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Post by tonilous on Jun 7, 2014 1:23:44 GMT -5
Hi, I'm tonilous and I'm the author of this fic. The idea for this story was in my head for a while so I decided to write about it, with Emmet as my main protagonist. I would like to say that I do not own anything in this story except the plot. Also, I am aware that some of Emmet's actions and the settings in this story are not similar to his real life, thank goodness. In addition, for the sake of this story, I will be using fictional people as Emmet's parents as I do believe that his parents in real life are very lovely people and my intention for this story is for them to be quite the opposite.
Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy this story. I do have good plans for it and I hope that I can piece it together well enough.
Thank you for viewing.
Remember Me? Chapter 1
Over the past several months, I've been on a mission to find the perfect coffee shop. I don't even know what I'm looking for, really, but I'm positive that I'll know it when I see it. I've been to every Starbucks within 50 miles of Dublin, and while their flavor shots are intriguing - particularly around the holidays - they're a bit too commercial for my tastes. So I've been hitting the smaller places lately.
But the Daily Grind tends to scorch their drip coffee, and Cuppa Joe's uses Styrofoam cups, and Brew-Ha-Ha has uncomfortable chairs. Nothing is quite right, and every day, I cross another coffee shop off the master list.
It's a cold morning in early December when I pull up outside a place called The Bean. It doesn't look like much from the outside, it would have been overlooked amongst all the other Dublin shops if one had not been looking carefully, but if my experience as a Cahill has taught me anything, it's that appearances can be deceiving. I park in the side lot and hurry toward the shop, buttoning my overcoat against the biting wind.
The place is nearly empty inside. It's warm, and smells like ground coffee beans and steamed milk, and I pause inside the door as realization dawns.
This is it.
This is the perfect coffee shop.
There's a sense of real, palpable relief, like I can finally stop searching. Like I've been looking for it forever. I step up to the counter, still trying to figure out exactly what it is about this place that makes it different. The barista looks at me expectantly.
"Cafe Breve, please," I say to her. I don't have any cash on me, so I swipe my credit card and enter my pin number before moving to the end of the counter. Soon enough, a fresh cup of coffee is pressed into my hand, labeled with a scribbled Emmet. She must have seen my credit card, I guess. After adding cream and sweetener to the coffee, I turn and scan the room, looking for a good seat.
There's a lot of empty tables near the windows - which means good light for reading - but my eyes are drawn to a small table in the middle, where a girl my age is seated, watching me. An attractive girl my age. She's definitely watching and there's something about her that pulls me closer.
I walk up, smiling at her with more confidence than I'm feeling. "Hi."
Her eyes are wide. They're a shade of blue that I can't quite place, but would like to. "Hi," she replies, her voice high and light.
"My name's Emmet."
Her smile fades a little. I don't blame her; it's a dumb name. "I'm Ella."
"Ella. May I join you?"
"Um... sure." I slip into the seat across from her, stowing my laptop case under the table.
I'm on an independent study at the university that I was attending, which meant that monthly assignments and research papers were completed on my own timeline. In September, I started bringing my computer to a different coffee shop every day. It was a way to escape the oppressive silence of my house, and having access to a steady stream of coffee and fresh biscuits never hurt, either.
This is the first time I've ever sought company, though. Maybe it's the thrill of finding the perfect coffee shop that gives me the nerve.
"Come here often?" Ella asks, one delicate eyebrow raised. She's so pretty that it almost hurts to look at her.
I smirk in response, taking a sip of coffee. "First time," I say after swallowing. I tipped my cup slightly. "Won't be the last though. This coffee is the best I've had in ages."
She nods, taking a pull from her own cup. We sit in silence, not quite looking at each other but not quite looking away, either. "So," she says at last. "What brings you here to Dublin?"
"What makes you assume I'm not from Dublin?" I parry back. She just looks at me inscrutably, and finally I have to laugh. "Okay, you got me. I'm not from Dublin. I reside in Mullingar, but I'm visiting here for a while. What gave it away?"
"Sixth sense," she says dryly. "And you didn't answer my question."
"I like to do my homework in coffee shops."
"You're in school?"
"Yeah, I'm in my last year."
She glances over at the wall clock. "It's mid-morning, on a Tuesday. Why aren't you in class?"
"I'm on independent study."
This seemed to throw her. "Oh, I didn't realize," she mumbled, her eyes cast down.
"We're not all social misfits, I swear," I joked, trying to lighten the mood. "What about you? Shouldn't you be in class?" I ask, cocking my head.
She reaches for her coffee again, and I notice that her hands are shaking. Is she nervous? "Nope," she said after a pause. "I finished last year."
"So you're my age, then." Seeing her pause, I continue, "I should have graduated last year, like you, but I had to take several months off from school. Then I ended up missing too much time to make up the work, so I'm finishing my fourth year."
"Ah."
I waited for the inevitable questions, but to my surprise, none came. We settle back into silence. I look around the coffee shop, trying to figure out what makes it so perfect, but my mind just keeps coming back to the girl that sat across from me. The girl with the lovely face, and the inscrutable expressions, and the long, perfectly curled brown hair. I wonder how it would feel between my fingers as we kissed, pushed up against her Volkswagen, hands roaming and midnight approaching -
"Sorry to interrupt." I look up to see the barista standing beside us, rocking back and forth slightly on the balls of her feet. "We just had a new batch of biscotti come out of the oven and I wanted to bring you two some." She sets down a heaping plate of biscotti, and my mouth instantly starts to water.
Ella's almost glaring at her. "Thank you, Shae."
"You're welcome, Ella," she says back, smiling widely. I start to pull out my wallet, but she waves it away. "Don't be silly Emmet. It's on the house."
I thank her politely, adding, "You're very good with names."
Her eyes flicker back to Ella, and her smile dims. "Yes. Well. I should get back to work. Enjoy."
She disappears again, and I nudge the plate towards Ella, motioning for her to take a piece. She does, her face still tight from the exchange with Shae. I took one and bit into it, unsurprised to realize that it was about the best biscotti I've ever had. I took the lid off my coffee cup and dunked the biscotti into the coffee little by little, chewing on the ends of it. When I looked up, Ella was watching me, her eyes terribly sad.
"What?"
"Nothing."
I can tell that she's staring at my hairline, and I raise my fingers to the spot, feeling a little self-conscious all of a sudden. "It's a scar," I tell her plainly. She nods in response. "It doesn't hurt," I assure her.
"That's good."
