reason why I’m writing to you now. She looked at me lovingly and said, “That’s why you lost the light in your eyes. Your lighthouse has gone missing.”

Helene, you were the most beautiful thing that has ever happened to me. I remember having the biggest crush on you way back in freshman year. You stood there, near the drinking fountain, in your ponytail and geeky glasses and I thought you were the most beautiful creature I set my eyes on. And then I remember you looking at me, knowing that I do. That I do like you. You are the lighthouse of my life and I confess that since you walked out of it without notice, I've only been living for the idea that everyday you still think of me as I think of you. My world, Helene, had been gray without you. 

Jacob

Before I could feel anything, the phone rings as if on cue. I rush to my bedroom and picked up the phone.

“Hello?” I nervously wait for Jacob’s voice. He probably timed it all. He knew how long it’d take me to process everything. He always knew.

“Helene! I couldn’t reach you on your mobile so I decided to call your house. I just....I just can’t stop thinking about tonight, and about you.......” My heart sank after eventually realizing it was Kyle who called. I wanted to hang up.

“Helene?”

Startled, I quickly composed myself. “You were saying, Kyle?” I tried to hide the disappointment in my voice.

“Oh I just wanted to come over, hang out for a little while.”

 “Tanya, where the fuck are you.” I scanned the crowd but there was no sign of her.

The smoky, purple atmosphere in Sid’s crowded apartment started to irritate me, so I decided to leave the party and drive around town just to clear my head. For the first time in my life, even in a place full of people, I felt absolutely lonely. I need to find Tanya soon.

“Stupid, stupid, that was so stupid of you, Ethan.” I silently cursed myself for scaring her away for some reason.

I tried to recall the moment.

4 hours earlier, Tanya and I were chilling in Sid’s worn out couch, helping ourselves to some nachos. We were talking. Yep, just talking. No harm there, right. We were talking about Anne Hathaway when a cute girl in a tight green dress walked by, off to refill her cup. I noticed Tanya look at her like a normal guy would.

“So you’re into girls now, Tanya?” I teased.

“Nope. I look at pretty females because I want to know what they’re made of, so I can be pretty too. Are they made of nice perfect legs, or bleached hair. Pretty pink lips, and rosy cheeks?” she said so coldly, without taking her eyes off that chick.

What the fuck. Tanya’s the most beautiful girl I know, inside and out. Well other than my mom of course. But the point is, she’s utterly amazing in her own damn right. So maybe she isn’t the reddest of all rubies, still, I’d marry her thirty times over. Yep, no lie.

“Hey, hey. Look at me, Tan. You are the best girl I know, truth be told. And there’s no need for that kind of thinking, ok?”

She turned away and ignored me. Hard.

Tanya’s been my best bud since elementary school. I’ve learned to decode her, the faces she makes when she’s feeling a certain way, the way she smacks her lips when she’s pleased or displeased. It’s kinda hard to tell, sometimes. Still, I know that when she ignores, she actually cares the most.

I continue to drive around town, checking every alley she might find herself in. Oh Tanya, how you like to play with Danger when you’re upset about something.

“If I were Tanya, where would I be at this hour. Scratch that. If I were lonely, angry Tanya, where would I be at this hour.” I think out loud.

Her house isn't an option. She’s wouldn't go home tonight, she told me. Maybe her friend, Erika’s place? I sigh heavily.

The streets were empty. And wet. It rained hard a few hours ago so maybe she wouldn't have gone that far. I go with my gut.

Eli’s Diner, the run-down place squeezed between two busy cafes. I parked right in front of the window where I see her. It’s 4 AM and she’s the only customer there. She’s fast asleep in one of the booths. Good, I plan to stay up with her until she wakes up so we can talk things through.

I sat quietly across her. This is the first time I watch her sleep. She breathes so lightly you’d almost believe she’s lifeless. I tuck her copper curls behind her ear. I’m guessing she washed her face in the restroom earlier because I see no trace of makeup now. Damn you, Tanya. Why won’t you ever think you’re pretty.

