Meet Cute

by Jennifer L. Armentrout

  “Yes. If you let the strings touch—”

  “You call them strings?” He hitches a dark eyebrow up at me. “Strings, coils. What do you call them?”

  “Love marks.”

  “How romantic.”

  “It’s what my mother calls it,” he says, and then looks back down at my hand. The moonlight silvers his black hair. “Ensnaring is forbidden, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “And you could lose your mark permanently,” he reminds me.

  “Are you afraid?” I don’t care if I lose mine. I’d actually be glad to be rid of it.

  “No. I’ve heard that ensnaring isn’t even true. A myth to keep teens from kissing and doing stuff.”

  “‘Stuff’?”

  “Yeah, you know.”

  “I know,” I say, even though I don’t.

  “Other people say it unlocks nexus points mapped out by the gods. You can see possible futures for you and the person you connect with.”

  I’d heard that, too, from eavesdropping on my sister when she’d have friends over. She was the type of person who people gravitated to despite not setting a foot in the schools on the island. Every girl and boy her age seemed to just know her. The pretty girl from the market. Carolina. This boy is the first one I’ve exchanged more than a few words with.

  “But which future will be true?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Possibly all. Possibly none. There’s no fun in knowing exactly how it will all turn out, right?”

  “I guess not.” I stretch out my left hand closer to him. “So no harm in giving it a try, then.”

  He finally reaches out to meet it. His palm is callused but soft in the middle. My stomach lifts with a flutter, like I’m a little girl again and Momma is pushing me on the old swing set behind the inn.

  We twirl our fingers together, careful not to let the ring fingers touch just yet. His eyes remain fixed on our hands. I watch how his forehead crinkles with concentration, and he bites his bottom lip. He has lovely cheekbones and with some sun could be even more handsome.

  “You ready?” I ask.

  He nods.

  We flatten our left palms together, then let our ring fingers touch. They flush with redness, the blood racing just under the surface. The strings become super red hot. The burning sensation makes my eyes water. Heat and swelling rush in. I almost pull my hand back.

  The sky turns cloud white, as if every single shade of night has been leeched out. The beach beneath us dissolves grain by grain, shell by shell, wave by wave. My ears pop, and I suck in a deep breath. It feels like being dunked underwater and held there. The thumping of a heartbeat thunders in my ears.

  We swirl inside a kaleidoscope.

  — — — —

  I know the leeward side of the island by scent and sound: the pollen of the larkspur flowers, the chittering pink birds that cluster in the horsetail trees, the hum of crickets and cicadas, the scent of fried sweetbread. My sandals slip and slide across pebbles under my feet. A bright noon sun presses down on me. I blink until my surroundings sharpen. Sebastien’s warm hand holds mine.

  “You okay?” I ask him.

  “I think. Am I still handsome?”

  “Hardly,” I reply. He still looks the same as he did before we ensnared. Which is cute, if I must admit it. His hair might be a touch longer. But I can’t tell how far we’ve gone into the future. Or if this is really the future at all.

  “Where are we?”

  “The high school, I think,” he replies.

  I’ve never been to the school before. I’ve ridden past it with Momma as we made our way to the leeward markets to sell her hothouse tomatoes and buttery squash, and the fresh oysters Papa used to dive for.

  The once bustling lanes headed into town are quiet. No trams. No bicycles. No pedestrians. The storefronts display Closed signs, and have their curtains drawn.

  “Why here?” I wonder.

  “Let’s go in and find out.” Sebastien leads the way forward. His pull is strong and assertive.

  “Wait!” I yank him back. “We don’t know why we are here, or how to make this stop.”

  “You wanted to see, right? This is seeing. If we turn back, we won’t know anything more than we did before. And I need to know.” His eyes shine with anticipation.

  I gaze up at the school’s white limestone roof and matching shutters. Is this a version of our future? A place without people. Is this how the gods interpreted my desire to be left alone?

  Sebastien takes a tentative step forward, then looks back at me with eager eyes. I exhale and join him.