The silence stretches out for miles between us, until I finally spoke. "It happened a few months into my last year," I tell her. "I was attending the University of Dublin at the time and since I came from such a small town, I wasn't as careful as I should have been. One night, I guess I had run into a couple of drunks or something and they all had violent tendencies..." She doesn't look perturbed or even surprised by that information, so I pushed onward. "Apparently a group of them cornered me and beat me pretty severely."
"Apparently?"
"I don't remember any of it." I trace one finger along the dark raised scar, from my hairline to halfway back my scalp. "The head trauma was the worst of it; I guess one of them must have found a crowbar on the street or something. I was in a coma for a really long time."
She swallows. "And when you came out of it?"
"It was pretty rough. I have something called retrograde amnesia. I lost over a year's worth of memories."
This doesn't seem to faze her, which is nice. Most people get freaked out or quiet whenever I tell them. "And none of it ever came back?"
"Not yet, no."
She sighs, "Were there any other lasting effects from that night?"
"I... how'd you know it happened at night?"
"I just figured. Those sorts of attacks tend to happen when it's dark out."
"Oh." I searched through my mind. "Well, no. The amnesia was about it. Sometimes I get migraine headaches, but not so often anymore. And..." I break off, embarrassed. Ella just looks at me expectantly. "And I have... spells, sometimes."
"Spells," she repeats.
"They're kind of like hallucinations, I guess," I admit, hoping that she won't think I'm crazy. "Like the other day, my parents and I went shopping in the City Centre at Clery's and I had this bizarre daydream where I was chasing one of the employees around the store while serenading her with a really inappropriate song. While also playing the guitar and jumping on tables and stuff." I laugh weakly. "Weird, right? No one would ever do that."
"I don't know, they might if she was a junior manager," she deadpans. "Anyway, how do you know it wasn't a memory or something?"
I can't tell if she's making fun of me. "You think I actually went into somebody's workplace and started singing a sexual song?"
"It's possible."
"No. Like I said, it happens sometimes. The spells, I mean. My dad says that it's my brain's way of trying to fill in the memory gaps with nonsense." At the mention of my dad, Ella stiffens visibly. Maybe she has had a bad relationship with her own father. I try to picture what her dad would look like - tall and thin like her, maybe, with big eyes - but I just keep coming up with an image of a bald guy wearing coveralls and a baseball cap. I almost tell her that, but I wouldn't want to accidentally offend her. "So do you work, then?"
"Me? No." She shoves a big piece of biscotti into her mouth, and I get the distinct impression that it's because she didn't want to talk about jobs. As she chews, she rubs the side of her neck unconsciously. My eyes follow the motion of her fingers under the thin chain of her necklace and - oh.
"Oh, god. I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry, I'll get a job at some point -"
"No," I interrupt. "I'm sorry for talking about my attack." I gesture to her neck, where her fingers are still tracing over a scar. Now that I know to look, there are others, too. One next to her right eye, and a large one along her collarbone. "You haven't had an easy time of it either, have you?"
She just looks at me, stricken. Her eyes are slowly becoming glassy with tears, so I look down at my coffee politely until she can compose herself. When I look back up, though, the tears have spilled over, and she's shaking her head over and over. "I can't do this," she whispers. There's a sharp squeak as she shoves her chair back, and then she's standing, pulling on her coat. "I have to go."
"Was it something I said?" God, I hope not. There's something about Ella that makes me want to curl up beside her and just lose myself. Just cuddle all day long, watching re-runs of pointless, corny scary movies and laugh about the bad acting and fake gore - crap. From the look on Ella's face, I know I just had another one of my spells.
"What did you see?" She asks.
I stare at her, lost for words. "Please don't go."
She wipes her tear-streaked cheeks with the back of her sleeve, and glances over at the barista, who was watching us with a pitying expression. "I have to."
"Why? Just stay a bit longer. I promise I won't say anything stupid this time."
"It's not you, it's... I mean, your dad..."
"My dad?"
She looks away for a moment and when she looks back, it's with an expression of longing so acute, it makes my breath catch in my throat. "I have to go now. But... I'll come back. Tomorrow morning. Around ten o'clock. If you - "
"I'll be here waiting."
I can't tell if it's relief or trepidation in her eyes as she nods, and then turns and leaves. I sit alone for a minute, trying to make sense of what just happened. Shae is still watching me so I stand up, slinging my laptop case over my shoulder and picking up the coffee and biscotti. There's a window seat near the back that's a bit more private.
Once I'm settled into the new seat, Shae gets back to work, chatting with a new customer. I turn to gaze out of the window, and that's when I see her. Ella is sitting in the driver's seat of a parked Volkswagen, not thirty feet away. Her forehead is resting against the steering wheel, her face covered by her hands. I can't be sure, but judging by the shaking of her shoulders, it looked like she was sobbing.
Unsettled, I sip at my lukewarm coffee. After a few minutes, she straightens up, starts the engine, and pulls out of the parking lot. I take out my laptop, ready to work on my Economics essay when suddenly it hits me.
How did I know she drives a Volkswagen?
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Post by barbt on Jun 7, 2014 8:18:37 GMT -5
Wow. OK, this one is definitely intriguing!
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Post by HburgEagle44 on Jun 8, 2014 1:30:59 GMT -5
Holy CRAP
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Post by tonilous on Jun 8, 2014 14:18:35 GMT -5
Remember Me? Chapter 2
I hang around The Bean for several hours, on the off chance that the mysterious Ella might return today. She doesn't, though, and Shae's curious glances have graduated to full-on staring sessions, so I finally pack up my things and go.
It's hard to drive long distances when you're prone to having spells. I keep my eyes resolutely on the road and sing along with the songs on the radio to distract myself. There are a lot of songs that I still don't know, though - catching up on a missed year extends well beyond what anyone realizes.
Once I'm home, once I'm lying on my bed with my eyes closed, I finally let my mind wander and settle on Ella. I remember the bewitching shade of her eyes - blue with some green and gray mixed in - and how soft her lips looked. I remember the soft lilt of her voice, and the smooth lines of her coat, and the way her eyes lit up when I told her I loved her -
My eyes fly open, and I sit up blearily. The clock says it's six-thirty in the evening. I must have fallen asleep.
Blinking away the remnants of the dream, I make my way downstairs, following the faint clanking of pots and pans and the aroma of garlic and chicken. My mother is in there, wearing a cotton dress and pearls, looking every bit like a fifties American housewife. Except for the Irish part, of course.
"Hi, Ma."
She looks up and smiles at me, pressing a dry kiss to my cheek. "Papa will be home from work soon. Set the table for me?"
