Page 9 of I’ll Paint You a Sunset Someday
January 2045
Hallee
My roommates are undoubtedly the ones blasting “You Belong With Me” loudly enough for the entire third floor to hear. One step out of the elevator, and I’m imagining Avery dancing in her homemade junior jewels T-shirt while Marlowe slides a frozen pizza into the oven. By default, we eat frozen pizza every three days. It’s all Marlowe ever tries to cook, but I can’t blame her. Rediscovering our world and interests has been overwhelming enough. Of all the things we’ve tried, Taylor Swift is where we bond the best. Her timeless music has become the soundtrack to our first roommate tradition—dinner dance parties.
Turning my key in the door, I run in just in time to scream shamelessly about cheer captains and bleachers—female empowerment at its finest. Too bad I couldn’t have gambled on my predictions; I’d be one rich woman. Avery’s dancing on the island in her T-shirt and plaid pajama pants, and Marlowe’s sliding a frozen pizza into the oven.
The first dance party was Marlowe’s idea. Avery and I had both been timid to join, but now Avery is the wildest of us. Although elevated surface dancing is usually reserved for after the third glass of wine, there’s no way the glass of chardonnay in her hand is her third. With a pour that heavy, she’d be under the table if it was.
I rush to grab my favorite glass off the counter before she can accidentally kick it off. They’re slowly wearing down my stubbornly rigid walls, so I hold my tongue about how careless it was to leave it there. It’ll be good for me—to change. By the end of the year, I’ll be a certified professional in the art of living unapologetically.
Marlowe wastes no time pouring my drink. It’s way too full when her eyes catch a glimpse of the sweatshirt. As irritating as it had been to accept, I haven’t taken it off all day. Somehow, the lingering cologne is comforting.
“Wait a minute, HALLEE!” she screams, smirking mischievously.
Avery gasps, jumping off the island, and I brace for the impact of ten thousand questions as the music pauses.
“Tea time, Hal. Spill it,” Marlowe insists.
“It’s nothing ,” I tease, drawing out the last few syllables of the word. It was absolutely not nothing . It was definitely something. A confusing something, but something nonetheless.
“Who’s the mystery man that gave you that?” Avery presses, batting her eyelashes to charm the answer out of me.
“I didn’t get his name, but it’s the least he could do after ruining my favorite crewneck. He almost made me late.”
Marlowe cackles as Avery asks, “Wait, the cream one?”
I nod and her eyes fall. She loved it too.
Most of her clothes are neutrals; it honestly fit in her closet better than mine. They both have an appetite for the details but don’t want to place an order, so they patiently wait for me to deliver. Like clockwork, silence and a long sip of wine propel me to overshare.
“I made it to The Marmotte earlier today after walking with you to work.” Avery nods and mumbles an appreciative thank you. “There were people in our usual seats, so I sat at the table in the middle of the room.”
Marlowe’s hand flies up and smacks her forehead. “The one time you go to the center of a room and we weren’t there to hype you up?!”
They don’t share my affinity for the quiet, invisible places. Probably because neither of them want to remain invisible, like me.
“Okay, spit it out!” she pushes.
“So I was panicking, per usual and—”
“Were you counting?” Avery asks.
“Yes, but still panicking because there was a man staring at me!”
“No there was not.” Marlowe laughs. “You were being paranoid, Hal.”
“No, really! Like actually staring. A perfectly still statue by the pickup bar.”
“Okay, so . . . ?” she asks.
“I smiled to cut the tension, but I think I made him nervous? He grabbed a coffee without checking it and sprinted out the door.”
Unified ahs salute my storytelling.
“Since I had some extra time in my schedule—” a scoff from Marlowe cuts me off, and I side-eye her before continuing, “—I chased him down.”
“You did not!” Avery gasps.
“I did.”
“Bullshit,” Marlowe impersonates Matthew McConaughey from the romantic comedy we watched last night.
“Read it and weep, Lowe. I’ve got the sweatshirt to prove it.”
Their jaws fall to the floor.
“When I grabbed his arm to get his attention, he whirled around and dumped my vanilla latte all over me.”
Simultaneously sipping their wine, they attempt to hide their building laughter.
“He offered me his sweatshirt, and to walk me to work, but I declined. He was gone before I could get his name.”
My rambling has become a solo conversation. The other participants have exited the chat.
“What?! Why are you looking at me like that?”
Marlowe smirks. “Based on the size of that sweatshirt . . . that was one tall man . . .”
“Yes, how tall was he, Hal? Definitely taller than six feet,” Avery teases.
A territorial needle pricks my side at the film-reel flashback playing through my mind.
“Mr. Stand and Stare’s name is a mystery to me, so his appearance will remain a mystery to you!”
With a wink and another drink from my glass, I spin to my room to change.
“Boo, you’re grounded. We don’t gatekeep in this house, Hallee!” Marlowe yells, but I’m too lost in the memory of his galaxy eyes to reply.
I’ve got a strict after-work routine. First my hair is thrown into a top knot, then my bra sinks a three-pointer into the hamper. I pair biker shorts with a sweatshirt three sizes too big for me, and then the evening can continue.
