The Art of the Kiss

by Holly Schindler

  Seeing him again gave her the same excited dip in her stomach that usually accompanied rounding the top curve of a roller coaster.

  Ryan killed the engine, and she knew she needed to get a move on, waddle along beneath all her photography bags—the ones that had been in the Cobalt’s trunk, now slung over both shoulders and cradled in her arms.

  But for a moment, it was kind of nice to drink him in. It was nice to remember the first time Ryan had ever been to Heather’s building—which was also the exact same day they’d met.

  ~Sharon~

  I’ll admit it. I’m a sucker for the stories of how couples get together.

  Try this one on: Heather and Ryan first crossed paths at a stoplight. Like something straight out of a rom-com. Heather’s car idled in the lane neighboring Ryan’s, her blond hair swirling in a crisp (but not yet cold) autumn breeze, her face hidden by enormous sunglasses. There she was, lip-syncing to a song playing in her car, the crummy old Cobalt coughing and sputtering and shuddering and threatening to die.

  Ryan realized, goosebumps trailing down his arms, that it was his song she was lip-syncing. That was his voice spilling out of her rolled-down windows.

  He’d honked to get her attention. But he honked at the exact moment the light turned green, and Heather’d simply assumed the honk was somebody telling her to hurry up, come on, get going, hit the gas, honey. She’d flinched and lurched into the intersection.

  Ryan had always had somewhat lucky starts, probably due to his good looks. Doors opened for him all over the place. And he was lucky that very afternoon because no other car had been behind her. So Ryan had veered into her lane and trailed her. All the way to an apartment building even crummier looking than the Cobalt.

  “I bumped into it online,” she’d confessed when he asked her about the song. “I liked it, so I downloaded it. My best friend—Amanda—she was all the time making me listen to her favorite small-label stuff while we were growing up. Somewhere along the way, I guess she got me hooked on the independent unsigned acts. Diamonds in the rough. The raw and unpolished.”

  They laughed. They exchanged names. They realized that they had both grown up in Fairyland. That Heather had even heard Ryan’s band play during a high school talent show. Which meant she had, without realizing it, been a fan for decades already. Before she could stop herself, she was inviting him into her apartment. Opening yet another door. Introducing him to The Creature. Telling him of her own dreams and the lackluster career she was fighting to keep alive.

  They’d ordered a pizza. But they had so much to say to each other, the pepperoni with extra cheese was cold and congealed by the time they got around to eating. The pleasant evening began to slide toward becoming a somewhat chilly October night. So they scooted closer to each other beneath the glow emanating from The Creature. In their lighthearted fight over the last slice, he kissed her.

  It’s the kiss, of course. That’s the image that sticks in my mind. But not for the reason Heather wanted it to stick when she told me about it. Not because it was lovely and romantic.

  Because I’d been around. And because by the time Heather told me the story of how she and Ryan had met, they were not some gooey new couple. They were exes. Because I knew that when their lips met for the first time, Heather was thinking all about how they understood each other. They were two people whose dreams weren’t necessarily translating into giant piles of money. And yet, they chased them anyway. They were two people who did not believe that growing up should be about giving up your passion.

  With Ryan’s lips on Heather’s for the very first time, Heather knew she’d met a man who felt just like she did. So what if so many people out there in the “real world” considered her foolish? This man—this handsome, delightful, green-eyed rarity—believed the same thing she did.

  And Ryan? What did he feel as they kissed for the first time? Quite simply, that he had found a girl who admired him. A true fan.

  And so, that night, they fell. She for the man who understood, who got it, who wasn’t giving up. He for the fan who already, a handful of hours after exchanging their names, adored him.

  They fell for who they wanted each other to be.

  Not that either of them knew it. You never do, when you’re in the middle of a scene that’s still playing out.

  The thing is, if Heather wanted to know where everything between her and her beloved went wrong, if she wanted to find out where, exactly, it started to unravel, she could have traced her steps all the way to this very scene.

