Summer Girl
Page 12
must,” were my last words before I stepped out of that room.
I closed the door behind me.
Epilogue
I didn’t sleep much the next week. I had made a bluff, and I had zero certainty that it was going to work. Every flash of light, every loud sound, every change in the wind, struck a petrifying fear inside me. Any moment, Mi-Yao’s contractors would come and they would annihilate my people; that was the thinking that dominated my daydreams and haunted my nightmares. More than once, I woke up in a cold sweat, dry-mouthed, disoriented, trembling.
I feared that I had doomed Earth.
As it turned out, the only event I should have been bracing for was my wedding. All the plans went through without a hitch. Except, my bride never showed up. Hours after the guests had left, I learned that she had gotten back together with Joey—yes, Joey from the high school basketball team—and they had eloped to Costa Rica, where he owned and run his own small-scale fish farm.
So…there was that.
The Peter of a few years ago would have locked himself up in his childhood bedroom, and moped for the next twelve months.
I wallowed for three weeks.
Then, I went out and found a job with a startup wholeness center as an aide to the in-house psychologist. I also began toying with the idea of a children’s book that taught kids about different people and places around the world.
Five years down the line, I had written twenty entries in a book series called Meow on Holiday. Meow was an extraterrestrial cat-like creature who traveled around the world with a ten year old boy and girl. She knew just as little, if not less, about the new places and cultures that they visited, so that provided opportunities for all sorts of hijinks. Also, her spaceship was the shape of a giant ball of yarn.
Kids loved the books, and the stories grew fairly popular.
On my thirtieth birthday, I moved into the old family farmhouse and continued to write from there. Friends visited occasionally, and I returned the favor when I could. There were talks of a cartoon adaptation of my books. On top of that, Mom was getting remarried and he was a kind man.
I was happy.
Mostly.
Then, one early December morning, I was in the kitchen making myself a pot of coffee, when I looked out the window and saw Her.
She was standing in the yard, staring up the oak. Dressed in a jacket and snow pants, I couldn’t see any part of her skin. But, I could see her hair. Blonde. Precise bowl-cut.
I put down my coffee cup, threw on a jacket and went outside.
I trudged through freshly fallen snow, till I was standing beside her. I knew she had heard me coming, but she didn’t turn.
“What are we looking at?” I asked her. “Lost another cat?”
She shook her head. “Just recollecting some fond memories.”
“Ah. Those are the best sort.”
She turned and smiled at me.
“You look good,” I said.
She did. There was a serenity in her features I hadn’t realized was missing all those years ago. She had been beautiful then. She was beautiful now—for better reasons.
“I’m not doing badly now,” she said. “My counselor is very proud of me.”
“I’m glad.”
“I didn’t get married though,” she said, with an embarrassed laugh. “As it turned out, princes are not very keen on spending the rest of their lives with mental patients.”
“Oh.” I paused. “I’m sorry.”
She shrugged. “It was probably for the best. My doctors don’t recommend stressful environments.”
“Oh.”
The wind whistled through the bare branches above us, filling in the silence.
“I came here to say thank you,” she said, “for saving me back.”
I nodded. “You’re welcome.”
She nodded too, and stared at the ground for a moment. “Well,” she finally muttered, “I should get going. It looks like it might snow again.”
“Okay,” I said, running a hand through my hair. “It was nice seeing you.”
She smiled—with her eyes and lips. “It was nice seeing you too, Peter.”
She started to walk away. I watched her for a few moments, before blurting out: “Hey, it kinda does look like it might snow. You sure you don’t want to come in for a cup of hot chocolate instead?”
She stopped, and turned around. She looked hesitant. Worried even.
I smiled, and opened my hand. “Come on. Take a chance with me.”
She stared back for a while, and then her lips broke into a smile. She closed the distance, and placed her hand in mine.
THE END
About the Author
Maxwell Coffie writes Fantasy and Sci-fi. His writing is heavily influenced by Japanese anime and West African storytelling. He often prefers to tackle the genres in unconventional ways, with the hope of giving readers a more unique experience. When he is not writing, he is reading comedian biographies, watching anime, or scouring the Internet for new music.
His first book, BETA: The Killing is available at various online bookstores.