I haven't called my father 'Papa' since I was four, but Ma persists in referring to him that way. "Sure. Linen napkins?"
"Of course."
By the time Dad walks in the door, briefcase in hand, dinner is ready. Ma serves them both wine and hands my dad the carving knife. He carves the meant, and we clap our hands politely before serving ourselves dinner.
When I'm buttering the inside of my roll, my dad starts telling my mom about a particularly difficult patient at work. The attention is off me, so I allow my mind to wonder again. I wonder how I knew this morning that Ella drives a Navigator. I wonder how I know what the seats feel like and the smell of her hair as I lean in to -
"And how was your day today, dear?"
I blink rapidly, trying to chase away the mental image of kissing Ella in the back seat of her car. It's a good image - a great image - but from the way my parents are both peering at me over the dining room table, I have the paranoid thought that they know what I was imagining. "My day? It was fine."
"How's your Economics paper coming along?" Dad asks.
"Fine. I finished the research part and wrote the outline," I recite. Which wasn't really all a lie...
"I called the house phone around eleven," Mom says, taking a small sip of her wine. "There was no answer."
"I went to a coffee shop in the city to study. Did you try my cell phone?"
She huffs out a laugh. "No, right after I called you, the florist delivered carnations to the luncheon. Carnations, can you imagine? So I had to call around and see who could arrange thirty Calla lily centerpieces in half an hour. Quite a day."
Dad smiles fondly at her. "You were always so cool under pressure, Marie."
"You really are," I chime in. "I don't think I've ever seen you get ruffled by anything."
I expect her usual preening acceptance of my compliment, but instead, there's a strange tension that settles around my parents. Ma keeps her eyes down as she spears baby carrots with her fork, and Dad clears his throat a few times. For several minutes, the only sounds are of clinking silverware.
I push my food around on my plate. "I met someone today," I venture. "At the coffee shop." There's a loud clatter as my father drops his fork on his plate. Ma and I look at him, and he takes a deep breath, picking the fork back up with a blank expression.
"Oh?"
I can't even say why it is that I don't tell them about Ella in that moment. There's something about the tone in my dad's voice - almost like a warning - that makes me hesitate. "Yeah,a girl named Shae. We chatted for a while; she seemed nice. She gave me biscotti."
Ma's eyebrows shoot up. "Is this a potential love interest, sweetie?"
"What?... Uh no, Ma..."
"I'm just asking," she sighs. "After everything that happened with Leah..."
"Who's Leah?"
Ma looks at Dad, who looks at me. "Leah, from the Bible," he says quickly. "Don't you remember learning about her in Sunday School?"
No, actually. But admitting that I don't would be an invitation for them to make me go to church again, so I just nod. "Right, of course. I understand the connection."
I don't understand the connection.
"Well, if you ever feel romantically toward Shae or anyone else, that's fine, too," Ma says sweetly. "You're too young to box yourself into a committed and serious relationship."
"It's not even like you've ever had a girlfriend before," Dad reminds me.
"Right," I agree. Even though I know he is wrong.
After I've cleared the dishes from the table and stacked them in the dishwasher, I head up to my bedroom. Four steps in I stop, turning around slowly and trying for the hundredth time to figure out what is missing.
Someone went through my room while I was in the hospital. Someone took things, changed things.To the unsuspecting observer, it might look like any other boy's bedroom. I've got a dresser filled with clothes... a bookshelf filled with my favorite novels and CDs... even a desktop computer with internet access. But there are drawers with clothing clearly missing. Gaps in the bookshelf where yearbooks would go.The computer - like my laptop - was brand new when I came from the hospital, so there were no photo or video files on it. My old email address had been terminated.
There are other signs, too. I have a huge bulletin board hanging over my desk, and while there are a few items tacked to it - like last year's footy roster and game schedule, an autographed poster from a player, a couple of ticket stubs from a concert I saw in secondary school - it's mostly empty. Which you could attribute to my being dull, I guess, except that there are hundreds of little pushpin holes, all over the board.
There was a life up there, and somebody took it down.
"Emmet?" I look up to see my father in the doorway. "Is everything all right?"
I must seem ridiculous to him, standing shock-still in the middle of my room. "Of course, why?"
"You had a few spells at dinner," he admits, and I can feel my cheeks color.
"Oh, sorry."
"Don't apologize, kiddo. I just wonder if you'd like for me to give you some more lithium -"
"Dad. We've been over this a dozen times," I remind him firmly. "No more lithium. I don't like how it makes me feel. Besides, I'm sure you could get in trouble for bringing me all those samples from your office."
He just waves his hand dismissively. "You'd be horrified if you knew how many samples the drug companies send us.Why, I could save my patients the trouble of getting prescriptions written, and just give them samples for as long as they needed the medication."
"Why don't you, then?"
His eyes narrow a little, and he ignores the question. "What are you reading?" he asks, gesturing over to my bedside table, where a paperback book is lying open on the surface.
"A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Have you read it?"
"Not since I was your age," he regards me curiously, opening his mouth and then closing it abruptly. "Well, have a good night."
"You too."
"I love you."
"Love you, too."
He waves a little before shutting my bedroom door.
This is new. All of it; meals together as a family, little chats after dinner, nightly professions of love. Before the attack, I'd see my dad a couple of times a week. Ma was usually off at some charity event's planning meeting until the late evening, and so I spent most of my time alone. Going to Dublin had been an adjustment - there was a constant noise and activity. At first, it had been overwhelming. After a few weeks, though, I couldn't get enough of it.
There's another thing. I was at the Uni from the spring of freshman year through the beginning of senior year. Shouldn't I have had some friends when I left? Why didn't they ever come to visit me when I was in the hospital, or even when I came home? I was there for over two years. I'd been friendly with Daniel and Ryan sophomore year. Could I really have burned by bridges when I left as a senior?
I glance back at the closed door. My parents have always been good about letting me have my space. When the door is closed, they don't bother me unless it's an emergency. So I head over to my bed, reaching behind the headboard and pulling out a short, folded step-ladder. There's a high shelf in my closet, too high to be very useful. I put old board games and my broken keyboard up there to fill the space, because they're easy to pull down. I do so now, stacking them to the side of the closet, and set up the step-ladder, climbing carefully until I can ease myself up onto the shelf.
I started doing this as a kid, when I experienced by first real thunderstorm. Once I realized how safe I felt, I kept coming up here. There's something about a high, tight space that makes me feel safe. I used to bring a blanket up and read books by flashlight.
Now, I just gaze at my roses.