“Your girlfriend, lad?” the lady at the counter asked, lowering her retro reading glasses to get a better look of the two of us.

“I wish, Ma’am.” I smiled weakly.

“Well she wishes too.” she replies casually, returning to her newspaper. I raise an eyebrow at what she said.

“Excuse me?” I whisperer as I stood up and find myself a seat at the counter

“Yes, boy. She comes here all the time. Why, she’s my favorite customer. Tanya. Tani, I like to call her. Always orderin’ coffee in the afternoon. She’d sit here by the counter and write. Yes, we’d exchange stories from time to time.

“At 2 am she came burstin’ in. I ain’t got no idea why she’s crying. An’ she was like, ‘Oh Nelly, he kissed me, can you believe it? Why would he do that.’ Oh boy was she distressed. Why’d you kiss her, lad?” she whispered.

“I honestly don’t know. I was caught in the moment, I guess. I’ve liked her way before she met her douchebag ex-boyfriend, Paul. He doesn’t deserve her. I mean, he’s the main reason Tanya’s being so hard on herself lately. She’ll never think she’s good enough for anybody after Paul constantly compared her to other girls. After Paul cruelly pointed out her insecurities. And-and made fun of her in front of his friends? Can you imagine? It’s not fair. He broke her spirit. I would have taken better care of her, I swear.” I hissed.

I glanced at Tanya. She’s still fast asleep, calm, and peaceful. So very different from her hysterical self right before she left me hanging at Sid’s place.

“Ah. I see. But be careful, boy. She may like you now, but she ain’t ready for anybody yet. She likes you now, yes. But she won’t trust you while her heart’s still broken. Give her some peace of mind, lad.”

“Ok, maybe I will. I still like her, you know.” I sighed.

I sat there at the counter longer than I needed to. I didn’t go back to check up on Tanya. She didn’t need anyone to look after her at the moment. Maybe not for a while. Nelly looked past me as we both hear a yawn.

“Oh, hello Nelly. Sorry I slept over, again,” Tanya croaked. It settles me, hearing her voice sound more cheery after what happened earlier.

Oh right. She didn’t recognize me from the back because I took off the jacket I was wearing at the party and left it in the car before I came here. But soon enough, she noticed my car parked outside.

“And hello to you too, Ethan.” she said monotonously.

I turned around to face her.

L:

John’s band isn’t anything big, only famous enough for their new single to be played on a small-time local radio station. Sure, he does have a mild celebrity status around town, but regardless, he never liked listening to the music they make.

“It’s like taking countless pictures of yourself, or kind of like admiring how you look in the mirror for hours,” he says.

I will never understand John’s absurd modesty. He has a real knack for playing the guitar, picking out drum beats of a song he’s heard only once and could write lyrics off a table napkin. The guy has huge talent, I only wish he’d see for himself.

I roll my eyes at him, turning the radio off.

J:

I adjust the rear-view mirror enough so I could take a sly glimpse at her.

Windows down, the wind blows against her short, bleach blonde hair, revealing hints of dark brown. She always thought her brown locks were boring and opted for a blonde do after discovering the wonders of hair bleach.

Leigh-Ann Bradley is wild, sarcastic and extremely intelligent, always getting into trouble for her crazy wit and lack of filter. She is the life of every party. She is a firecracker.

L:

We’re driving along the familiar streets of Scottsdale, running last minute errands for my cousin Alex’s annual New Year’s Eve party.

John pulls over in front of the apartment building and unloads the trunk of his black Impala. I insist in helping him carry the beer keg to the elevator as he gives me a funny look.

J:

Leigh gives all her might lifting the keg, all five-foot nothing of her. “Easy, tiger. You don’t wanna rip those sexy tights,” I laugh as she blows her bangs and flips me off.