Mr. Stand and Stare’s sweatshirt fits the bill. Might as well leave it on to rub in that I’m the first one to bring home a trophy. It’s definitely not that I’m not ready to let go of its comfort. Nope, not that at all.
Taylor’s voice summons me to the dance party on the other side of my door. “Blank Space” blares—certainly a calculated choice by Marlowe. Yet again, she proves to be the sassiest of us.
As I slide across the hardwood and into the kitchen, Avery cheers, “Yes, girl! Show it off!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie, turning to open the fridge. Snacks are required before I drink any more, but the magnetic whiteboard stops me in my tracks.
Blank Space: Mr. Stand and Stare is written in Marlowe’s handwriting.
It’s clever, really, and proves she understands what I’m too afraid to admit out loud. Somehow, someday, I hope that I meet him again. Only next time under better circumstances.
Mid-song, the music stops, and I turn in time to see Avery grab the phone from Marlowe. Both of their eyes shift intentionally to mine as twin Cheshire-cat grins form on their cocky faces. Chill bumps cover my arms as lyrics of first looks, dark rooms, and time moving way too fast fill the apartment. A gasp of half laughter and half shock heaves out of my chest.
What the heck is happening? Why am I so emotional?
Blinking away tears, I glance at the ceiling. My friends don’t need to see me like this. They don’t need to view me as a mess to clean up.
A net would be handy right about now, to catch all of the butterflies unleashing in my stomach and to contain this insistent need. That’s what this pressure in my chest is—a desperate need to see Mr. Stand and Stare again.
Dean
Chief Boswell threw my ass onto the street after one attempt to hold a conversation with me, but how was I supposed to carry on normally? Her sunshine gave me the mind of a man on vacation—no new information in, no new information out, and I’ve been walking around mindlessly all afternoon.
I don’t actually seem to mind walking, even in the freezing cold. The sting of the wind reminds me I’m human, and we have the promise of changing seasons—in nature and in life. Usually it clears my head, but today it’s only emphasizing how cold I feel without her warmth next to me. Why didn’t I ask her name?
I’m still carrying her crewneck around like a puppy clinging to its favorite shredded toy. Saw her drop it on the ground when I was doing everything I could to not watch her put my sweatshirt on. Surreal, how much it looked like it belonged on her. It cracked her outer shell of indifference, and flustered insecurity started to peek through. It was then that I knew—our encounter struck her as silly as it did me.
My apartment door is already open when I exit the elevator. Must be a trap set by Hudson or Matt, maybe both. We’ve gotten into a little prank war—The Pyramid Pranks. Similar to a pyramid scheme, it started as a very small thing and quickly took over our entire lives. Hudson pranked Matt first by putting cling wrap over the toilet seat and, well, it ended with lots of yelling and a lifetime’s worth of ammunition for teasing. Matt struck back, sprinkling glitter on the top of Hudson’s fan. When he turned it on, as he does every night, a glimmering rainfall from hell poured down. It’ll be years before the glitter finally goes away, but it took about ten seconds for his one night stand to.
They’ve gone easy on me, so I’ve made it through mostly unscathed. My soap has been replaced with water, and my turkey sandwich replaced with tuna, but apparently my time has come. This open door must be my end.
To test for any motion sensor, I throw my keys through first.
Hmm, nothing. Slowly peeking around the doorway, I survey the area. There, in the living room, Thing One and Thing Two are dressed in matching tuxedos. Joy lights up their faces as they see me. Suspicious, coming from Matt. Less suspicious, coming from Hudson. Tip-toeing in, I pick up my initial sacrifice and throw it on the counter.
“Gentlemen, am I officiating your wedding this evening?” I ask, carefully walking over to them, but their faces don’t change.
Surely no one we know died? We don’t know anyone.
Hudson gestures for me to take a seat on the couch while Matt turns on the TV. A PowerPoint presentation loads onto the screen.
Matt and Hudson’s Last Effort to Convince Dean to Party with Them.
With the day I’ve had, letting loose is just what the doctor prescribed; however, I wouldn’t dare waste their hysterical dedication to the bit by admitting defeat before the show begins.
After a thorough twenty-minute speech, they finally conclude in unison, “That is why it would be of great benefit to us all if you graced us with your peaceful presence this evening.”
Matt and Hudson eye the crewneck as my fingers tighten around it. Jesus, how long am I going to carry this around? Thankfully, they don’t ask as I carefully place it on the couch.
“It’s your lucky night, boys. I’m in.”
“Excellent! That’s the outcome we hoped for.”
Hudson scoffs at Matt’s formal presentation voice before saying, “Your tux is in your closet.”
“Oh, you don’t think I’m actua—”
“If you’re finally joining us for a roommate debut on the town, then we’re dressing to make an impression,” Matt informs.
“Whatever you say,” I mumble, hiding my excitement about being included behind a stoic face.
“Remember, it’s not about the tux. It’s about the confidence you have in the tux,” Hudson yells as I saunter to my room.