There are four of them in total. Pinned right by the ceiling on the little lip above the closet doors. Three are red, one is white. They have little bows on them, and clearly came from some sort of corsage or boutonniere. They're only in view when I'm up on my shelf. Whoever wiped my room clean missed them completely.
I rest my cheek against the thick wood of the shelf and stare at the roses.
Somebody loved me once.
It's the only feasible explanation. If they'd been congratulatory flowers after a singing performance, or corsages that I wore to formals, I wouldn't have pinned them up here, out of sight. This is my secret place, my safe place, and if they're up here, it meant that I was hiding them from my parents. And as far as I can figure, that implies one thing: I used to have someone. She's clearly not in the picture anymore; the attack was nearly a year ago and surely she would have visited me in the hospital if we'd still been together.
Even still, somebody loved me once. Somebody loved me enough to buy me flowers, and I loved her enough to pin them up to grow dry and brittle in my secret spot.
I breathe slowly, listening to the stillness. For months, I've come up here and stared at the roses, as though they could tell me everything I've forgotten. I've tried imagining the person who gave them to me, but she was always faceless, shapeless. I let my mind drift now, knowing a spell is coming but accepting it anyway. It's so warm in my room, so warm in my closet, and Ella and I are slow-dancing across my shelf as I fall asleep smiling.
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Post by HburgEagle44 on Jun 8, 2014 15:08:50 GMT -5
Nice... This is very intriguing
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Post by barbt on Jun 8, 2014 15:54:55 GMT -5
You've definitely got me hooked on this one.
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Post by tonilous on Jun 9, 2014 18:43:08 GMT -5
Remember Me? Chapter 3
I'm awake by dawn, giddy with anticipation, grinning up at the ceiling of my closet. I don't even know if this is a date, but I pick out my clothes carefully just in case it is. I'm torn as to whether to look polished or casual. Ella was wearing a nice casual, winter dress yesterday, so I pull a pair of my nice jeans out of a drawer. Then I reach for one of my nicer shirts. I shower and style my hair, shave, and dress.
How early is too early to arrive?
My GPS estimates that I'll get to the city shortly before nine o'clock if I leave now, and although that's over an hour early, I figure it can't hurt to allow for traffic days. I grab my laptop case and a few notebooks so Ma will think I'm heading out to study. It makes me uneasy to lie to my parents - I'm not in the habit - but I know I didn't misinterpret my dad's tone of voice last night. If I have to have a secret, something tells me that Ella is worth it.
It's snowing lightly when I reach the city around eight forty-five. Everything looks so clean and fresh with a dusting of snow on it, and I find myself humming Christmas carols under my breath as I park in the little lot outside The Bean. I head inside, shaking snow off my scarf, and -
And she's here already.
Ella is sitting at the same table as yesterday, dreamy as ever. She's sipping from a coffee cup and flipping through a worn book, allowing me the chance to study her stealthily. She's dressed to nines in a gorgeous leather jacket, silk scarf, and nice, grey skinny jeans. I'm half considering driving back to my home to change into something dressier and come back, but then she looks up and sees me. Ella looks me up and down and smiles so appreciatively that I might just have to wear this outfit every day for the rest of eternity.
I head over to the table, taking off my scarf and draping my coat over the back of my chair. "Good morning."
"Morning," she says a little breathlessly. "You remembered."
"As if I could ever forget you," I return, flirting shamelessly.
Her face falls, and oh crap, it's not a date at all. I misread the situation completely. She might not even be single. She's a beautiful girl with a nice voice and great style, and I totally profiled her and now I'm harassing her in the middle of a coffee shop -
"Relax, Emmet," Ella says, clearing her throat. "It's a date; it's supposed to be awkward."
It's a date. The words are echoing in my mind - it's a date it's a date it's a date - and I completely miss what she's saying next. Trying unsuccessfully to tamp down my glee, I drop into the chair across from her and offer a toothy smile. "Sorry, what?"
She looks amused. "I was asking if you wanted coffee or something."
"Oh! Yes. Coffee." And I'm back on my feet, heading halfway over to the front counter before spinning back towards her and adding, "Do you want anything?"
She gestures to her cup of coffee. "I'm all set, thanks."
"Okay." There's a different barista today, which I'm sort of relieved about - that Shae girl was a little weird. I order a cafe breve and a plate of biscotti, and when I get back to the table, Ella's holding a shaker of cinnamon. "What's that?"
"Cinnamon."
"Well, I can see that." I roll my eyes, secretly enjoying that her dimple is showing. Adorable. "What's it for?"
"Try it in your coffee."
"No thanks, I'm kind of purist."
"Trust me," she says, and for some reason, the moment feels heavy. Like she's asking more of me than I know.
Finally I take the shaker, pulling the lid off my cup and sprinkling a dash of cinnamon into the coffee. "That enough?"
"A little more."
I give a couple more shakes before she nods. When I take a tentative sip, it's - "Oh my god," I moan. "Oh my god."
"Right?"
"That's fantastic."
"I thought you might like it."
We grin at each other dopily. "So," I say, as she takes a sip of her own coffee. "I was hoping you'd help me with something."
"Oh?"
"I have a year's worth of lost memories, and I just have to ask..." I gesture to her outfit. "What fashion trends did I miss?"
Her eyes light up. "Well!" she exclaims, and then goes into a long tirade about how maxis just shouldn't be stylish, ever, and The world was not clamoring for scrunchies to make a comeback, and How long till kilts are trendy again, because I think we've all waited long enough. I just nod obligingly and smile when it seems expected, taking the opportunity to stare at her some more.
She's not my type.
I think that's the weirdest thing about all this. Ella is just not my type. I tend to fall for women who are older. More mature looking. I've never been interested in girls like Ella before, and yet, it's like she's the most beautiful, mesmerizing person I've ever seen. The first time I laid eyes on her, I know she'd be smart, funny, and warm. She's all of those things, and really, I've never fallen so fast.
Fashion was apparently the right way to break the ice. She talks and talks, until all the nervousness has slipped away and it feels like we're just old friends having coffee.
"Enough of my voice," she says finally, looking sheepish. "Tell me about yourself, Emmet."
"I'm afraid it's not a very interesting story."
"That's okay, I have low standards."
We both laugh. "Okay, well, I was born in Mullingar. We stayed in Mullingar while my dad set up a private practice in Dublin." I pause to take a sip of coffee, then continue. "I'm an only child. Always loved to sing. What else... went to a public school until my first year of secondary. My dad's family is originally from Dublin and had connections so I transferred to a private school. Got accepted to Trinity College, transferred to University of Dublin, got attacked, brain trauma, memory loss, blah blah blah."