L:

Finally reaching the roof, John carefully sets the keg along with two others. I catch myself lingering at the sight of his lean arms peeking through his short-sleeved button down. I shake my head, placing twelve packs of red plastic cups on the lawn table across from him.

J:

I fiddle through Alex’s laptop, making a quick playlist for the night. I watch as Leigh helps herself to a handful of tortilla chips smothered in dip.

L:

"Jesus-fuck, Alexander. What the hell is this?” I grimace at the yellow-green mush, feeling my stomach turn.

"Guacamole. Mom’s recipe," he beams.

"Clearly this shit isn’t your mom’s work of art," I say, downing the tang left in my mouth with a cup of Bud Light.

Aunt Gracie is a real whiz in the kitchen. I remember racing Alex to the table for the freshly-baked snickerdoodle cookies she made every time I came over to their house when we were little. I smile at the memory.

J:

Leigh shoves the bowl to me as she cocks an eyebrow, challenging me for a taste test. I play along, dipping a piece of chip in the mixture. “It’s not so bad,” I say, watching Alex fist pump in triumph.

"Gross," I mouth as Alex turns his back, mimicking a puking gesture as Leigh convulses in a fit of laughter.

L:

God, he’s adorable.

J:

Her giggles resound, enough to light up the whole room and drown out the loud, booming music.

This girl really is something.

L:

It’s 10:30 and the party’s in full swing. I make my way to the table to pour myself my third cup of beer, making sure to avoid the second keg where two already drunk guys cleaned the nozzle off with their mouths.

"Leigh-Ann,”  I hear a slightly familiar voice call my name. Clearly this girl doesn’t know me well enough to realize I only go by Leigh now.

I turn, only to be taken by surprise.

She’s beautiful. Her caramel, sun-kissed skin contrasts my pale color; unlikely for someone who’s almost never left Arizona. Her dirty blonde hair falls lazily on her shoulders as she towers over me. She has a little black dress on and royal blue pumps that accentuates her modelesque figure.

I glance at my own outfit: the usual tank-top-shorts-and-tights combo, suddenly feeling insecure.

“Rhiannon, hey,” my voice cracks. I manage a tight smile. She smiles back, revealing her pearly whites, free from the braces she wore back when we used to be friends in eight grade.

Rhiannon Taylor has been the subject of John’s love songs for the past two years. They met at this very party last 2012, with Alex being the middleman of their relationship.

I was there, seven months ago when she broke up with John, calling him to say he’ll never be good enough for her. I was there to pick up the broken pieces of his heart she mercilessly broke.

J:

I lose Leigh in a sea of vaguely familiar faces. I reach for my phone in my pocket and check the time. 11:54. I have six minutes left to find her. Six minutes left for that long overdue kiss.

I comb through the crowd once more only to find Rhiannon, weakly smiling in my direction. I wave at her. The quickening pace of my heartbeat and the all too familiar feeling of butterflies in my stomach are gone; replaced by relief of knowing I have moved on.

L:

Ten.

The countdown starts.

Nine.

I find myself alone even with a little over eighty people with me on the roof, waiting for the first wave of fireworks.

J:

Eight.

Seven. 

She’s nowhere to be found.

L:  

Six.

I was never a fan of New Year’s kisses and resolutions. I think kisses should be given at any time of the year, hell, any time of the day, as well as coming to a firm decision to change for the better.

Five.

I spot John by the deck, looking rather tense.

"Being kissed by him right now won’t hurt," I thought.

J:

Four.

I see her standing by the stairs, leaning on the rail. I desperately call out her name.

Three.

She hears, finally walking towards me. I push through people drunkenly cheering and chanting.

Two.

I feel a slender arm wrap around my neck. I turn to face my captor.

One.

“Rhi—,” I felt her warm lips press against mine. I tried to brush her off but instead of pulling away, she kisses me eagerly, hungrily, in defense.

