1.1 | Lost & Found

xvii. diner

I N D I G O

We take the cinnamon rolls back to the diner where we've decided to have dinner, while helping Olivia wrap up, because some batches were left unsold. I taste the cinnamon rolls we just made, sitting on the dining table with the rest. When I take a bite of the creamy sweetness, it tastes like the sweetness of a thousand summer suns. 

"Oh my god," Dakota exclaims, "Just like the ones Dad used to make!"

Isaac gives him a sharp stare and Blake elbows his side. Suddenly they are all looking at me, like I am made of glass, almost shattering at the mention of a father I never knew.

I don't have a single memory. Was my childhood really that uneventful? Maybe I don't need any  memories. Maybe I just need to accept a better version of myself and let the mist cover up the bad bits.

Maybe it should remain that way for peace and order.

For the sake of my sanity.

But I know for a fact that I won't be able to look myself in the eye, stare at my reflection dead in the eye at night when all the lights are out and the sunlight can't play tricks with my eyes. At night when everything seems bleak and dark, I won't be able to convince myself that it is my truest form.

It takes me a minute to realise that my fallen expression isn't going to make the cut for Olivia and Ezra who are staring at me with varied expressions of suspense. They're waiting for me to say that the cinnamon rolls are truly the best dessert. Sure it's sweet, but I'll have to wait till I make enough happy memories in Harlan to make it even sweeter.

I'll give anything to make myself more like that carefree child who never knew how brutal the world could be. That girl who stole blankets and tents to make reading fortresses out of blankets during stormy nights. The girl who could believe despite all the sadness in the world.

Perhaps coming to Harlan was my first step.

"It's great!"

That seems to satisfy them. 

Truth is, if I am brave enough to even try to bring up a memory, then it'll be full of memories from this year - when I first met my new family. This year was the one I didn't see coming, the one that shook me out of complacency and willed me to live a better life.  When I learned to take a deep breath and live life one stride and a time. It's still an ongoing process, but slowly, I'm learning to leave small talk and fall in love with midnight conversations. I'm learning to appreciate the stars and not just keep my eyes on the ground. In a few years, I won't believe what I see from this vantage point, the years with the Clarksons stretching out behind me like a long winding road. 

And they've taught me so much. 

To stop saying 'yes' when I don't mean it, to live as authentically as I know how. To allow my fingers to skirt the darkness as long as I still keep my eyes on the light. As one door closes, another will open, I will move forward, through the doorway of light. I will have another year ahead of me, another shot at making it all around the sun, and a chance to get it right and finally learn how to breathe. 

This was the year that came with a gentle tap, reminding me of who I was and all the brilliant possibility of what I could be, if only I'd open my arms to let all the light and love in. To give myself the permission to fall as long as I got back up again. 

The ringing of a bell snaps me out of my stupor. 

It's the bell that rings every time someone enters the Harlan Diner. 

The person that walks in is Presley.

I feel myself shrinking into my seat. 

Ezra waves him over, and Olivia insists that he takes a bite of the cinnamon rolls free on the house. 

"Nice seeing you again," Presley says all of a sudden. The corner of his mouth dimples when he smiles, his eyes holding mine.

I'm shaking, and I can't tell if it's the aftershocks of the horrible truths of my life, or if it's because Presley is sitting down in the seat next to me with the sunlight pouring across his face like a golden mask. 

I steal one more glance at Presley. Something about him keeps drawing me in, curiosity outweighing my typical caution. Presley is self-assured, but it doesn't come off as an ego trip like it does with most guys our age. His freckled skin is smooth, his complexion perfect. But it's the less obvious things about him I'm starting to appreciate. Like how his jawline is so sharp. Like how he never smiles unless there really is a strong reason too, like smiles are precious. Like how his eyebrows are long and dark. How his hair is as red as the a blood moon. How he is tall and lean and walks like he floats.

And I like his eyes, too.

They're bright jade and beneath all the mystery and pain, I see kind. They stand out even more because he has thick, heavy eyebrows. On anyone else, his eyebrows would look like a Muppet character. But on him, they don't look weird—his face just makes sense, quirks and all. Maybe it's because he always makes so much sense to me.

It's not hard to sit in silence around him because he's one of the quietest kids in school, and I am too, but that doesn't change what this town is like. He doesn't have a definite friend group, but he wears it like a confident victory. It takes me a while to figure it out, but I've realised that Presley is not lonely, he just prefers his own company over others' and wears it like a well shielded crown.

Everyone relaxes into slow conversation, leaving

"Have you ever been to the Harlan Carnival?" he asks me.

"Obviously, because I was born here, and raised here. It's not like I just moved in two months ago." I don't know where I am getting this confidence from. I've never socialised, let alone using easy-going sarcasm. 

"Oh yeah, of course, you've lived here all your life. That was so stupid of me to ask." 

He laughs. It's an adorable laugh—a perfect blend of awkwardness and optimism. "I was wondering if you'd like to go to the fair with me. I drove past it this morning. All the games are rigged and the rides are pretty lame, but they have ice cream." 

"You're selling this incredibly well," I say. 

He shrugs, smiling. "We all have our strengths." 

I smile too. 

Maybe he really does want to be friends. 

Maybe there's hope for me after all.

Or maybe it's the cinnamon roll's' magic, coating my tongue with a layer of caramelised sugary sweetness.

* * *