"I'm fairly certain that's the only time in history that the phrase brain trauma, memory loss, blah blah blah has been uttered."
I shrug. "At this point I'm used to it. It's old news."
Ella is fiddling with a piece of biscotti, not looking at me. "So... why did you transfer to Dublin?"
"Did I not mention the memory loss?" I say cheekily.
"I know you don't remember. But you must have asked your parents at some point."
"I did, yeah. It was the first thing I asked them when they told me about the attack."
"And?"
"My dad said I'd just gotten the idea in my head." This isn't quite true. What my dad actually said, sounding terribly bitter, was You were in love. And then he looked at my mom, his eyes widening, and added, with the idea of attending that university.
It's a strange memory. But then, so many of my memories are strange.
Ella nods blankly. "I see."
"And now I'm on independent study, as you know. I spend most of my time studying or hanging out with my parents."
"What about your friends?"
"What friends?" I smile ruefully. "I've known you for a day, and you're the closest thing I have to a friend."
Her mouth falls open. "You're not serious."
"As a heart attack. Guess I was a pretty unpopular guy."
"But what about your secondary school friends?"
"Never heard from any of them."
"What about Jona -I mean, your Trinity people?" Her eyes dart away.
"No, there's no one. Way to rub it in."
"I'm not judging you - you're great, Emmet. You deserve friends. You deserve to see someone other than your mom or dad."
"I'm seeing you, aren't I?" She smiles at me, slow and warm, and I can feel my stomach flip-flop nervously. "So. Tell me about yourself," I say, leaning my chin on my hand and smiling back at her. "I want to know what makes Ella..."
"Turner."
"What makes Ella Turner tick."
"Well..." she takes a sip from her coffee, looking thoughtful. "I was born and raised in Dublin. Always very into fashion, I like to read." I give a one-shoulder shrug. No surprises there. "My dad died when I was young, so it was just me, my brother Greg, and my mom for a long time."
"What was that like?"
"Hard. Lonely. Luckily I have a great mom. She accepts me for who I am, and I know I can always count on her." Ella's fingers start stroking the scar on her neck again. When I was in secondary, she remarried. So our little family doubled; I had a new stepfather and a baby brother. Conner is a mechanic, and little Allen helps around at home with me and Mom."
"Do you like them?"
"I love them." She's stroking the scar harder now, her fingernails catching on the thin chain of her necklace. "Conner is a great guy. He makes my mom so happy and he always had my back when he could." Her hands stills as she realizes what she's doing, and she pulls it back, blushing.
"When did that happen?" I broach gently, and she grows tense.
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Okay." We sit in silence for what feels like forever, until I ask, "What sort of necklace are you wearing?"
She looks startled. "What?"
"You were wearing that chain the last time I saw you, too. Why do you keep it under your clothes?"
"I..." Ella takes a deep breath, and pulls the chain out from under her jacket. I can see a silver Claddagh ring dangling from it. The ring is delicate and intricate and absolutely gorgeous. Where the band was where winding vines of ivy, all in sterling silver. In the middle, the heart was of a small, gold stone.
"Wow, that's stunning."
"Thanks. I designed them, actually."
"Them?"
"My boyfriend and I ordered them together, as promise rings. We used a jeweler in Limerick."
And with that, the world stops. My breathing, my heart, everything stops. "Oh," I choke out. "You and your boyfriend."
"Yeah."
"I should... I should go."
She looks up from the ring. "What?"
"I think we had different ideas about today." My head is spinning. I need to go home. And hide in my spot. For the rest of my life. "I thought... but you have a boyfriend, and -"
"Emmet." She reaches out to grab my hand, stilling me as I'm trying to rise to my feet. "I don't have a boyfriend."
"But you said - "
"I had one."
"Had."
"But not anymore."
I sit back down hard, blowing out a sharp breath of relief. "Not -"
"No."
"Then why are you still wearing the ring?"
Ella is still holding my hand, squeezing it tightly. "That night I got this... I wasn't the only one attacked. My boyfriend was with me, and they went after him a lot harder. As bad as my injuries were, his were even worse, and..." She swallows hard. "And I lost him."
"Oh my god," I gasp. "I'm so, so sorry." I squeeze her hand back hard. That explains her tears yesterday, and the abrupt way she left the coffee shop. I'll bet I'm the first guy she's dated since her boyfriend died. "That must have been so painful."
She nods, blinking fast. "It was."
I take a deep breath. "Ella... it seems like this is still really fresh for you. Are you sure you want to move on so quickly? Maybe what you need right now is a friend."
She's trembling a little, but her voice is steady. "Emmet, believe me when I say you are the only person I'd consider moving on with."
My heart skips a beat. She understands it. She feels it, too, this connection between us. I'm still a little uneasy about how ready she is to start something new, but I have to give it a chance. "How about we take things slowly, and tell each other if anything goes faster than we'd like."
"That sounds perfect." She squeezes my hand before letting go. "I've got to get to work. Maybe we could see each other next week?"
"Or tomorrow?" I ask hopefully.
She smiles, looking relieved. "Yes. Tomorrow. Same time, same place?"
"I'll be here." I watch her leave, and wonder how early I'll need to arrive in order to beat her here.
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Post by HburgEagle44 on Jun 9, 2014 19:22:13 GMT -5
Oh my. What are the odds. Haha
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Post by barbt on Jun 10, 2014 5:49:07 GMT -5
Yep, Emmet's the previous boyfriend, for sure! What a shock that's going to be for him!
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Post by tonilous on Jun 10, 2014 11:41:57 GMT -5
Hi, it's tonilous here.
I just wanted to note that I am updating all my stories fairly early today, because I will be busy and will not have time to update until tomorrow.
Happy Reading!
Remember Me? Chapter 4
The next morning, I arrive at the coffee shop almost an hour late.
It's not my fault. I leave my house with plenty of time to spare. But there's an accident on the route coming here, and traffic is at a standstill for more than two hours. The temperature outside is hovering right around freezing, so I let my car engine idle to keep the heat on. So do all the drivers around me. There's nothing good on the radio, and nothing to do but people-watch. I look around at all of my highway neighbors, and think about how isolated we all are from each other, stuck in our own little insulated worlds.
There's a guy in a Buick to my left, reading a newspaper. Our faces aren't even five feet apart, and he must know I'm watching him, but he doesn't look over. I make a game out of it, imagining who he is, where he's going. He's a businessman, I decide, and although he's late to a meeting, it's one he doesn't particularly want to attend. So he's flipping through the newspaper to pass the time. He feels compelled to read up on corporate news even though he's secretly anxious to get to the latest Fox Trot comic strip.