L:

“Happy New Year!” The crowd bellows.

A few feet from me I see the boy I desperately tried to fix, back in the arms of the girl who tore him apart.

Home from the pub, I fumble through my purse for the key as we reach the door. 241D.

Sierra and I have been sharing this place since her mom bought it for her as a graduation gift two semesters ago. Not only is this an apartment filled with handed-down furniture and still bare walls: this is a piece of her she chose to share with me.

"Home sweet home," she murmurs. I plant a gentle kiss on her cheek.

The clicking of her stilettos resounds as she made her way in. Wandering towards the kitchen, I grab a bottle of champagne from the cupboard and retreat to the bedroom. I find her carefully combing through my vinyl collection, in an earnest hunt for the right one to play.

"Best Coldplay record ever written," I declare as she pulls out Parachutes from the shelf.

"Next to A Rush of Blood to the Head, no doubt," she argues. "But I know it’s your favorite." It is.

The soft crackling of the LP and clean guitar riffs fill the air. The only light in the room save for the lamp by the bed are her full moon eyes. Planets, more likely. I pop the bottle open and take a swig, not bothering to get a proper glass.

"That’s one way to drink it," she smiles, snatching the bottle from me. We take turns, like two kids sharing a lollipop.

Her auburn curls nestles loosely in a bun as she gives me an incomprehensible, slightly buzzed look.

Suddenly I am consumed by the thought of never being good enough for Sierra. She is growing into a sophisticated, big shot lawyer; far from the nerdy sorority girl she was back in college. As much as it pains me to admit, I’ll never understand why she chose to settle with me; an unsuccessful journalist, still hoping for her own stroke of luck.

I shake the thought away.

"Liv," she slurs, enough to wake me up from my daze. "Y’know I’m crazy about you."

"Is that you or the booze talking?" I laugh.

"Remember that day at the library, sophomore year?" She says, drunkenly recounting the story of our very first meeting.

"Yeah, you used to have this ridiculous pixie cut." Her fiery hair was even redder then.

"And you were the resident campus dike," she snickers.

"Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t fall for my classic moves," I say smugly.

Going back to six years ago, I recall working part time at the university library on weekends as a sophomore. I remember clearing out Sierra’s 40-dollar overdue fee in exchange for a drink with me.

She bites her lip in defeat. “You were pretty damn smooth back then, miss.”

"I still am," I mutter, rolling my eyes at her before drowning myself again in cheap champagne and Chris Martin’s falsettos.

"Hey," I turn around so I was facing her. Refusing to let her fall asleep, I slowly lean in towards her, grazing her alcohol-infused lips with mine. Her eyes fluttered open. "You were sleeping."

"Just resting my eyes. But I appreciate your creativity in waking me up." She smiles, a small laughter escaping her lips.

THALIA & JAMES

“You’re pretty,” I tell her as I snap a photo of her looking out the window. I really think she is, even in semi-darkness. Even when she frowns at me after I say so.

Dull red creeps in from outside. Thalia looks like she’s in flames, and I wanted to sigh. She looks so stunning with her dark, wavy hair falling perfectly on her left shoulder. I’ll never understand why she thinks she’s not pretty enough. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have used the word ‘pretty’ on her. She isn’t just pretty, she’s a force of nature. She’s made to burn hearts and behead men. She wasn’t born to just sit down and be pretty.

I notice her studying me so I look away, wondering what’s on her mind.

“Thanks for the lilies, and for today.” she says.

I smile back at her.

I go back to eight hours ago. We’re on a train, but I don’t tell her where we’re going. Not a lot were traveling today so we practically have this car to ourselves.

“Why so serious, James? It’s my birthday. Wait, I have an idea.” she grins devilishly. I already see where this is going.

Never minding the two or three other people we were with in that car, Thalia ungracefully prances towards the nearest handrail and pole dances so awkwardly and sexily at the same time. I let out a laugh as the others clap for her in amusement. She’s really something else.