  We cross through the doors and into the foyer. Big picture windows offer views of the turquoise sea. Glass display cases hold trophies and plaques boasting student accomplishments. Lockers flank us. Classrooms hold desks and chairs and bookshelves. A banner is draped overhead congratulating graduating seniors. I’d be one next year, if I went to school. But maybe this vision means that Momma will let me go for one year, and I will be able to take a real art class.

  Three hallways are roped off. The only one open is labeled Senior Way.

  We step into it.

  “Look,” he says, pointing up.

  “What?”

  “The wall.”

  We gaze up, and it’s covered in superlatives—students nominated as best dressed, funniest, smartest, most likely to succeed.

  “It’s us.”

  I search the many portraits and find my face and Sebastien’s staring down at me under the label Worst Breakup.

  Sebastien laughs. “I guess we didn’t make it.”

  “Do you think this is real? Do you think we actually . . . dated?” I ask. It’s so far from my reality that I can’t even imagine it.

  “Seems like it, otherwise why would we be here?”

  I feel his eyes. His gaze is hot, heavy, and curious.

  “Have you ever had a boyfriend before?” he asks.

  “No. Have you?”

  “No.” He laughs a little, then grins. “But why haven’t you? You’re beautiful enough, I suppose.”

  I blush. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

  “I’m not very good at those. I guess I’d make a terrible boyfriend.”

  “Have you ever had a girlfriend?” I ask.

  “A few.”

  I purse my lips the way Momma does when she smells a lie.

  “Well, a few in my head,” he adds. “I’ve kissed three girls. I’ve found that they aren’t into pale boys who miss school and make strange contraptions.” He turns his arm around. “Or maybe it’s just the bruises.”

  I nod, for lack of anything better to say.

  “My mother thinks I won’t be around long enough to meet my love. And the gods doomed my future soul mate to a life without love.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” I ask without looking directly at him. Momma would fuss at me for my frankness.

  “They don’t know. I’ve just always been sick.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, but it feels like the wrong thing.

  He frowns. “Ugh. You don’t have to say that, and please don’t look at me like that.” He shrugs. “I knew you’d get all weepy in the eyes. You’ve got the kind that hold on to tears.”

  “I do not!” I protest.

  “This is why I usually don’t tell people.”

  “Fine. I won’t pity you. I won’t even be nice.”

  “Well, if you wanted to kiss me out of pity, I wouldn’t say no.”

  I laugh, and heat rises from my neck to my cheeks like I’ve spent too much time wandering the beach or picking vegetables in Momma’s garden.

  “Do you want to be kissed?” he asks.

  His words dig under my skin, tickling me and warming me from the inside out. “I don’t know.”

  “You shouldn’t die without experiencing it at least once.”

  “Is that so?” I ask. “And are you going to be the one who helps me?”

  “Only if y
ou want—and I have the time right now. Normally, I’m quite busy and important. Can’t you see? There are girls—and a few boys—lined up, wanting and wishing that they’d have the opportunity to kiss me. There should be a superlative called Most Kissable, and there you’d find me.”

  My eyes wander to his mouth. The pink of his lips reminds me of the insides of the conch shells Papa would bring back from the sea for my sister and me. If I were to paint them, I’d use sunset peach and a little ruby red and cream white.

  “I’ve been told I’m a great kiss—”

  I press my mouth to his, pushing the words back inside. His mouth is soft and tastes like he’s been eating cherries.

  The thudding noise returns. Sebastien and I are tugged forward like rag dolls. The walls of the high school disintegrate into white ash around us as everything goes dark.

  — — — —

  The noise of chattering voices fills my ears. A cool, hard surface materializes beneath my feet. I blink and my surroundings come into view. I’m in front of a floor-to-ceiling window that looks out on a city. Or at least I think it’s what they call a city. Nothing on Meridien compares.

