by Marilyn Grey
I smiled and laughed. “Is she the queen of romance or what?”
“Pretty sure they beat us all. They are a five star romance.” He laughed. “And this will be nice, but I still like our three star story better.”
“Well, maybe most of the world would give our story three stars, but I’d give it ten.”
He squeezed my hand and looked at my ring. “I still can’t believe you’re going to be my wife.”
“I still can’t believe it either.” I admired the ring. “Do you believe in soul-mates?”
“I believe in you and me.”
“But if one person is meant for us, then were our previous relationships a mistake? Was it pointless?”
He thought for a minute, then looked so deep into my eyes I thought I’d pass out. His love for me could turn a stark hospital waiting room into an elegant garden. And it did. Right then. His eyes punched holes in my heart only to pour in love and close it back up. I caught my breath and looked down.
“Heidi.” He touched my face with such gentleness. “Maybe it’s not one person. Maybe the tale of soul-mates was put into the world to make people discontent with what they have so they buy more stuff to fill the void. Who knows. All I know is that it doesn’t matter. We put our entire selves into our marriages before, and we barely got anything back. Not saying that’s what love is about, but now we have something mutual. For the first time in my whole damn life I can look into a girls eyes and find her looking right back at me. Not passed me. Not around me. Into me. We are so good together. The world can call us secondhand love all they want, but I never prided myself on following the world anyway. You are what I want. Soul-mates? Yes. We are. I know it when we look at each other. Is there more than one soul-mate for each person? Doubt it. Can you marry the wrong one? Probably. I don’t know the answers to life’s most treasured questions. But there’s no doubt in my mind that what we have is right.”
A tear warmed my cheek as the dust around us shimmered in the bands of light. I touched his hand and brought it to my lips. Our eyes met again as I kissed his fingers. Electricity emanated between us. Enough to light the entire hospital. I smiled. He smiled. You are right, I said to him with my eyes. We are so good together.
An old man tapped my shoulder. “Ma’am.”
I turned toward him. Patrick leaned over my shoulder.
“I’m here for my grandsons surgery and couldn’t help but overhear your conversation.” He smiled and leaned forward onto his cane. “When I was a boy I met a girl and just about gave my life to be with her. Pretty young girl. Great personality.” He cleared his throat. “But she left me for another man. Got bored with me, I suppose.” He laughed. “I was at the local market one day. It was 1952. In walks this girl wearing an ugly sweater and glasses bigger than her head. I didn’t think much about her until she left the store. It was like someone turned the lights off and closed the shop. The sun disappeared at noon. I found her outside and asked her to go to lunch with me. We’ve been together since that day.”
“Wow,” I said.
“So you think you married the wrong person first?” Pat said.
“Not at all.” He grinned so bright you could see the little boy in his eyes. “I married the right person. She taught me how to love. Without her and her unfaithfulness I wouldn’t have learned the value of being faithful. So she left me and another one enters my life. There’s no wrong or right when it comes to love. It’s like you said, when two people are so wrapped up together that they can’t remember whose dreams are whose, then it’s better than right. It’s divine.”
I smiled. “Whose dreams are whose?”
“Oh, you know, when the ballet princess goes to the baseball game. When the football star goes to the opera. Simple love. When you stop having ‘his’ and ‘hers’ and instead you have ‘ours.’”
Patrick kissed my shoulder and smelled my hair. I leaned into him and allowed the man to disappear, then the room, then my past, then myself. Lost in him, in our love, in the beauty of surpassing right and wrong, I kissed his cheek, held my lips there, and embraced the divine.
Never, in all my life, did the sun shine so bright in my life. My dearest, sweetest, most precious friend. My Patrick. My love. My everything.
“Truly,” he said. “You complete me.”