A series of loud, blaring car horns startle me, and I notice that the traffic ahead has cleared. The people in the line of cars behind me look furious. I shift my car into drive and take off, muttering a profanity under my breath.
Maybe Dad is right. Maybe I do need to go back on medication.
When I finally arrive at the been, the parking lot is full, so I have to park on a side street. After dropping several coins into the meter, I hurry into the coffee shop, craning my neck to search for Ella. She's sitting at our usual table. At first her face looks strange, but when she notices that I've arrived, she gives me a wide smile. The line for coffee is long, and I don't know where to look while I wait. Ella is watching me brazenly, but I feel to bashful to stare back. Eventually I just take my phone out to play Solitaire.
"Cafe breve?" asks the barista, a guy I've never seen before. I gape at him, and he looks impatient. "Yes or no, buddy?"
"Uh... yes, please. And a plate of biscotti." I go through all the motions - paying, retrieving my coffee, preparing it with cream and sweetener and a few shakes of cinnamon - while Ella's eyes follow my every move. Once I'm done, I pick up my coffee and biscotti and march over to the table, dropping into a seat across from her with a thud. "Sorry I'm late," I sigh. "Car accident."
Her eyes widen. "You got in a car accident?"
"No, not me. I just got the traffic end of it."
"Oh." She's fiddling with her coffee cup, turning it in slow circles.
My eyes widen as realization dawns. "You were worried about me."
She scoffs. "No, I wasn't."
"You were. You were totally worried about me," I tease.
"I... Okay, maybe just a little."
I swear I can actually feel my heart melting into a puddle of goo. "I really am sorry. I would've called to let you know, but I didn't have your number."
She holds her hand out, palm up. I blink at her, surprised - the coffee shop is bustling this morning, and she doesn't normally try to hold my hand unless the place is empty. Far be it for me to complain, though. I slip my hand into hers and squeeze it -
Ella laughs at me. "I want your phone, Romeo."
"Oh. Right." My cheeks flushing, I pass my cell over to her.
She hunches over it, her thumbs flying across the keys, and when she hands it back, I see that she has programmed a new number into my contact list. "Now you can call or text me if you ever run into a problem again."
She wants me to have her number. So I can get in touch with her in the future. "Caffeine Fiend?" I read aloud, a little giddy.
"Well, I figured I needed a pseudonym. We wouldn't want your mom or dad finding my name in there."
"Why not?"
She shifts in her seat. "They might freak out if they suspect you're dating me."
My face falls. "Hey, that's not fair. You don't even know them." I like this girl, I do, but I'm not going to sit here and listen to her belittle my parents. "They don't have a problem with me dating whoever." She raises one eyebrow silently. "They don't," I insist.
"So you've dated a lot, then?" she asks. "I mean, you're attractive, smart, nice. Good sense of humor. Must have had a ton of girlfriends, right?" My gaze slips down to the table, and she nods. "Yeah, I'm sure it has nothing to do with your parents."
"I had a girlfriend once," I shoot back sullenly. She doesn't respond. When I glance up, she looks stricken, and a little part of me takes a mean satisfaction that I've made her jealous. "Before the attack. At some point I did have a girlfriend."
"They, uh... they told you that?" she asks shakily.
"No."
"Then how do you -"
"It doesn't matter. I'm just saying I had one once."
She nods, slowly. "Have you ever tried to find her?"
"No. I figure we must have broken up sometime before the attack."
"Why do you say that?"
I gave him an incredulous look. "I was beaten within an inch of my life, Ella. I was in a coma for months, and recovery for even longer. What sort of girlfriend would have abandoned me during a time like that." She's chewing at her bottom lip now, her eyes welling up with tears, and I shake my head at her fiercely. "Don't do that. Don't pity me."
"I'm -" She clears her throat and takes a deep breath. "Look, Emmet..."
"Hey, I'm fine," I tell her quickly. "It all worked out okay for me in the end. If she hadn't left me, I wouldn't be here with you now, would I?" I smile at her shyly. "Honestly, I'm starting to think fate led me to you."
She does reach for my hand this time, and I let her hold it. We sit in silence, sipping our coffees and ignoring the ticking of the clock on the wall.
-8-
On Friday morning, I arrive so early I actually beat her there. It's worth it to see her face light up when she comes in.
We sit there for hours, talking about almost everything. I've never known anyone as captivated by books and music as I am, but Ella's enthusiasm for it might even exceed my own. We discuss our favorite books and authors, debating ones which have the best character development and most shocking scenes. She's brought in old issues of fashion magazines and we both laugh over her grudging acceptance of the hipster phenomenon.
There are things we don't talk about, though. I don't bring up her scars, and she doesn't bring up mine. Neither of us mentions her old boyfriend, although sometimes it feels like his ghost is flitting around our table. We talk about our secret mutual love for musicals, for Rent, to be exact, and when I tell her that "I'll Cover You" is my favorite song from that libretto, Ella turns pale and doesn't say anything. I want to tell her that I've always dreamed of singing it with the woman I love, but she clearly has her own sort of history with that song, so I leave it alone.
We linger at The Bean til well past noon. I keep expecting her to excuse herself and leave for work. But every time she opens her mouth after a silence, it's to ask what I think of Rowling's new book, or Bastille's new album, or the subtext behind Sherlock Holmes. It's only when I offer to buy us sandwiches from the counter that Ella finally looks over at the clock.
"I've got to go," she says regretfully.
"Play hooky," I suggest, flashing my most winning smile. "Stay with me instead."
She sighs, her eyes warm. "I wish I could... I'll miss you this weekend."
I'm both gleeful that she'll miss me and gutted that I'll have to spend two whole days without her company. I've only known her for four days, and yet I already seem to divide up my days into Time Spent With Ella and Time Spent Without Ella. It's stupid, and borderline obsessive, and I can feel a blush spreading across my cheeks.
She has a life outside of this little coffee shop. She has a loving family and a lot of great friends. Of course she'd want to spend her weekends with them.
"I'll miss you back," I murmur.
"You'll be too busy to miss me," she claims dramatically.
"Impossible."
It's gotten easier, this flirting between us. Ella has been a bit more relaxed every day. We tease each other gently, compliment each other often. Sometimes when our hands touch lightly, I have to fight the urge to shiver.