I am awakened at the sound of her giggling.

“What’s so funny?” I ask.

“You.”

I say nothing because there’s nothing else I could say. I knew I wanted to be with her that night I watched her step out of my car and go back to her apartment. I knew it the moment I felt the urge to pull her back in and take her wherever she wanted to go. Sometimes I wonder how I managed to keep these feelings from her during the past seven months.

“Do you love me?” She teases as if she just accessed my most recent thoughts.

Of course I love you, Thalia. I wanted to say. But she teases, so I play along.

“Give me a moment to think about that,” I say. I pretend to evaluate her. “No,” I finally answered, including a cheeky smile for full effect. She doesn’t have to know. I tell myself.

Thalia bites her lip and smile, “Good.” I sense her disappointment in my answer, or so I like to think.

She gets out of the bathtub we’ve been sitting in for the past hour. Arctic Monkeys starts playing. I know exactly what would complete this scene. Candlelight. I go to her bedroom to grab the box of candles she keeps under her bed. I light each one in the tub, making the entire thing glow from the inside. A make-believe camp fire.

She’s thunderstorms Lying on the floor Up against the wall She’s thunderstorms

This song’s for her. I wanted to relish the moment.

We sat on the floor, facing each other. She looks so beautiful in her black lace camisole and skinny jeans. I feel brave enough to say something stupid.

“On the day we first met, at that writers convention remember, you were wearing something like that, cotton,denim, and lace.” I begin but I lose control of myself. “Why not opt for the next best thing: skin, skin, and skin.”

My eyes widened in disbelief. She mirrors my expression. Beyond stupidity. I wanted to cringe.

“You, sir, are very charming. I don’t trust you.” she laughs. I feel a bit less tense now.

“Well in my defense, that, fair lady, was far better than ‘Ooh baby, come on strip for your daddy.’ But no, I’m not asking you to undress for me.” I reply. I added an accent to emphasize, and hopefully to distract her from what I just said. She laughs.

“Tell you what, I’ll race you to the bedroom.” I tell her.

After blowing out the candles, we run. But for the record, I slowed myself down for her. I know she hates losing to me. When we reached the bed, she let herself fall to one side. I took the liberty of lying next to her, hoping I fall asleep so I get to stay. But I feel Thalia’s eyes on me even when I can’t see her.

“Well I can’t sleep knowing you’re next to me.” I act grumpy.

“Why so?”

Maybe it’s time I start being honest with her.

“Firstly, you smell like that.” I reply.

“Like what?” she looks puzzled.

“Christmas morning. Hence, I’m compelled to stay awake and wait for the first crack of dawn so I get to be the first one to open the presents. I want to be the one who experiences you first.”

Thalia says nothing. I can’t read her expression so I begin to panic internally. Was she disgusted? Did I say something misleading? How did it all register to her? The worry consumes me, it must be showing through.

“What’s the matter?” I ask, trying to keep my cool.

“Nothing. I’m just really really tired. Thanks again.” She turns her back on me. I’m wounded.

“OK then,” I reply sadly.

I get up, thinking she needed the rest of the night to herself. Why did I overstay my welcome? What was I thinking? She didn’t want me. I just have to accept that.

“Happy Birthday Thalia. Good night,” I finally say before planting a kiss on her forehead.

THALIA & JAMES

“You’re pretty,” he smiles coyly as he takes a candid picture of me. The camera flash hurts my eyes. I scowl at him.

All lights are off. We’ve been sitting face to face in my empty bathtub since we got back. It’s already dusk. Red light from the neighborhood starts pouring in. I like how he looks from this angle. Red makes his eternally soft gaze more piercing. Red makes his shapely lips more inviting. I shake the thought off.

“Thank for the lilies. And for today.”

He smiles without showing his teeth. I shiver without warning.