“Give me twenty minutes” is my only reply before slamming my door like a disgruntled teenager. I always forget how light it is.
Damn, an impression is right. What that impression will be is to be determined. Matt and Hudson are also firefighters, although we’re rarely scheduled together. Something about the government wanting us to feel a sense of camaraderie at home, but not enough at work to be distracting. Working with friends is not acceptable, but one week of training is? I still can’t let that one go. Anyway, we’re not a bad-looking group of guys. Put us in tuxedos and it’ll be game over for any women we set our sights on, which is good. Perhaps a new warm body will be the cure to this sunshine hangover. Only way to find out is to go out.
As I walk out of my room, Matt laughs and claps his hands together like a proud dad gearing up to pep-talk his kids. A smug grin forms on his lips as he glances at me and asks, “Who’s ready to party?”
“Ah shit, we’re a stone-cold pack of foxes,” Hudson slurs, already drunk from pregaming. Dragging him out the door, we stumble our way to the car waiting downstairs.
“Where to?” the driver asks, glancing at me.
When I hesitate, Matt answers, “Main Street, please.”
“Do you ever listen to Sean Kingston?” Hudson half-yells at the driver.
“Not usually,” the driver responds, which prompts Hudson to begin a very loud, very unsolicited karaoke session.
Maybe I’m high on life, or on her light, because no amount of alcohol could make me proud of my choice to join him, yet here I am. Belting as loudly as possible to try and distract me from thinking about her. At this rate, I’ll never stop.
Hudson gets even louder when he hears me, smiling all excited like a little kid who just made their first friend. Matt’s even smiling, bigger than he ever has. I need to surprise them more often. It might be my favorite thing I’ve done so far in this new life of mine.
After only a few minutes, the driver pulls over and parks it.
“The drinks are cheap, the music is loud, and the girls never miss,” Matt explains, swaying slightly into me as we get out of the car. “Welcome to paradise, my friend.” Clapping me on the shoulder, he points to the glowing neon sign.
Friend.
He said it so casually, I almost missed it.
Is this how it happens? One minute we’re all acquaintances, and then something snaps and we’re tied with the “friend” tether?
I had one rule—don’t get attached to anyone or anything that will be gone so soon. But there’s always an exception, right? They won’t really be gone; only my memories of them will be. The here and now, that’s what I live for. I can do that with friends, I guess.
Hudson sways to the muffled music as we approach the bouncer outside of the door. With a half-hearted glance at my ID, he waves us through, making no effort to check Hudson’s or Matt’s. Must be their perk of being regulars here.
As we make our way to the bar, neon strobe lights shine a colorful pattern across the sea of strangers grinding on each other.
“The usual,” Hudson yells to the bartender.
With the pulsing music, I can’t quite make out what she says as she turns to take my order.
“I’ve never ordered at a bar before . . . at least not this year,” I admit, too quietly for her to hear.
“First time?” she asks.
I may be too prideful to ask for help, but I’m excellent at panic ordering. “Whiskey sour, make it a double.” Heard someone say that in a movie. Look at that, Hudson’s romantic comedies have actually paid off.
Our drinks hit the bar as we observe the crowd, plotting our next move like a well-trained group of offensive linemen. A pretty blonde makes a play, locking eyes with mine and waving me over to dance. With her or on her, I’m not sure. I’d do both, I guess. Liquid courage, don’t fail me now.
Whiskey burns my throat as I swallow it down with the last of my nerves and head to join her.
“Hey, sexy,” she says with a smirk as I grip her waist and tug her close to me.
Lowering my head, I lean in to whisper in her ear. “Hey sunshi—”
Wait, what the fuck?!
“What?” she asks, face as confused as mine.
“Nothing. It’s nothing.”
Her shoulders fall with her eyes, but we dance anyway. When she spins around, I sneak a glance at my roommates. Thing One and Thing Two are frozen—absolutely dumbfounded that I was the first to manage a catch this evening.
Mouthing CONFIDENCE as dramatically as I can, I send a wink their way and try to refocus my attention on the beautiful blonde grinding all over me. Some of my attention, at least. She’s never had all of it.
Her hands climb up my body, until they’re tangled in my hair and pulling me in for a kiss. She’s hot, this dance is hot, but somehow this is so wrong. Feels like I’m cheating or something, so I swerve left at the last second. She plays it off well and as the song transitions to the next, our dance follows along with it again . . . and again . . . and again.
When our touches start to walk the line of publicly inappropriate, I break away for a second whiskey sour. Bar, dance floor, bar, dance floor, bar, dance floor—my steady routine matches the music’s endless rhythm.
These tuxedos have done the trick. Hudson’s smile screams this is the most fun they’ve had all year, and Matt just followed a girl out.
It is fun . . . really. Don’t know why I’m trying to convince you. Maybe to convince me, too, because even dressed in their best, every girl that summons me to dance pales in comparison to this morning’s sunshine.
I’m not attached—I don’t get attached—but an all-consuming, desperate desire to see her again has been stapled on top of everything I do. Another dance, another girl, and another whiskey sour does nothing to wash the wanting away.