  The moment she and Ryan fell apart was actually the moment they got together.

  Because they fell for such different reasons.

  It was almost like the two of them were in two completely separate love stories, right from the very start.

  ~Michael~

  The day they met was pretty much a tiny little speck in the rearview mirror as Ryan sat in his car, parked along the curb outside of Heather’s building. Was it on Ryan’s mind? Of course.

  No sense getting sappy about it now, Ryan told himself. After all, he and Heather were over.

  He popped the door. The handle slid a bit against his touch, which surprised him. It meant he was sweating.

  Perhaps you think sweat seems unbecoming for a Prince Charming. What did a Prince Charming have to sweat about? He was a prince, complete with a chiseled jawline and a vintage white Mustang (ahem, you know, the white horse). The fairest girl in all the land should have been his for the picking.

  But this khakis-wearing prince, the “regular sweetheart” Heather’s mother would have undoubtedly approved of, wasn’t finding it to be true. Yes, like all Prince Charmings, Ryan felt he had everything in his life all figured out—except for the love part. There he was, an independent musician who played gigs all weekend long and taught guitar lessons at Slade Music, a local instrument shop. He even made extra cash on the side in Slade’s small recording studio, mixing radio jingles and even a few songs here and there, mostly for demos. Finances were tight, but he was fulfilled. And yet, the love thing had eluded him.

  Ryan often felt his true problem lay in the fact that sometimes, Prince Charmings were nothing more than nice guys. And it’s well known amongst us storytellers what kind of luck nice guys usually have with women. It’s well known where they mostly finish in life’s long race.

  Ryan slipped out from behind the wheel, hands out, wordlessly offering to take the load off Heather’s shoulders. As soon as she reached for the strap of one of her bags, her hair fell in soft daffodil-colored waves, sending out a plume of the special-occasion floral scent she’d splashed on the nape of her neck. The scent was, as they might say in an old pulp romance, intoxicating. Ryan instantly regretted answering her call.

  His reaction was totally out of whack, especially considering the girl was a catch this particular Prince Charming had cast aside. Two days ago, he’d been certain a worthier princess was out there wishing upon the night’s first star that he would get off his duff already and find her. Right then, Heather didn’t feel like someone he’d told goodbye. She didn’t feel like an ex.

  Love was like that, Ryan found himself thinking—despite his best efforts not to be so sentimental. Love was stubborn; it was a blemish on a coffee table that could never be lifted. You could put a magazine or a decorator doodad over it. You could not see it for months at a time. You could even forget about the candle that had been knocked over, scorching the wood. But inevitably, you’d be doing some everyday chore—something like dusting—and you’d lift the doodad, and there it was, the burn mark every bit as dark as ever.

  Maybe what he felt for Heather was still there. Stubborn.

  Not permanent, though, right? he asked himself. Surely these feelings can’t be permanent.

  He did his best to ignore whatever these emotions were that had bubbled up to the surface uninvited. (It didn’t have to be love, of course, his overactive brain assured him. It could be loneliness. Grief. A twinge of grief always accompanied someone
leaving your life, no matter the circumstances.) But so far, any efforts to explain away his rapid pulse and red cheeks were futile.

  Why didn’t he come clean, tell her he’d made a mistake?

  Not so fast, he reminded himself. Maybe there was no mistake. Lonely—that’s still a possibility. Maybe he needed time. She’d popped back up before he’d had a chance to fill the hole she was leaving behind.

  “I can’t tell you enough how I appreciate this,” Heather rattled. “I tried Amanda before I called you. Three times,” she insisted, even though she’d already told him as much on the phone.

  He grunted a kind of strangled you’re welcome as he started to place her gear in the trunk. But he was surprised to find he’d forgotten to remove his amp and microphones after his last band practice. He usually took far greater care with his equipment. It was too important to leave in his car, parked on the street in front of his building. Three of his neighbors’ cars had been broken into so far that month. The breakup with Heather had taken his thoughts hostage. He hadn’t been himself.