Is this what love feels like? Can you really love someone after four days? A week ago I would have said that was absurd. But a week ago, I hadn't spent hours and hours talking with Ella, smiling and listening to her sweet voice, my heart leaping at the brush of our fingertips -
Suddenly I have the strangest spell, imagining Ella wearing a University of Dublin hoodie, and leaning against a bookshelf, but I blink and the vision is gone. She's gazing at me almost lovingly, and I have to drop my eyes to the table. It's overwhelming, being here with her.
"I'll see you Monday?" she asks hopefully, standing and slipping her overcoat on.
"Monday," I nod.
She reaches over to squeeze my hand, before heading out into the cold.
-8-
I think about her all evening. My parents and I have our usual family dinner, filled with polite conversation and the usual inquiries into my studies. Dad asks about an architecture project that he assigned me a week ago, and I have to admit that I haven't even started it.
It's not like me.
And they notice it's not like me.
Evading their questions, I claim to be tired and disappear into my bedroom. But staring at the wall of dried roses isn't enough for me tonight. I finger my cell phone, fighting the urge to send Ella a text message. I don't want to scare her off by appearing too interested, too soon.
I don't sleep. I stare at the ceiling, my mind swimming with increasingly outlandish scenarios involving me and Ella; dousing a bunch of people with foam,singing and dancing around a purple piano, riding pink horses across cartoon rainbows. Counting sheep doesn't make me drowsy; neither does my white noise machine. At dawn, when sleep is still eluding me, I finally creep down the stairs. My parents are never awake this early on a Saturday. I scrawl a note and leave it on the kitchen table: Going to sketch some bridges for my architecture project. Back in time for dinner, love you.
It's snowing hard outside. There are already several inches of snow on the ground, and I'm grateful for my four-wheel drive as I pull out of the driveway and head towards the city.
What am I even going to do when I get there? I don't know where Ella lives. I should have texted her before I left. But I don't want to look needy. Or obsessive.
God, what if I am needy and obsessive. Who stalks a girl's town after knowing her for four days? Who thinks about her constantly, making up bizarre daydreams involving foam and mythical creatures? At several points, I slow down, intending to make a U-turn and head back to my house. But every time, something makes me put my foot back on the accelerator.
The town is quiet. Between the foot of snow on the ground and the early morning hour, it seems that I'm the only one to venture outside today. When I finally reach The Bean, I see that there's one other car in the lot.
It's a Volkswagen.
My heart pounding in my chest, I park quickly and run across the lot, my boots crunching the snow down loudly as I go. I can see her through the window. Her head in her hands, but as I pull open the door, she looks up and sees me. And then she's on her feet, striding toward me, her eyes blazing and god, I can feel myself crumble as she reaches me.
"I don't understand what's happening," I manage, as she grabs me and pulls me tight against her. She rocks me back and forth as I clutch her, a sob trapped in my throat.
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Post by HburgEagle44 on Jun 10, 2014 13:48:46 GMT -5
<3 ahhh
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Post by barbt on Jun 10, 2014 15:35:15 GMT -5
She's gonna have to tell him soon.
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Post by tonilous on Jun 11, 2014 15:55:32 GMT -5
Remember Me? Chapter 5
Ella smells like home.
Which is a strange thing to think, really, because she doesn't smell anything like my parents' house. She smells like perfume and clean laundry and vanilla, and hugging her might be the single most amazing experience of my entire life. I relax into her arms with a sigh. She makes me feel so safe. I let myself imagine, for a moment, what it would have been like to have Ella in my life when I was in college. I picture stolen kisses by staircases... holding hands in the back row of the movie theater... kissing her in the back seat of my -
"I missed this," she whispers faintly.
I pull away quickly, my arms crossing tightly around myself to replace the lost warmth. "What?"
Her eyes widen as she realizes what she said - that she essentially just mixed me up with her dead boyfriend, just as I was picturing myself sharing my life with her.
"Sorry." She doesn't look sorry.
"It's okay." It's not okay.
We stand there, not looking at each other, as the barista behind the counter answers the ringing telephone. I can't decide what I want to do more - fall back into her arms, or run away. "Is this normal?" I ask finally.
"Is what normal?"
I shrug helplessly. "Wanting to spend every minute of every day with someone I barely know? Feeling better just because you're in the same room with me? I just... I don't know. Is this normal? Because I kinda feel like I'm losing my mind here."
Ella sighs. "I don't know if it's normal, but at least we're in the same boat."
"You mean -"
"I feel the same way about you, yes."
I bite my tongue, trying not to ask, but I can't resist. "Was it like this for you before? With your old boyfriend?"
She nods sadly. "It's exactly like this."
The barista hangs up the phone and calls out to us. "Um, excuse me?" She looks apologetic when we turn toward her. "That was my boss. He says the snow is supposed to get worse, and he wants me to close up the shop for the day." I don't say anything, so Ella offers her a polite smile in response. "Do you want me to make you anything first?" the barista asks, reaching for her coat and hat. "Coffee? Espresso?"
"No, your boss is right, you should go home," Ella replies. Then she looks at me searchingly. "Emmet, if the roads are going to be bad, you probably shouldn't head back to your town."
"Probably not," I agree quietly.
"You should come home with me. Wait it out."
I feel like I'm already waiting too many things out. But I can't say no to this girl, and so I trailed behind her out into the snow, toward out cars. We drive slowly down a series of sleepy Dublin streets, until at last I follow her Volkswagen into an unshoveled driveway. Her house is tiny, a single story of all brick. I park and get out of my car, glancing around at the neighborhood. From Ella's usual attire, I'd expected her family to be on the wealthy side. But this area is decidedly run down.
She's already heading up the little path to the front door, so I hurry to catch up.
"Home sweet home," she says wryly, unlocking the door and stepping inside. We enter the kitchen, which is odd. Don't front doors usually lead to foyers, or at least living rooms?
"I like it," I tell her. And I do. Ella lives here. "Is this the house where you grew up?"
"This place? No, we've only lived here for about eight months." She peels off her overcoat and holds out her hand until I slip out my own coat and give it to her. "We used to live in a nicer house. But after the attack, my hospital and physical therapy bills were kind of overwhelming... and Mom's insurance didn't cover any of my counseling sessions. So money became too tight for us to stay there." I catch the guilt in her expression as she hangs our coats on a hook by the door.
"I'm sorry," I tell her lamely.
She nods. "You want anything to eat or drink? Coffee? Tea?"
"Actually, coffee would be great. Since we left The Bean empty-handed and all."
"No problem." She starts a fresh pot of coffee, then pulls out a couple of mugs, spoons, a carton of cream, and a little bowl of sweetener. When the pot is ready, she starts to reach for the mugs, then pauses, a strange light in her eyes. "Which one do you want?" she asks me.
"Which mug?"