  I stumble backward, then find my footing and lean forward. I press my cheeks against the glass. Tall buildings reach for a dusky orange skyline. The melody of honking, bicycle chimes, and the opening and closing of doors drifts up from the streets. Bright lights click on as the sun sinks behind behemoths of glass and iron.

  I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My once curly hair is straight and flows over my shoulder. Makeup rouges my cheeks. Glasses sit on my nose. I’ve lost the deep brown color I always had. My skin is a paler shade of brown.

  “Where am I? Sebastien?” I whip around to face a crowd.

  People buzz about holding champagne flutes and tiny plates filled with food. Huge watercolor paintings cover the walls and hang from the ceiling on clear strings.

  A woman waves at me. “Perfecto!” she calls out, and blows me a kiss. “I can’t wait to buy another piece.”

  Another man rushes up to me and takes both my hands in his. I flinch. He smiles and does a little bow. “I’m sorry, I just get so excited when I see you,” he says. “A Parisian gallery called just now. They asked to carry two of your paintings. Isn’t that sensational? You’re a worldwide phenomenon. A godsend. No twenty-five-year-old has ever done what you have. So much youth. So much success. Your watercolors will be hung in every household rich enough to afford them.”

  “Where am I? What’s happening?”

  He pats my shoulder. “All the excitement getting to you? I’ll go get your very cute husband—”

  “Ethan,” I say, the name suddenly coming to me.

  “Yes, Ethan.” He eyes me suspiciously.

  I lift my left hand. The coils have been replaced with a wedding band and a glittering diamond ring the size of a swollen cherry.

  “Viola Young. Over here. For a picture,” someone shouts. A camera flashes. I put my hands up to avoid it.

  Viola Young.

  My new last name rolls over my tongue.

  A handsome young man strides up to me. He’s all blond hair, milky-white skin, and green eyes. My future husband.

  He sweeps a warm hand around my waist. It feels familiar and comforting, the memory of him lying somewhere deep inside me. “The mayor’s here, and even he wants to buy one of your pieces.”

  I let him sweep me forward, but look over my shoulder, searching the crowd for Sebastien.

  The room thickens with people. They pay me compliments and wish me well.

  My heart trips over its own rhythm. This is exactly what I want.

  To be an artist.

  To be away from Meridian.

  To know that there are other places in the world outside our island.

  To paint other sunsets.

  A young man with dark hair grins at me and waves. Sebastien. Or a future version of him.

  “Excuse me, just a moment,” I say to Ethan. He kisses my forehead and turns to one of my many admirers.

  I duck left and right through the crowds. People stop me along the way to offer cheers and a kiss on my cheek. When I finally reach him, I’m exhausted.

  “Sebastien!” I almost collapse on him. “Where are we?”

  “Your very successful future, it seems.” He smiles at me. A silver streak courses through his hair. I touch it.

  “I guess I go gray early,” he remarks.

  “But you’re here, so . . .”

  “We left the island,” he says with a hopeful look on his face. “Something else is out there, and I knew it. I always did.”

  “Are you still . . .” I hate to ask or utter the word sick. Though only four letters and very tiny, so very big.

  He lifts a cane in his right hand. “I may be. But I, like, feel okay, if that makes sense.”

  I nod, even though I’m not sure. “Are you married?”

  He gazes down at his left hand. “It appears not. I still have my love mark.” His eyes hold a sadness.

  “Do you wish we didn’t do this?” I ask.

  “No. Not at all.” He takes my right hand. “It’s so cool to get off the island. To see your success. This would be an amazing future.”

  “One that includes you, it seems. So I guess we stay friends after all this.”

  “And I make it to twenty-five,” he says, then turns around in a circle.

  I grab his left hand, and the world goes black.

  — — — —

  My ears fill with a faint beeping noise. It starts light, like the patter of a leaky faucet, only to sharpen into deep, bleating pierces as the world around me settles. The walls hold nothing but whiteness, and a lone window that shows the pink coral sand on the leeward side of Meridien. Seagulls dive in and out of the water. Storm clouds linger in the distance, threatening to stamp out the sun and bring torrential downpours.

