Page 45 of Love at Full Tilt
Tanglewood Heights Hotel, Fableland
Orlando, FL
OC + ET = OTP
—A carving on the Sunspark tree
The sun is a blazing ball of orange on the horizon when I reach the copse of trees behind the Tanglewood Heights Hotel.
It’s five past six. My parents are on their way to their hotel in central Orlando. Issy and Tess won’t be here for dinner until seven.
I’m alone. But it’s not the burden it usually is, bending my shoulders, pressing on my insides. Instead, it feels light. Full of possibility, like the untrodden path now laid out before me. For once, I can do anything. And right now that means finding the Sunspark tree.
This particular park landmark was created by a fan: Rachel Eaton (MyCatIsOliverCray on the F 3 forums).
When she visited Fableland ten years ago, she found a tree behind the Tanglewood Heights Hotel that looked identical to the one Oliver cuts his and Elorra’s initials into at the end of Sunspark.
As a love letter to the movie, Rachel dug the symbol—a heart with an arrow through it, ET + OC at its center—in the exact same place on the bark of this tree.
Other guests have come and added their own carvings: some Sunspark themed, others memorializing great loves from their own lives.
The tree is said to be covered in markings and yet somehow there’s always room for more.
Another hint of Fableland magic.
The tree sits at the center of a large grove.
Most of the others are weeping willows, trailing long curtains of branches and leaves toward the green grass, but the Sunspark tree is a royal poinciana in full bloom, its branches, laden with bright-red blossoms, arching like an umbrella over a thick, split trunk.
I find the tree as if I have a map that leads right to it. Or maybe as if it is waiting for me.
This part of the garden is empty, and the tendrils of the weeping willows sway in a soft wind as I pass through them. It feels like climbing into Narnia’s wardrobe or falling down Alice’s rabbit hole or jumping through Dr.Strange’s portals. Crossing into somewhere new.
Behind the willows it’s cool; the sunlight only reaches through in small patches of light that slip through the gaps between the branches of the royal poinciana’s thick canopy.
Everything smells of flowers and dew and a crisp summer day.
When I inhale, I trap the air in my lungs for as long as possible before letting it go.
Approaching the Sunspark tree, I run my fingers over the various markings.
They’re all different, carved by hands of varying sizes and strengths.
Some grooves are sliced deep into the bark, the outer layer peeling and exposing the raw wood beneath.
A few are written in black marker, and others have barely broken the skin, time and weather stealing them away.
Right at the center is Rachel’s, the lines thick and distinct.
The curve of the heart sits under where the royal poinciana’s trunk splits into its series of branches that create the tree’s crown of blossoms, as if her carving is holding all the flowers up.
She’s managed to match Oliver’s scraggly penmanship perfectly, so much so I’d believe that he had stepped out of the film to guide her hand.
Pulling out my phone, I snap picture after picture: up close, far away, from every angle.
Since I’ve got time to kill and nothing left to do, I take some time to scroll through my photos.
All the clues are there: Dudley’s stash, Smokey, the mermaids, Casterman’s unicorn, the fountain of rings, the dancing shadows.
Issy’s perfect shots of our tasting menu at the Curséd Apple, along with a few I snuck of her and Tess stuffing their faces.
Tess has cream on her nose in one, Issy’s lips are painted in chocolate in another.
I smile broader with each image that slides across my screen.
I had forgotten about the photos of Mason’s bookcases until they pop up next, and I bristle at the sight of them.
It’s been only a few hours since I left him at Ava’s rose, but so much has happened it feels like years stretch between us.
My stomach cramps, and my hands shake, and I wonder how long it will be before the thought of him doesn’t tear up my insides. Leave them as shredded as my research.
I don’t expect the pictures that follow because I didn’t take them.
Mason did. Like they were new treasures for me to find when he returned my phone.
Candid shots of Toast and Waffles lounging on his bed.
His copy of The Hammer of God next to the rings we got from the fountain, the empty Death by Chocolate bowl, and an anchor from Neptune’s Launch.
Things we saw and did together, displayed on his shelf like priceless artifacts.
The final image is of him, staring at the camera the same way he always looked at me. Unblinking and thoughtful, his eyes peering well beyond what you want him to see.
My heart slams against my rib cage, and my head is spinning.
After our conversation earlier, I was sure that I didn’t matter to him.
That we weren’t worth the headache of trying to make things work.
That I wasn’t. But these pictures, everything he’s showed me, suggests he’s holding on every bit as tightly as I am. I just didn’t see it.
This is my conversation with my dad all over again. Another instance of me making assumptions about people’s expectations and reacting to them without knowing if they’re true. Maybe the last few days would have gone entirely differently if I’d stopped jumping to conclusions about everyone.
But my parents listened. Does that mean Mason might, too?
Flicking open our text conversation, I upload the photo of him. I found your pictures, I type below it. Then I hit Send.
Dad said I should live my life. I’m not sure what that’s going to mean for my future yet, but I know what I want right now.
Another chance to talk to Mason. To fix whatever this is between us.
The small letters under the photo and message immediately flip to Read, and ellipses appear on the screen. They blink, one dot after another. Over and over again. I stare at them, the phone’s white light growing brighter as the sun sets.
Then they disappear.
My heart drops to my stomach, and my stomach sails toward the ground. I follow it, spine dragging down the scratchy bark of the tree trunk as I sit on the grass.
I type another message.
Lia
You were busy last night.
(6:36 PM)
It gets read with no response, but that doesn’t stop me from sending more.
Lia
I’m sorry about earlier. I don’t want this to be how we say goodbye, either.
(6:38 PM)
Lia
Can we try again?
(6:40 PM)
More ellipses. Followed by more stretches of blank screen. More silence.
I wait ten minutes more, then pull myself to my feet. I can’t keep sitting here hoping he’ll answer. Soon, Tess and Issy will be expecting me, and I don’t want to be late. Not for the two of them, who always forgive me. Who always let me try again.
Once I’m standing, I brush my hands along the royal poinciana’s bark one last time. There’s a small spot right beneath the arch of a branch that hasn’t been filled. I fish in my purse for the small scissors I brought for this occasion.
Pressing their points against the tree, I dig in and start carving.
When I’m done, my hands are scratched, deep enough in some places to draw blood, and flecks of bark speckle my black T-shirt.
Still, I smile at my handiwork.
TR+IM+LB=BFFS 4EVA
I don’t know if Mason and I will ever talk again, and if we do, what will happen when I leave. I have no idea if we could evenlast.
What Tess, Issy, and I have, though, even on our worst days, that’s worth memorializing. True, real, honest-to-goodness friendship—that’s not something you find every day.