"Yeah."
"Oh I don't care." Not entirely true, actually. One of the mugs is a light blue with a delicate handle. The other has an old-fashioned mustache design printed on it. If I knew Ella a little better, I'd totally want to take the mustache one and do my best impression of Groucho Marx for her. I don't know her that well, though, and when she keeps watching me expectantly, I finally reach out and take the blue mug to be safe. Ella looks crestfallen. "Did you want that one?" I ask her, confused.
"No. No, you're fine."
She's quiet, though, not looking at me as she prepares our coffee. I can't help feeling like I just failed a test without even knowing I was taking one.
We sip our coffee at the kitchen counter. I glance wistfully at the mustache mug. It really is awesome.
"We can chat in the living room, if you want," she ventures when we're both finished, and I nod agreeably, following her a few steps down a small hallway.
There's a large framed photo on the wall, and I stop to study it curiously. Ella looks a year or two younger in it, her hair shorter, her cheeks a little fuller. There's a tall guy our age beside her - must be Greg - and a woman with a pleasant look about her. And then there's... huh. My head cocks to the side. Is this really what Ella's step-dad looks like? He's bald, and unrefined, and pretty much exactly who I envisioned the day I met Ella.
Weird.
"My family," Ella says from beside me. I turn to smile at her, and nod. "What do you think of my step-dad?"
I look back at the photo. What am I supposed to think of her dad? This feels like another test, and I'm bewildered by what to say. I mean, he's a dad. He looks like a dad. And he looks like the mechanic I know he is, too. I'm sure he's in stained coveralls much of the day, leaning over the hood of a car as I hand him a caburetor -
"Well?" Ella's squeezing my arm, her eyes hopeful.
"He looks nice."
She doesn't seem crestfallen this time around; she seems almost angry. "That's all?"
I shrug, lost. "He looks... really nice?"
"I know what's going on Emmet," she bursts out. "I can see it, when it happens. Do you really think I can't? Do you think I'm stupid?"
"No," I say desperately. "No, I think you're wonderful."
She's falling apart in front of me, tears spilling down her cheeks. "I don't know how to do this," she whispers brokenly. "I know it's not your fault, I do, I just... I miss you so much. I miss you all the time."
Out of all the scenarios I ever envisioned our first kiss, I never pictured anything like this: me rushing forward to claim her mouth feverishly, dizzy with confusion, our lips sliding together, wet with Ella's tears. It feels like everything. She feels like everything.
"I never even let myself hope. I thought I'd never get to kiss you again," she mumbles.
I pull back, breathing hard. The air in the room feels charged, like something big is happening. Ella's staring at me, and I'm staring back. "Maybe," I murmur. "Maybe we should watch a movie or something."
"A movie?" She looks like she's not familiar with the word.
"Yeah, I just... yeah."
She nods, glancing down at my lips. "Yeah, of course. We said we'd take it slow, right?"
I smile self-consciously and she kisses my cheek quickly before heading down the hall. I turn to the right and head into the living room, trying to get my bearings.
It's a small and comfortable room, with a lived-in feeling that has always eluded my mom's pristine parlor. The leather couch sags invitingly, and all of the chairs have worn spots on the arms. It's the kind of room I'd like to curl up in with a good book. Speaking of which, there's a large bookcase on the far wall. I wander over, curious as to what this family likes to read. I spot some Tom Clancy novels and most of the Harry Potter books next to several paperback copies of classics. Then my attention shifts to a series of framed photos adorning a high shelf.
"Oh my god," I murmur, reaching for one of them. It shows a fair-skinned man holding a toddler, and from the child's eyes and smile, I know it's Ella. She's adorable, with round cheeks and pudgy fingers that look sticky with grape jelly. She's clutching the man's strong hand while she smiles at the camera with very familiar-looking blue eyes.
A lump forms in my throat. I've never had this sort of relationship with my dad. Our family photos are stiff, formal, posed. Even at a young age, I was always dressed in an uncomfortable starched shirt and polished shoes. I'd stand in front of my parents awkwardly, while each of them rested one hand on my shoulders. This photo is the complete opposite. There's so much warmth in their expressions, so much ease in their pose. Ella's father made Ella looked as secure as she can possibly be.
I can't imagine how hard it must have been, for Ella to have experienced that sort of love and lost it so suddenly. And then to lose her boyfriend on top of it all... it's almost too much to bear.
I replace the frame, my eyes scanning over the photos lined up beside it on the shelf. There's one of a little boy in a clown costume - it was probably her little step-brother. Then there's a photo of a football team hoisting a trophy into the air, and then - my breath catches in my throat. Then there's the most beautiful picture of Ella I could possibly imagine. I pull it down, gazing at it in wonder.
She's turned toward the camera as she's hugging someone, and her face - unmarked by scars or grief - is absolutely radiating with joy. My eyes travel over her wide grin, her scrunched up nose and gleaming eyes, and I wish I could know this Ella. There's no fear or pain in this girl. She's strong and safe, loving and loved.
I look a little closer at the person she's hugging. I can only see his back, but he's taller than Ella. His hair is spiked up, either wet or gelled. His face is buried against Ella's neck, and... oh.
This is him. This is the boyfriend.
It's clear, once I realize it. Ella's hands are splayed low across his back, and the boy's palm is cupping the side of Ella's neck. They're not hugging as much as embracing, and it almost feels as though the camera intruded on a private moment.
Something's odd, though. Something about the boy. His hair, and his height, and his coloring.
I can feel the blood drain from my face as it hits me. How fast Ella seemed to fall for me. How she slipped today, and said she missed hugging and kissing me. The way she stares at me sometimes, her eyes unfocused as though she's imagining someone else completely.
Oh, god. I'm such an idiot. She's never felt anything for me at all. I reel backwards, sinking into an armchair and struggling to breathe.
I remind her of her dead boyfriend. She's just using me.
I hear footsteps approaching from the hall, and I look up in time to see her round the corner. "I'm thinking that today calls for a musical marathon," she says, looking down at a stalk of DVDs in her hands. "Do you prefer old Hollywood, or -"
"I found something on your shelf," I interrupt.
"What -" She freezes when she sees the photo I'm holding. "Oh... god. Oh, Emmet."
"I think I deserve an explanation," I say icily.
She swallows hard. "Yeah," she says finally. "I think you do."
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Post by HburgEagle44 on Jun 11, 2014 17:41:48 GMT -5
Good!!!
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Post by LoveCT on Jun 11, 2014 23:19:02 GMT -5
............................. ........ Why?!!! ..................................................... Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh!.........
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