  My hand twitches. I look down and find a hospital bed and a sleeping Sebastien in it. I jostle him.

  “Sebastien.”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “Sebastien.”

  His eyes don’t even flutter.

  The door opens. A squat-looking nurse trundles in with a tray. Her light brown cheeks are rosy and kissed with a flush. “Oh, dearie, you’re still here?” She cocks her head to the side. “You’ve got to be tired, Mrs. Huang.”

  Mrs. Huang.

  I look down at our hands. There’s a pair of wedding rings on both of our fingers.

  “What’s wrong with him?” I ask.

  She looks at me like I’ve just told her I was from a different planet. “You must need a rest. When’s the last time you slept? You’ve been at his side for so long now. He’d want you to sleep.”

  “Where are we?”

  She inches closer to me, her face scrunched with confusion. “The Meridien Homegoing House, of course.”

  My heart flutters with panic, and my pulse starts to race. “What is this place?”

  “A convalescence home, dearie. You checked him in a week ago.” She pours me a cup of water. “Have a sip. Lack of sleep and hydration can cause confusion.”

  I gladly gulp it down. It’s coolness rushes through me. “Isn’t he too young to die?”

  “None of us know when our time is up. The gods gave us one gift—to know when our loves would come. The best part of life. It would be greedy to ask for more.” She touches her soft palm to my forehead. “No fever. But you’ve gone all pale and clammy like you’ve seen a spirit.” She scoots a chair up for me to sit in. “You know you can let his hand go. He still has some time left yet.”

  “Will he wake?”

  She nods as she checks his vitals, then gazes down at our hands. “I know things seem bleak right now, but look”—she points down—“you’re one of the lucky ones. Your string is coming back. The ink is rising underneath your skin once more. You’ll be given a second love by the gods.”

  I lift my wedding band and find the faint lines of a
nother string just beneath it.

  “Can he still be saved?” I ask.

  “Only the gods know that.” She retrieves a small pillow from the armoire and hands it to me. She pats my head. “I’ll be back in a bit. You rest.”

  My eyelids get heavy. I climb into bed with him. I’ve never slept beside anyone other than Momma or my sister. But curling up next to his frail form feels familiar. Normal. Muscle memory. Like we’ve done it a hundred times.

  My breathing falls in line with his. Soft and deep.

  I wonder how old we are now. Sebastien has a few wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. Though those could be due to his pale skin and the sun instead of years passed. I hold the wish for years in my chest.

  I close my eyes and fall into a dream of images. Sebastien running along the shoreline behind my side of the island. A little girl with his black hair and my skin color nipping at his heels.

  A tear slides down my cheek.

  “You’re not crying on me, are you?” a scratchy voice says. “You said you didn’t have weepy eyes.”

  “I lied.” I clamp my eyes shut, afraid to open them and see him like this.

  He traces a finger over my face. “Let me see them, even if they’re full of tears.”

  I open them slowly, and the tears drop. He catches them with the pad of his thumb.

  “Do you regret ensnaring with me?” he asks.

  “Do you?”

  He has a fit of coughs. I squeeze his hand until they stop. “I swam on the beach behind your inn because I wanted to drown and get it over with. Waiting on it seemed like it had to be worse than the actual thing. But then I heard you. I came to the surface. I saw you set out your candles and the mess of your hair. I listened to you talking to yourself.”

  I blush.

  “I went back under, instead, to see if love was a possibility for me. I had the tattoo. The rings had faded one by one. Maybe the gods did have someone in store for me. Maybe I wouldn’t run out of time.”

  “Well, you had time and love,” I whisper.

  He forces a pained smile. “I did. We did, and you will have it again.” He takes my hand and inches my wedding band back up.

  “This could be a lie,” I remind him.

  “Or it could be true. Either way, it seems we make a decent couple. And I make an excellent husband. And we do all the stuff. You know, since we’ve got a kid and all.”