  He attempted to move his things out of the way to make space, wishing all over again that he hadn’t agreed to drive her.

  “You sure my gear will be safe back here?” Heather asked. “It’s going to roll around. Any chance your stuff’ll tip?”

  “It’s good,” Ryan assured her. His voice cracked. Had she noticed?

  He cleared his throat. “Where is this gig, anyway?” How could he have agreed without asking? For all he knew, it could be in Poughkeepsie, or Juno, or Siberia.

  Heather’s sudden sheepish look didn’t help.

  “It’s in Fairyland, right?”

  She bit her bottom lip. “It’s out of town.”

  “How out of town?” Ryan asked. When she paused, he pressed, “It is still in Missouri, isn’t it?”

  She shrugged, nodded. They didn’t have to leave the state, at least.

  “How far?”

  “It’s in Goldeneye. About an hour—or so—away,” she croaked.

  Darth Billy zoomed by on his bike, making loud, obnoxious kissy noises.

  Excerpt from

  The Fairyland Times

  Michael Minyard’s

  “Observations from the Tower” Column

  March 24, 1967

  Construction vehicles parked outside the long-empty 362 E. Commercial Street address have readers asking what’s happening with the old property.

  Buyer Murio Vargas says he has big plans for the building. “A bar. Real old-school. Stage for local bands to play. But I don’t want to tear the inside out completely. I don’t want to gut the place.”

  At the still-young age of twenty-nine, Vargas has already had plenty of experience with the liquor industry, having worked with his family’s distribution company in some capacity for more than a decade. “Done it all—worked in the offices, even drove a truck for a while. Really like to get off the road. Put down roots,” Vargas said.

  Of course, as Fairyland Times readers have been quick to point out in my travels through town, the Commercial Street property has something of a dark past. For decades, the building was the town’s mortuary. A few of the older residents recited some of the superstitions from their childhood. Rhymes and warnings, beliefs that bumping into the door by accident meant you—or a family member—would be the next body carried in through the entrance, for instance.

  “Place still gives me the shivers,” remarked Fred Russell, seventy-five, as he stood on the square where the Commercial Street address was in full view.

  Vargas did not see this history as a detriment, however. Instead, as he led this reporter through the interior, he was quick—almost proud—to point out that the original wooden platforms still remained attached to the walls, complete with holes “for draining the body fluids. At least, that’s what they tell me. I’m used to wild stories surrounding bars, and when we open, that’ll be the wildest story yet.”

  Vargas indicated the platforms would not be removed from the building, explaining, “Why would I erase the past? It is what it is. Besides, buildings are special. This one sure is. Heck, you look at a building long enough, you start to realize places really do have about as much character as the people who step through their front door.”

  Of course, in a town called Fairyland, it’s easy to see the old building as a Sleeping Beauty, and to view Vargas as a Prince Charming of sorts, waking it up from a long slumber.

  When this reporter pointed that out, Vargas simply laughed. “Maybe so, maybe so,” he agreed. “This building’s history oughtta get the crowds in to start with. People will come out of curiosity. But I hope it’ll be the music and the good times and good drinks that keep the crowds coming back for years.” Running his hand along one of the old mortuary platforms, he added, “Talk about raising something up from the dead, though, eh?”

  ~April 28, 1967~

  Sharon knew that her tattoo, now a month old, should no longer be itching. But as she sat in her photography class, that’s exactly what it felt like it was doing: buzzing and twitching and itching. When she glanced down at the small feather, she halfway expected the edges to appear pink and irritated all over again.

  They weren’t, though.

  It was probably just her nerves. All around her, portfolios were being flopped down on the tiny little desktops that filled her college classroom. Her professor droned on as he handed back their graded final assignments. Something about common themes he’d seen in the work. Sharon couldn’t be sure. It was hard to hear him with her blood pounding through her ears.

