Beside

53 - barter

"Jellybean, do you think it's weird to be scared of your own house?"

"I don't know. Is it because of the dark?"

"Not the dark."

"The dragon?"

"Yeah."

"I'll lend you my night light. It's brave, like a lion."

"I just... I wish I could stay here with you."

"You can. It's recess."

"I mean forever."

ᖴO᙭

The idea felt better in my head than it does in my arms. But I'm in too deep. And it'll be worth it.

I haul box after box of purple, pink, and blue pansies up the stairs in GoldwenU's history building. I'm breathing hard by the time I get to the landing—fifth floor, no elevator after hours—and my shoulders are screaming. But I keep going. This is for her, and if my love means anything, it has to mean proof, effort, sweat, the goddamn raw ache of it. God, it feels fitting.

This is the room. The one she wrote her name on, the one that changed everything before everything changed. It feels as empty as it did before. Cold, too quiet. But I see it the way she will—ghost rows of seats, the high arched windows cracked open for future moonlight, the sharp scent of dust mixed with the faint sweetness of these pansies.

The janitor, Jerry, watches me like I'm an idiot, which to be fair, I have been. He looks at the cash I handed him earlier, counts all $500 twice, then leans on his mop. "A whole night for flowers, huh? Must be some girl."

"Yeah," I grunt, dropping the cardboard box on the front desk with the others. "Just don't clean the room until morning."

He gives me a half nod, still not convinced, and I'm back out, back down the stairs, jogging. It feels like I'm running out of time.

Back up with the last box, I'm drenched in sweat. Proof, effort, sweat, and that raw ache of honesty.

It's not night yet, but it will be. And once Chris gets back to the apartment, I'll ask her to come with me. To a class. I have it all planned out.

I start placing the flowers on desks, windowsills, ledges and seats. Pansies in violet, yellow, soft pink, and an almost-blinding white. They're so fucking delicate, these flowers. The florist I spoke to on the phone said they represent love and magic—and damn if she wasn't pleased when I gave her my order. These petals know what it means to be tender and beautiful and survive despite it. Just like Chris.

The hours slip by, and I don't stop until every pot is set, every petal ready to catch her eye. By the time I'm done, my shirt's sticking to my back.

I step back, hit the professor's desk, and slide down to the floor. More so fall, panting.

I stare around at the room. Colours that don't belong, softness where there's usually cold, hard angles. I can see Chris standing here, her wide eyes taking in the color, the softness. She'll know why I chose this place. She'll know.

After a few minutes, I get to my feet, every muscle sore and tight, feeling like I've fought through a dozen rounds. I guess I have.

I lock the door behind me and head out, wiping my brow and peeling off my shirt as I trudge back down the stairs. I toss the thing in the garbage once I get to the bottom.