It was earlier today when out of nowhere he briskly walked in without knocking, threw the lilies on the couch, grabbed me by the wrist and whispered into my ear, “It’s your twenty-second birthday and I am kidnapping you. Don’t say a word. Let’s go.”

I laugh at the memory.

“What’s so funny?” He asks.

“You.”

Silence. I’m not surprised.

James was barely the talker. Everything he ever said was either necessary or magic. Some days, he’d say absolutely nothing to me. He’d come over, read a book with me, and leave a few hours later. Though sometimes I’d wake up to my phone buzzing. Only he calls me at two in the morning. Half-asleep, I’d listen to him talk about his little sister and what she did that day, or what he was planning to write about next. 2am James sounds more enlivened, more soulful than his 2pm self and I’ll probably never understand why. I sense there’s sleeping, secret passion in him and I’d like to wake that up.

But tonight he’s half-drunk, and I’m half-hopeful the words I want to hear start spilling out.

“Do you love me?” I ask playfully so he ‘ll think I’m only kidding. Only I am not.

“Give me a moment to think about that,” he says smoothly,. Without removing his eyes on mine, he narrows his gaze in contemplation. He’s studying me.“No,” he says finally and grins.

My heart sinks, but I bite my lip and smile. “Good.”

I get up and get out of the bathtub. I play Arctic Monkeys on my laptop. He follows and disappears into my bedroom. Minutes later, James comes back with the box of candles I kept since freshman year in college. He lights them all and carefully places each one in my tub. We both sit on the floor. We are bathed in red and orange and moving shadows.

She’s thunderstorms Lying on the floor Up against the wall She’s thunderstorms

We sat there for the longest time. Neither of us speaks. We look as if we’re both waiting. Waiting for what exactly?

I watch him watch me. He’s wearing the dark blue long-sleeved shirt I gave him last Christmas with the sleeves rolled up, dark jeans, and no shoes. He always visits my apartment barefooted, carrying his shoes with him inside. Though I never bother to ask why. I soon lose myself in my own thoughts when suddenly he runs his fingers down my bare arms. Only when he opened his mouth to speak did I find out we were thinking similarly.

“On the day we first met, at that writers convention remember, you were wearing something like that, cotton,denim, and lace.” He was speaking carelessly. I catch myself feeling excited. “Why not opt for the next best thing: skin, skin, and skin.”

He seems just as surprised at what he said as I was. This is a different James and we both know it.

“You, sir, are very charming. I don’t trust you.” I laughed.

“Well in my defense, that, fair lady, was far better than ‘Ooh baby, come on strip for your daddy.’ But no, I’m not asking you to undress for me.” He laughed with me.

I feel the urge to pin him down and kiss him right then and there.

He lets out a yawn.

“Tell you what, I’ll race you to the bedroom.” And so we did. We blow out the candles and make a run for it. Like little children, we push each other aside till we both make it to my bed that fits the two of us. I lie down as he settles for the spot beside me.

Lying next to me with his eyes closed, he looks serene. Sleeping with James never crossed my mind till now. I began to imagine how he’ll look in the morning, bare and beautiful. Feeling guilty for my thoughts, I shut them down.

He opens his eyes and feigns annoyance. “Well I can’t sleep knowing you’re next to me.”

“Why so?”

“Firstly, you smell like that.”

“Like what?”

“Christmas morning. Hence, I’m compelled to stay awake and wait for the first crack of dawn so I get to be the first one to open the presents. I want to be the one who experiences you first.”

I stare at him, dumbfounded. I can’t speak. I can’t think. All I know is I can’t fall for someone who just told me a bunch of nice things today. I can’t fall for someone that quickly again, much less for a friend. Besides, James won’t think of me that way. I’m just a friend to him. I calm myself down, slowly suppressing the inner turmoil that’s building deep within my chest.

“What’s the matter?” he asks. I notice how he gives me the same look he once had when he saw me fell off a bike: panic. This is strange.