Heart on a Shoestring Sample
Chapter One
Miranda
Some people spend their lives walking by people on benches, while others spend their lives sitting on benches analyzing the people who walk by. My friends would say I’m the one racing by the lonely bench sitters, candy pink hair tossed in the wind, dreams clutched in my shoulder bag, stars in my eyes, but I’m not.
I know, it’s shocking.
Once again, streetlights twinkled in the April air as I sat on another iron park bench. The best place on earth. At least to me. The place where people became stories and stories became dreams and dreams sparked the hidden echoes of my heart. All on a paint-chipped park bench.
An older woman jogged by and stepped on someone’s lost newspaper, crumpling it and sending it flopping down the path behind her. One persons hard work, another’s doormat. I turned my head and watched her jog into the clouds, back to her smiling newborn and eager husband, back to the beauty of her family.
She passed a young couple huddled together, shivering in the nighttime chill. They walked by me, laughing, her head tilted back against his chest, eyes on the budding tree branches above them, their love story unfolding like a handwritten note from a seventh grade crush. Excitement abounds. His arm, tight around her waist, and the frown on his face when she checked her phone, showed his possessiveness. But the cherry lipstick mark an inch from the corner of his mouth showed that she liked being owned as much as he liked owning her.
I listened. Watched. Breathed in and adored all that lived around me. Around me. Always around me. I so envied the world around me. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my own life too, but that didn’t stop me from wishing I could close my eyes and slip into someone else’s life. You know, explore the world with different eyes, a different heart.
Another couple walked by, swinging hands in the breeze. A ring sparkled on her left hand, but not his. Engaged. Judging by their excitement he proposed recently. He looked ahead as they passed me. Her eyes met mine, then she turned to make sure he wasn’t looking at me too. Funny. Her insecurity would sure enough wilt their relationship. Odd considering her preoccupation with herself seemed more important than him. Her awkward five inch heels and layers of makeup made it obvious. When he tried to touch her hair she pulled back and rearranged it. Perhaps she had mistaken the eyes of lust for the beat of his heart. They walked into a growing fire. Soon their swinging hands would fall to their sides as she consumed herself with dresses and flowers and cakes. Everything but her beloved. The beginning of the end. The end of their bliss. The beginning of struggles and conflicts and maybe, just maybe, their love would triumph through it all.
Rare though.
I’m not cynical, I swear. You can call the sky blue or you can find a way to make yourself believe it’s green, but in the end it’s still blue. I’m not afraid to see blue even when it’s not the most appealing. Love is hard. It’s not easy to make love to a person only to find out that their very person is chipping away the rotted parts of your person, making you into something better, but often in the most excruciating ways. That’s when most people run. But hey, that’s love. Becoming one. Being one. Living as one and morphing your soul into the soul of another.
A group of high school kids walked by. Joking and stepping on each others shoe laces while slapping gum and spraying out a colorful array of cuss words like graffiti on the walls of life. Heads held high, shoulders back. Maybe juniors. Just on the brink of saying goodbye to their senior friends and claiming the role themselves. The ever coveted senior status. When you think you’re the coolest thing to walk the locker-lined halls, when really you’re just like everyone else. A puppet in the game of li
fe. Controlled by everything around you and not enough inside you.
I stood and walked away from the bench, becoming a passer by. I nodded to each empty bench I passed, bowed, said hello, and kept walking. Not hello to imaginary friends. Sorry, I’m not that weird. Saying hello to the dreamer that would sit there next, wishing and hoping to slip into the life of a passerby for a minute. Only a minute. To see if the grass is really greener on the other side.
I walked fast, tilted my head back, and stretched out my arms. Couldn’t hide my smile if I wanted to. The cool air clung to my cheeks as the stars twinkled above. Enormous fire balls that never moved. Ah, what it would be like to be a huge ball of plasma. So neutral. Yet so exhilaratingly beautiful, held together by your own gravity. Yes, gravity. Stability. Words I had yet to acquaint myself with. I coalesced with no one. Not even myself.
