by Ainsley Shay
“No, don’t!” Inside, I was freaking out. But, the last thing I wanted or needed tonight was for the cops to be involved. I just hoped whomever had been here wasn’t planning to come back. The thought of the police searching the place for evidence and the thousand questions they’d ask me was more than I could handle right now.
“And why not?”
“Because, they didn’t take anything. It’s fine.”
“Fine? Have you—”
I shook my head. “No, I haven’t lost my mind. It’s been a long day, and I’m exhausted. I’ll deal with this tomorrow.” My brain played episodes of CSI, when all I wanted to do was play the star actress in a coma movie.
“Okay then, tomorrow,” she concurred. Snow had been my best friend since the third grade, and she knew me better than anyone else did. The number of times Snow had backed down could be counted on one hand; I was more than thankful tonight was one of them.
I collapsed onto the bed. My feet were killing me, and I took off the heels and tossed them in the direction of the closet. “Snow?”
“Hmm.”
“Why him? Why did it have to be him?” If it were possible to rip my heart out of my chest, I would have, anything to end the agony.
“A heart attack can happen to anyone.”
I rolled over, buried my face in the pillow, and sobbed.
“Shhh...” Snow cooed as she lay down beside me and combed her fingers through my hair.
The rain had begun to fall again. Sleep finally took over, temporarily silencing the pain.
I startled awake, but I quickly closed my eyes and willed myself back to sleep. Desperately, I tried to return to the place in my dream. After several attempts, it was no use. I vaulted out of bed, went into the bathroom, and closed the door behind me. The porcelain tub was cold on the backs of my bare legs as I sat on its edge. Chills raced along my skin. I shivered and wrapped a towel around me. My birthmark, a dark crescent shape near the side of my right breast, burned. I hadn’t thought about the mark since I had gotten the tattoo. The tattoo intricately concealed the mark. I had always been self-conscious of it, and my dad had let me get the tattoo when I turned sixteen. He’d always appreciated my love for art. It also helped that it was my mother’s favorite drawing. I cupped the area, but the burning sensation lingered. My thoughts drifted back to the dream and the infinite amount of colors.
What the hell just happened? My mind sputtered through a thousand explanations, none of which made any sense. I tried to understand what I had seen, but when the realization of not what, but how, I wanted to relive every detail, no matter how odd and slightly unpleasant the dream had been.
The only color wheel I had ever known consisted of a gray scale going from light to darks, and finally, the darkest of colors, which I’m told, was black. These colors were the only ones that I was able to bring to life on a canvas. Until now, I hadn’t known any different. For the first time in my life, colors surrounded me. The dream was a multitude of hues that had exploded behind my eyes. They were pulsating and alive. The flashes of vibrancy were like nothing I had ever seen before, beautiful and glorious.
The joy surging through me felt like a betrayal to my grief. But, my dad would have been thrilled to know I saw colors and that made it okay.
I no longer felt cold, but alive.
2
I needed to see them again. I closed my eyes again. The details of the dream came easily, but without the brilliant colors. Disappointed, I convinced myself it was the shock and magnitude of raw pain from losing my father; crazy I knew, but I had no other explanation. Then, a thought slammed into me. My brain had to have seen colors before to be able to flash in my dream. Right? But why hadn’t I been able to see them before now, and in my waking hours? Question upon question piled on top of one another. But, the one I wanted answered most was, would I ever see them again?
I left the bathroom went into the kitchen to get a glass of water. Snow hadn’t stirred. I had no idea how she was able to sleep through her snoring. The alarm on my phone beeped a few seconds later. It was eight o’clock. From the window, the clouds were already drowning out the rising sun. It was going to be another gloomy and rainy day.
Snow had to work today, so I had to do one of the most un-BFF things there was to do—wake her up.
“Wake up sleepy head.” I sat on the edge of the bed and nudged her.
She moaned and rolled over. “Hey, girl.” Her eyes fluttered open “How are you?” Her hand reached out and patted my leg.