  He paused at her desk. Her turn.

  Sharon raised her eyes from her tattoo to stare up at Professor Franklin. His brown mustache wiggled a bit, like he was about to say something directly to her.

  He seemed to think better of it. He plopped her portfolio down and pressed forward, picking up what he’d been telling the class, returning the portfolio to the student seated in front of her.

  She opened the small plastic booklet, flipping through the pieces she’d chosen, all taken in Fairyland, the result of an idea that had finally awakened her from a deep sleep as her deadline neared.

  The unfinished leopard tattoo. Murio Vargas standing in the building he’d just purchased, waving his arms about, explaining to her how planned to reinvent the old mortuary. A gardener planting seeds just outside the public library. Her father chopping vegetables in the kitchen for their dinner. A living room wall her neighbor was in the midst of covering with floral paper. A rusted car body on a tow truck being pulled into a mechanic’s shop.

  Works in Progress. That was the title and the subject matter of her portfolio.

  Across the back pocket, where she’d placed all the permission forms she’d painstakingly had signed by everyone featured in the collection—her father and the men in the tattoo parlor and the neighbor and the owners of the businesses along the square—the prof had scrawled a giant “A.” He had also added: “Sharon, these photographs might be about works in progress, but they most certainly were not taken by a work in progress. Great work. Brilliant insight.”

  Her chest swelled. She’d done it.

  Her tattoo flashed up at her once again as she closed her portfolio. For the rest of her life, anytime she needed it, there it’d be—her tattoo, reminding her that her dad had been right all along, and she really did have it: Guts.

  And if Professor Franklin was right, a little bit of talent too.

  ~Michael~

  I know exactly what you’re thinking. I promised you a Cinderella story. So what happened to the waif? you’re surely asking. Did she get a fairy godmother? Did she make it to her shoot? And what about Amanda? What sort of adventure did she have with Aiden? Was it something awful, since she was becoming Heather’s enemy?

  All good questions. The morning of the shoot, while Ryan was helping Heather put all her gear in his trunk, Amanda was coasting to a stop beneath a nearby overgrown sycamore, its limbs concealing her fortunately gunmetal (shade-co
lored) Escalade.

  She ran her fingers through her auburn hair—roughly, out of frustration—chastising herself for not returning Heather’s voicemail immediately, telling her not to worry, she was on her way.

  Why hadn’t she bothered to return her call? Because she had assumed no one else would come save her? While she was at it, why hadn’t she told Aiden where they were going? He utterly loved Heather. More, even, than the park. Had she not quite made up her mind about helping? Had she liked the idea of leaving Heather to twist in the wind a little while, making her sweat and worry?

  But why? Heather was her best friend. Why would she want her to feel that way? And why was she annoyed now that Ryan was already here?

  Amanda wasn’t sure. All she knew was that she needed to shush Aiden before he could see Heather and call out to her, his piercing little-boy voice shooting straight through Amanda’s rolled-up windows.

  “It’s a game,” she told Aiden. “We can’t let Heather know we’re here.” And put her fingers to her lips like she did in the library.

  Aiden giggled, making fists and tugging.

  Amanda frowned watching Ryan put Heather’s gear in his trunk.

  What was he doing? Hadn’t he and Heather broken up? Hadn’t that been the subject of one of Heather’s avalanche of unanswered voicemails?

  A strange surge of pain radiated from the festering black hole inside of her. (What was that hole? Why was it refusing to heal? Why was it only getting worse?)

  When Ryan pulled from the lot, she lifted her foot from the brake enough to start gliding down the street. She kept herself a good three car-lengths back.

  Good grief, was she stalking them now? Why? What did this accomplish? What was she planning to do?

  Amanda slipped behind a pair of sunglasses so that Heather wouldn’t recognize her in the rearview. Which seemed ridiculous. It wasn’t like Heather couldn’t have recognized the car.