I looked ahead. Dreaming of the day I’d share these thoughts with another soul. It would take a lot for someone to know me. The real me. Not even sure if I did.
Love. It would be hard. Very hard. Breaking down my walls and letting someone in? I don’t know. I liked my life. Singleness didn’t scare me as much as marriage did. Commitment. Falling in love a thousand times appealed to me more than falling in love once and working to feel in love with that same person every morning and night of my life. For. Ever.
Besides, most guys were far, far too normal for me. And I just can’t do normal.
“Oh, are you a southern belle tonight?” a man said.
I turned. Ah, Earl. The skinny homeless man with one half of his dirty button-down shirt tucked in, just like his life. He dreamed to help the world, to do something nobel prize worthy. He always spoke of Rosa Parks and Maya Angelou. But his breath always smelled of Jack Daniels and he could barely help himself off the curb. I scooted my dress out of the way, did a curtsy, and said with my finest southern drawl, “Fancy seeing you here tonight, Mr. Earl. Need some help off thissy here curb?”
He nodded and took my hand. I helped him to the park bench where he leaned back and almost passed out.
“Yesterday you were Irish with blue hair and now you’re a southern lady with a huge dress and pink hair,” he said. “Unless you are a dream.”
“Why, yes, sir. My name is Annabelle and we’re back quite a few decades in the state of Georgia.” I spun in a circle. “Would you like to see my five step waltz?”
“Your five step what?” He mumbled and smiled. “You about the strangest girl I know.”
“My pleasure.” I bowed and danced away, down the streets of life, right to my apartment door.
Derek called me, but I ignored and skipped up the steps and unlocked my door. He wanted to visit again. He was nice and all. Extremely attractive, in a rugged Johnny Depp kind of way. But strange. And boring. Nothing like his sister, Ella, who saw life through the eyes of Cupid. And I dreamed of a man who would dress up with me and dance the streets of Philadelphia. He barely changed his shirt, much less his mind. I couldn’t even convince him to ride a go-kart.
Not my flavor starburst, that’s for sure. I wanted a cherry. A little sweet, a little sour, and yum-diddly-licious. He was a lemon. Yellow, but not like the sun. More like a bitter, rotten lemon rind. Did I mention that he was nice though? He was nice. And had a great smile. A great smile he rarely showed.
He texted. I ignored and rolled onto my bed. Feet in the air, hoop dress a flying, I smiled.
Life didn’t need a man to be enjoyed. In fact, for me, a man could ruin everything. Take my fun and leave me lifeless.
Mmm, yeah, not ready for such things. Not ready at all.
Heart on a Shoestring Sample
Chapter One
Miranda
No one, and I mean no one, pissed me off like Miranda did. She flirted like someone playing darts with no hand-eye coordination. Not a lick of aim in her body. A casual flirt who probably gave hundreds of guys the wrong impression, like she obviously did to me, but something drew me to her. No idea why. I swore off women long ago. Marriage? Not for me. That didn’t change, but I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to see her again. Her odd and dimpled smile and whacked out hair styles. If anything, just to laugh.
I needed to laugh. Work zapped the life out of me like a squirrel eating an electric wire. My parents convinced my sister and I to go to college. Ella lasted a week. I lasted eight years. Yes. Eight. Don’t ask.
Eight years of school and all I had to show for it was a dingy apartment and faded jeans.
Derek Rhodes. Marketing Manager for Doodle Dandy Dog Candy. At your service. Pleased to meet you. How do you like my fake smile? Good. Great. Wonderful.
The only person I can blame is myself. No one, not even my parents, knew my successes or failures. I told no one who I was and what I really did. Even created a fake name and legally changed it. My family knew me as Derek Rhodes. My old colleagues knew me as David Bennett. I kept the two world’s separate. No one could know David Bennett. I didn’t even want to know him. Hated everything he did and loathed that I became him.
Yeah. Needed a smile.