I shrugged. “As good as can be expected.” I stared at my lap and mindlessly twisted the ring on my thumb. I wanted to tell her about the dream, but didn’t. “I think it’ll be good for me to go to the bookshop today.”
“I’m glad we agree. That means I won’t have to drag you down the stairs by your bangs and—what time is it?”
“Eight.”
She bolted upright. “Crap! I’m late.” Snow jumped out of bed, grabbed her shoes and purse. “Promise me you’ll go to the bookshop.” Her hair was a crazy mess of light and dark that she said were streaks of red throughout her bleached blonde hair. Meant nothing to me, but she swore it looked cool.
“I promise.”
“I’ll call you later.” Within seconds, she had her shoes on and gave me a quick hug. Halfway down the stairs she yelled over her shoulder, “I’ll come over after work and stay with you tonight. We can get a pizza and watch a movie.”
There was no reason to reply; she was already out of the stairwell and out of earshot. I wouldn’t stop Snow from coming over, but the thought of being alone tonight was very tempting. Snow, the awesome friend she was, had stayed with me every night since I returned on Friday. She had only left to get ready for the funeral, go home to get clothes, and now work. I felt like I needed time to myself to cry, alone.
I took a quick shower. As I turned off the water and reached for a towel, thunder roared. The quavering echoes rattled the old window over the tub. When I stepped out from the heat of the bathroom into the apartment, cool air engaged in a conversation with my warm skin in the language of goose bumps. Through the sheer drapes that covered the floor to ceiling windows and the balcony door, I saw dark skies that threatened to open up any minute.
My phone buzzed. The display read Justin. I desperately wanted to talk to him, even if he was my ex-boyfriend, but that would only cause the hole in my chest to gape open more. He was the guy who had introduced himself to me on my first day at Cover, School of the Arts. I was new in town, knew exactly zero people; he was cute, polite, and popular. On the second day of classes, he asked me out. Ever since that day, until a week ago, we were inseparable—four months. His timing of the break-up couldn’t have been worse. I had a ton of names floating around my head—none of which were nice—I wanted to call him, but I still missed him terribly. He was amazing. Not only was he smart and considerate—at least until he broke up with me—but he had a body and moves that caused me to give up my most prized possession. Now, I regretted it.
His reason for the break-up hadn’t made sense, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like I was going to change his mind. When he told me—which was in person, as opposed to a text message—I had refused to let myself cry in front of him. But as soon as I found refuge, I cried out everything I had. I didn’t think I had anything left to cry until Mr. Yves called me two days later to tell me my dad died.
My phone beeped letting me know he had left a voicemail. I ignored it.
I pulled on the faded jeans with their few perfectly spaced rips and holes and found a tank top to wear under a loose knitted sweater. I tied a printed flower scarf around my neck and slid my socked feet into clunky Mary Janes. Looking into the mirror, I took notice of every detail and approved the conservative-grungy outfit. A cluster of long light bangs lapped my cheek.
Makeup-less, I closed and locked the front door behind me, and walked down the narrow staircase that led to the sidewalk of Main Street. As I took the last few steps, I felt a s
trange essence in the air around me. It was as if something curious and different was layered between the day’s coming hours and minutes. Some would say that our other senses were heightened when one sense was absent or limited. Possibly true. Then, there were the moments when another, a new sense altogether, was present. That odd sixth sense that sometimes felt peculiar, loud, unsettling, and occasionally frightening. Today, it was that sense that felt heavy and oddly penetrating as I raced across the cobblestone street to the coffee shop.
The air was filled with scents of sugar and caffeine as I walked in. It fell around me like a warm blanket.
“Hey, Iris, I’m so sorry to hear about your dad,” Dana said. Her mom owned the coffee shop, and she’d been a close friend since middle school.
“Thanks, Dana.”
“If you need anything, I’m here.” She held out my coffee to me. No doubt, it had a squirt of vanilla, two cubes of sugar, and cream.
“Thanks.” I glanced at the coffee, then to her, and raised my brows in question.