“Nothing. I’m just really really tired. Thanks again.” I turned my back on him.

“OK then,” he replied. His voice was shaky and far different from his confident tone a while back.

I close my eyes as he gets up.

“Happy Birthday Thalia. Good night,” is the last thing I hear before I feel something brush against my forehead. I feel hot tears stream down my cheek as I hear the door close behind him.

Tired of exploring the city all day, Thom and I retreated to his house. His parent’s taste were purely minimalist. There was not much to see, sadly, just blacks, whites, neutrals, and shiny geometric pieces.

“Guess they’re not home,” he mumbled, as he led me into his bedroom.

We laid in bed for hours, face to face with our knees touching. No skin, only layers of soft denim between us. Good enough for me. My heart’s pounding. It’s still hard to believe that I’m with him, this boy whom I’ve secretly pined for since 8th grade, this boy who grew up to be a fumbling idiot all throughout high school. We stayed there talking, exchanging random stories from our childhood while sharing laughs in between. The laughter died down though, as quickly as it had been. I watched him carefully, as he cast his eyes down to our knees.

“You should know something.”

I’ve seen this coming, the inevitable sob story that I already knew about. He told me her story and how she cheated on him with some guy in her English class. He spoke carefully, recalling everything in detail. From the moment they met, down to the color of her dress and the feigned guilt in her eyes as she mouthed “I don’t love you” when they talked for the last time.

“Fuck her. Love, love, love. It’s overrated, pointless, and pretentious,” he said sternly. His gaze was still on our conjoined knees.

I’ve been waiting for this moment, to finally have this one life-changing conversation that could seal our connection.

Finally, I sat up. “Come here.”

He sat up, the wounded expression on his face softened.

“Can I write something on your arm?”

Without waiting for his reply, I pulled out a black felt tip pen from my backpack. After tugging his sleeves up, I scribbled a few words.

“The past has passed.” He read aloud. He smiled at me amusingly; waiting for the monologue he knew would follow.

“I’ve always thought that that manipulative bitch is but a speck of dust in our universe. She’s not the moon, not even a fucking star.”

He laughed. “Do you always have to speak in metaphors?”

“Only when I feel like it. I know I’m in no place to say those things. I just want you to know that there’s still life and hopes of love after all that shit, after her. The only way to know that is to see for yourself.”

I took his left palm and scribbled something.

“Find her,” He read. “So is skin the new paper now?”

“Emphasis, dumdum,” I grinned. “I don’t know about you but I’ve always believed human hearts were made in pairs. And by refusing to connect with that other, we’re sentencing ourselves to a mere half-life. I fell in love with the idea of that. I think I read that somewhere.” I paused, checking to see if he’s still listening. He gave me an approving smile. “You know, the world is full of people, interesting, funny people. And you’ll never be lonely. She could be anywhere right now. Find her. But don’t try too hard that you spend your life looking and looking but never really finding. Let proper timing and circumstances lead you to her. And when you find her, let her illuminate your life. Let her be the moon to your earth.”

“Why not the sun?”, he replied, furrowing his bushy arches at the thought of reducing Her to mere rock.

“Well I don’t want you to make her the center of your everything. Remember to save some love for yourself, dumdum. We get hurt because we forget about ourselves.”

I looked up and found him studying my face. Those eyes of his are still so hard to read.

“Well thanks for the ‘tattoos’,” he smirked as he displayed the written words on his skin. “and for the poetry reading.”

Glaring, I punched him in the arm with the full force of a ten-year-old child’s.

“Kidding, only kidding,” he smiled. “But thank you. I didn’t know it till now, but you’re exactly what I needed today.”

I left his house when he fell asleep, still gushing over what had just happened. My heart fluttered as I thought of Thom and the course of our last conversation. Never have I orbited so closely to him. 

"Don’t let this town suck the life out of you."

You were the last person I thought I’d hear this from. You always seemed so settled; afraid of change and adventure, never liked letting loose. Someone I was afraid of becoming.