Something to take my mind off of what could have been and help me start over. But the girl wouldn’t answer her phone. Only when she was bored. According to her I was too normal and only wanted as a last resort. Not like I wanted to get into her pants, just wanted a friend.
Thirty-three years old and spending my life at Doodle Dandy Dog Candy didn’t exactly provide the most friendships. And the friends I did have were all married and sprinkled across America. Kids. White picket fences. Minivans. The whole eight-and-a-half yards of normalcy.
Miranda could say I was normal all she wanted, but I didn’t have kids, a white picket fence, and certainly no minivan. Couldn’t fathom driving one of those ghastly things.
A text popped up on my phone screen. Miranda finally responded. What’s going on tonight Mr. Rhodes? Counting the tiles in your ceiling again?
You are so annoying, I typed back, then erased, and typed, If you think I’m so boring how about answering your phone so I can live a little?
Miranda: Impossible. I’ve tried. You are not receptive to my ingenious plans.
Me: I’m coming up this weekend and I will be at your house Saturday at noon. If you want to hang out... be there.
Miranda: Is the glass half full or half empty?
Me: The glass is a figment of your imagination. See ya Saturday.
I couldn’t figure out if she was genuinely an annoying person or if the age difference made her seem immature. Especially the hair. I can understand dying your hair every so often, but almost every week? And I’m not talking brown or blonde. I’m talking rainbow bright.
Immature, annoying, either way she made me laugh and shake my head. And I needed a break this weekend anyway.
After an exhausting drive to Philly, I stood in front of her apartment door, caught my breath, and knocked. A few seconds passed, the door knob wiggled, and the door jerked open to reveal a grinning Princess Leia. A grinning Princess Leia with pink hair.
“What the hell are you wearing?” I said. “I thought we were going out to eat?”
“What? You don’t like?” she said in a hushed Princess Leia tone. “Let’s walk the town and pretend we’re fighting evil.”
“Seriously, Miranda.” I shook my head. “Change your clothes. Is that Moonage Daydream playing in the background?”
“I’m not changing. You need to change.” She pulled the edge of my sleeve. “Brown, brown, brown. Every time I see you. Do you own anything else?” She tugged my hair. “And do you ever wash your hair? I’m all about the Kurt Cobain look if you can make it appealing, but this ain’t appealing buddy.”
I turned and walked away. Fast and agitated. She yelled from the doorway. “Don’t be so boring. Live a little.”
I got in my car, slammed the door, and stared off before starting it. Why did I let her frustrate me so much? Her opinions didn’t matter. Boring is relative. To an introvert a party with a big group of people is boring. T
o an extrovert a calm afternoon at the bookstore is boring. I’m not freaking boring, I convinced myself. She didn’t even know me. How could she judge who I am based off my shirt choices and lack of desire for roller coasters?
“I’ll show her how ridiculous this is,” I said to myself, then started the car and made my way to the mall. Took a while to find everything I needed. Once I did, I changed and drove back to her apartment, and threw rocks at her window until she appeared in the doorway, still Princess Leia. I hid from her view, then flapped into sight, light saber glowing in the evening air as I twisted it and turned around as though fighting some invisible person. “Come down, Leia. I am the force. And I am with you.”
She covered her mouth with her hands and laughed, then jumped up and down like someone who won the lottery. I waved her down. She held up her hand, ran inside, and returned with her purse and keys.
“Miracle of all miracles,” she said, smiling way too much. “No guy has ever dressed up like Han Solo for me.”
“No guy ever will again. Seriously, you realize how dumb this is, right?”
“It’s fun. And I think you look kinda good like that.”
I laughed. “You do this for some kind of validation. It’s not normal. If you were truly confident in who you were you wouldn’t need to change all the time.”
She rolled her eyes and walked back to the steps. I grabbed her arm and forced her to look at me. “See,” I said. “You run from what I’m saying because it’s true. You don’t want to face the person you are so you avoid her by being all these other people.”
