Kelsey Messner
I hike my lounge pants higher and climb my sorry, Croc-soled self up the front steps of Retreat Bookstore. The fuchsia Victorian boasts three levels of creaky floors, mismatched rugs, and plenty of romantic sagas to distract me from my own Shakespearean tragedy.
Maybe I can’t shelve it as a tragedy since nobody died, but isn’t it tragic when two people who should be together . . . aren’t? Not to mention the fact that I’m walking the same steps Barty and I climbed a year ago on our first date.
Once upon a time.
In a Happily Ever After, this would be our first anniversary.
I blink back tears and push open the door, where I’m greeted by the melodic reverb of Enya and a rush of patchouli incense.
Behind the antique bar counter, Lavern’s gray poodle-perm stoops over a hardcover. She glances up. Her mauve lips purse to one side, accentuating her wrinkles. “What can I do for you, Winnie?”
I lean on the marble counter and glance over my shoulder, lowering my voice. “I’m looking for something strong. Maybe even a double, I’ve gotta fill the entire weekend.”
Lavern’s nails shuffle over the counter. “A real tear-jerker, eh? A sniff of soap opera with notes of tragedy?”
I cling to the counter and lean closer. “Yes.”
Lavern slaps her book shut and jabs a finger at me. “I’m cutting you off, kid.” She leans back in her creaking chair. “You’ve been reading nothing but snot-scrubbing romantic drivel for weeks. You need a little substance.” Her penciled brow edges upward. “Or maybe something dark. I can hook you up with a sobering true-crime that got me out of a real messy breakup.”
I wave a dismissive hand and start toward the shelves. “I’m looking for distraction, not nightmares.”
“Woman can’t live by romance alone, kiddo.”
“Serial killers aren’t gonna butter my biscuits, either,” I mumble. “Sadist.”
Lavern calls over the music, “At least I live in the real world.”
I bristle and hitch my satchel strap higher.
Didn’t Barty use those exact words when we broke up? Said I was too focused on living in the moment versus planning our next steps.
I run my fingers over the uneven spines of the books and take a deep breath of lemon polish and old paper.
When Barty brought up moving to Minnesota for dental school, I skirted the conversation. Not because I wouldn’t leave my hometown, but because I loved him and the L-word never touched his lips. How could I leave if we couldn’t say how we felt?
I walk toward the alcove where the shirtless cowboys and white-collar bad boys live when I see a tall form in black denim.
The air seizes in my chest.
Barty steps toward me, his lanky form emanating a zesty cologne that reminds me of being snuggled against his chest. His pecan-brown hair swoops to one side, tighter on the sides than last month when he left. His pale blue eyes shift to mine.
“Hey.” He drums a thick paperback against his thigh.
I nod toward the book. “Good book?”
A wrinkle splits his brow, and he lifts the paperback like a malfunctioning robot.
“Oh? No.” He slides the book onto the table and straightens the stack. “I, um . . .” He scratches the side of his nose.
Warmth rises in my chest, and a smile pulls at my lips.
Sweet Barty. Just as awkward as the day he first asked me out. He kept moving his hands from pocket to pocket, saying “lovely” and “if you want to” so many times, it sounded like his brain was short-circuiting.
“I wanted to see you. In person. And . . .” Barty clears his throat. “Sending you a text seemed impersonal.” He massages the back of his neck. “My calendar reminded me that we had our first date a year ago. I thought you might be here.”
Barty came here? To find me?
I straighten my shoulders and pat my hair, painfully aware of my man-sized T-shirt and topknot that has now likely sprouted a crown of bang babies around my face.
“You came to the right place.” I bite my lip.
All I want is to cuddle in his arms again.
How can one step seem so far?
Barty drops his hands. “I’m an idiot.”
He reaches for me. His cool fingers twine with mine, and in this simple touch, all the trouble in the world dissolves.
“No, I’m the one—” I start.
“Please let me say this.” Barty rubs his thumbs over mine. “I was scared you didn’t care about me like I care about you, but that doesn’t change anything. If you’re not ready to think about what comes next, I’ll wait.”
Now my brain is short-circuiting.
“Barty,” I say, squeezing his hands and pulling closer to him. I can’t let this moment pass without saying what I should have said before. “I want to make plans with you because—”
“I love you,” we say in the same breath.
He pulls me against the thunder of his heartbeat, soft cotton brushing my cheek. He kisses my head, nuzzles my temple.
A feathery sigh ruffles through my chest.
I tighten my arms around his waist.
“Happy anniversary, Barty.”
He catches my chin and nudges it upward, then lowers his lips to mine.
“I’ve got cameras in every room.” Lavern’s voice croaks from the entry. “And don’t think some charismatic smile can fool this girl. Ted Bundy taught me better.”
Barty casts wide eyes over my shoulder. “Are we on camera?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not getting murdered, Lavern!”
“If things take a turn for the worse, that globe bookend weighs about ten pounds, and the entire exchange is on camera for the police. Textbook self-defense.”
“I don’t need self-defense,” I say, pulling back into his arms.
And come to think of it, I won’t be needing a romance novel this weekend after all.
I hitch my fingers around Barty’s neck.
I’m finally living in the real world.
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Spark Flash Fiction 