She smiled and shrugged. “I saw you coming.” Dana nodded toward the window. “That rain’s coming quick; you’d better hurry.” She knew I worked at the bookshop any chance I had.
“You’re the best,” I said, and set the money on the counter. Behind me, the rain began to patter against the window. I dropped my head in defeat and slowly turned to watch the millions of raindrops already being battered by the wind. I dreaded being one of their beaten, soaked victims, but since it seemed inevitable, I took my coffee from Dana and made a run for it. While in flight, I fumbled for the key that would open the door to my dry salvation. The sweet, hot liquid slipped from my hand.
“No! Not the coffee, dammit!” I yelled as I watched it splatter to its death at the edge of the sidewalk.
Turning, I slammed into someone who wasn’t there a second ago. “Agh!” I grunted. Then, still looking down, noticed the dry ground and realized I was standing under the store’s awning; a slight revelation in the midst of the chaos. When I looked up, I met the gaze of a guy with short, light hair. “God, I’m sorry,” I said as I picked up the now empty cup and its lid.
“Actually, it’s Chandler, and I accept your apology.”
No apology from him in return, rude. “Uh-huh,” I said, my face showed no sign of amusement. Chandler, he did not look like a Chandler. When I looked at him more closely, the girl side of me that appreciated a hot guy reconsidered and his looks and voice almost made up for the manners he lacked.
You’re getting shallow, I silently told myself.
He dug his hands deeply into his front pockets as a shadowy smirk slid over his lips. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Yep.” I held up the key that opened the bookstore and jingled the rest of the keys on the ring to prove it.
I watched him look out into the rain. Here it comes—the weather chat. Chandler looked like a Ralph Lauren model: tall, built—but not bulky, with a refined smooth face, and a sharply angled jaw. And, from what else I gathered in our brief exchange, cocky as hell.
“Hard to stay dry in this, huh?” he asked.
There it was—the weather chat. Another winning trait: predictable.
“Yeah.” I maneuvered around him to get to the door. I unlocked it and pushed it inward. The bell on the door jingled. As soon as I was inside Yves Antique Pages, I was greeted by the perfume of old books that told countless stories from beyond. Instantly, I forgot about the good-looking-arrogant Chandler.
This place had been my second home since the first day my father brought me here when I was two. I’d been helping Mr. Yves in the store since I was old enough to read: days after school, weekends, and summers.
I did a panoramic scan of the shop. The walls hadn’t been painted in years and the rustic look, now considered trendy, was accomplished only through neglect. An eclectic collection of furniture completed the authentic interior. I loved it here. I eyed the titles on the spines of the books piled on the floor a few feet in front of me. The few words offered only the briefest of a tease to the story on the pages within, but all of them were saturated with tens of thousands of words that revealed tales of strange worlds—actual and imagined. But, my favorite part about them was simply their very breath. Few people ever noticed it, but I reveled in it. My favorite part was the exact moment when I turned the page and a small puff of air from that other world breathed onto my face and neck. I smiled at the thought.
“What are you smiling at?” Chandler asked.
Startled by his voice, my smile instantly disappeared. Without answering, I looked behind me to see Chandler catch the closing door and follow me inside. His body was taut with expectation, and I found myself staring at him a moment longer than I should have. His expression portrayed disenchantment along with an intense level of testosterone. I chose to ignore both as I walked around a pile of books toward the checkout counter in the corner of the store.
“Were you waiting for the store to open?” I asked in a voice that lacked enthusiasm or patience.
Chandler stood right inside the door. “No, just passing by before you crashed into me.”
I had plenty to say to his jerk remark but remained quiet.
Mr. Yves had kept the special spot for my bag empty, and I smiled again at the familiarity of this place and being back home. When I looked up at Chandler there was something else in his expression; something like a secret that he was trying fervently to camouflage. “What?”
“You never told me your name,” Chandler said. He raised his eyebrows expectantly.
“You never asked.” This response seemed to throw him off his not-so-charming course, and I felt a brief moment of self-satisfaction.