I managed a wry smile. “Yeah? I’m pretty sure this place could use a bit of that, mom.”

Six months, tops. I swore to myself I’d get out of this place as soon as I get my degree and earn enough for a one-way ticket to my dad’s estate in Seattle. Who knows I might even get a place of my own, maybe a nice loft I could turn into a studio.

Snapping back to reality, I walked back to my room and glared at the half-finished drawings, uncapped tubes of paint, and a pile of Tuesday’s unfinished homework scattered on my desk. I crashed on the bed in exasperation. As if the sight of my room isn’t enough to piss me off, the blinding Ocala sunlight made its way through gaps of my curtains. An uninvited guest.

Beep.

I woke up at the muffled sound of my phone under my pillow. How I managed to sleep despite the agonizing heat remains a mystery to me.

"Where are you?" I read half-asleep.

"Home. Could use a little breather. Pick me up?"

"Be there in 10."

I’ve always believed Nate’s brain is somehow connected with mine in the weirdest, oddest sense of it. He would somehow always know whenever I need a quick getaway. He has always been the witness to my endless ranting, misanthropic remarks and earnest musings. He is my best friend, my confidante.

I took a quick cold shower, put on a gray tank top and dashed to the front door.

His blue Camry had already been parked idly by the front porch. "Hey."

“Where to?”

"You’ll see."

Windows down, I lit up a cigarette and allowed the smoke to fill in my vacant lungs. Surprisingly, Nate let me take control of the radio. He too was probably sick of the mediocre pop songs they played for days on end. I plugged in my iPod and pressed shuffle.

"The last two digits when I’m calling fade away but somehow I’ll get through—"

It took me a good 45 minutes to realize where we were headed. I made a mental note to call my mom to tell her I won’t make it home in time for dinner.

"Tampa?" I gawked.

"I take it you missed the beach."

I never quite thought I did, since being less than an hour away from the ocean is one of the few perks of living in Florida. Even so, I don’t remember the last time I was at the beach, feeling the warm, wet sand between my toes. Being in college took its toll on what used to be a normal weekend routine.

He pulled over by the sand, as I took a brief moment to register what was before my eyes.

Tampa Bay beach is even more stunning in the moonlight.

Nate ran ahead, kicking his sneakers off. I trailed behind, picking up seashells as I came closer.

We laid by the shore in what felt like hours, talking our ears off until we ran out of things to say.

"I’m leaving." I blurted out, breaking the sudden silence.

"Yeah? Where to, SeaWorld?"

"No, you idiot. Outta here. For good." I told him I still have yet to figure it out, and that in about six months I’ll be moving in with my dad.

"You sure ‘bout that? What’s a lonely girl like you gonna do without me?" He grinned. "No worries though, you know I’m only a phone call away from getting on a plane to Seattle whenever you need me."

"Shut the fuck up, Nathaniel.” I snicker. Typical Nate. “I could sure use some encouragement over here.”

His eyes deepened. I braced myself for what he had to say.

"You’ve been talking crap about leaving since freshman year, when you and I both know you can’t. You have too much to lose."

Furious, I held back and let out a deep sigh. ”What do I have to lose? I have nothing left for me in this town.”

For a second I thought he’d pull the family card on me, but he knew as well as I do that my mom and Randall are all for it.

“Me. You’d have to lose me.”

"Nate, y’know I—"

He pulled me in for a kiss before I came up with words to say. 

"You said you needed a pep talk, and I ain’t giving you one," he smiled coyly. "Stay. Give this place a chance. Give this a chance.”

I never took notice before the tattoo peeking right through his collar, or the scar on the curve of his chin he had since he fell off a bike when he was 14. Or how the moon lit up his hazel eyes, or the way he gets so worked up each time the waves crashed against our feet.

And never have I realized the escape I’ve always been searching for was right in front of me.