“You’re right,” he conceded, regrouping his coolness. “What’s your name?”
“Iris.”
“Iris,” he repeated under his breath, but loud enough for me to hear in the quiet shop. I watched the way my name formed over his thin lips. “Just Iris? Like the flower?”
I was growing tired of the small talk. I spat out, “Yes, just like the flower, and a rainbow, the part of the eye, and the Greek Goddess.”
“A rainbow. Hmm… What an intriguing name for you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I expected him to answer with some sly remark, but he said nothing, turned around, and left the store. The brass bell on the door jingled as it closed behind him. Shaking my head, I mumbled, “Weirdo.”
I resented Chandler for taking up so much of my current thoughts. I pushed him as far from my mind as I could, and walked toward the back of the store to the small desk against the wall, my desk. It, like all the other surfaces in the shop, was piled with books. Even with all the books stacked on top of it, I’d managed to make room for a gooseneck lamp with a mosaic glass shade that used to be my mother’s, and a framed picture of my father and me. I picked up the picture of my dad and stared at it. My dad’s handsome young face had the biggest smile on it as he looked up at me, who was sitting on top his shoulders. Another moment of intense sadness settled over me. I took a deep breath and tried to keep the tears at bay. It was no use. As one tear escaped and rolled down my cheek, others followed. I hurried to wipe them away. Forcing them and the feeling away, I walked into the back storeroom to get some paper towels to dry myself.
The bell clinked again; no doubt, it was Chandler. I took more time than needed to pat my arms and face.
“Iris,” a gravelly voice called.
Relief flooded through me. “Be out in a sec!” I hollered back to Mr. Yves. When I came out to the main part of the store, he was folding his umbrella and tucking it into the stand by the door. “Good morning,” I said, as I stepped out from the back room.
“Good morning, my dear. How are you?” He walked over to me and gave me the warmest hug.
“I’m okay,” I said. He pulled away and looked at me, scanning my face for the truth. He nodded with approval. I knew he expected the red eyes and wet cheeks to be a symptom of recovery.
“I’d say you’re a far cry from okay, but I’ll go along with it.”
“Thanks.”
“I thought it was going to be slow today, but I see we already had a customer.” Mr. Yves adjusted the unlit pipe in his mouth.
“He wasn’t a customer. I don’t know what he was,” I huffed.
“Well, then I’ll pretend I didn’t see anyone leave the store.”
That made my lips quirk in a smile.
When my father was young, Mr. Yves had been his mentor of life. He had been in my life since the day I was born. He and his wife, who was dead now, never had children, but they had always treated me as their own. I was like his niece or granddaughter or something; it didn’t matter which to me, he loved me.
He took a deep breath and his eyes glazed over with a look I had never seen before. “What do you say we organize a bit?”
I folded my arms and prepared for the punch line. But, nothing came. I’m sure the shock that flooded my face, and my stance were what elicited the wave of laughter from Mr. Yves. “I’m not sure what’s so funny. But, you apparently have not had your oatmeal this morning, and it’s obvious that its absence is causing delirium.”
“I’m serious, child. Even I have to admit our piles are getting rather high.” He lowered his head. “Plus it will take our minds off of recent events.”
I agreed with his train of thought, and as much as I loved it here, the store’s arrangement had gotten out of control. Mr. Yves did not believe in the traditional display of books: books categorized by their genre, lined alphabetically on the shelves, the titles and authors’ names displayed to the customer. Here at Yves Antique Pages, we had piles. Some piles were as tall as a small hill. Books were stacked on the shelves that lined the walls of the store, some were on tables, others were laid atop one another on the floor throughout the store—they were everywhere. It had been this way since I could remember.
I felt a twinge of excitement at the thought of some organization. Even though the store appeared to be in chaos, I knew where every book in the shop was, whether it was in a pile, or haphazardly placed on one of the shelves or tables. But even I had to admit... it would be nice if I needed a book and it wasn’t on the bottom of a pile stacked thirty high. “I know you’re just trying to distract me, but that’s okay, where do we start?” I asked.