Page 16

Veronica

G olden Creek community park is at its best when the sun has drifted behind the horizon. The air usually turns crisp, carrying the faint scent of earth and pine.

With her tablet and stylus—the latter now permanently indenting her fingers—Veronica leads a socially isolated, uninteresting life. So, once more, when Raidon had inquired about their destination, she was truly clueless. And after driving around yet again like the last time, they ended up at the community park.

But it’s fine, because today, there’s a hush to the atmosphere. A kind of quiet that feels like the world is exhaling after a long day.

And as shadows stretch lazily over the grass, the distant hum of cicadas weaving into the rustling of leaves and the quiet chatter of people, she thinks she wants to hug Raidon, every ounce of her pressing into every ounce of him, strong arms managing to hold her like a treasured child, reminding her of the gentle love she lost years ago.

Amidst the laughter of couples nearby, she yearns for the spark of his touch as she nestles into his arms, akin to a butterfly discovering its cocoon.

But she can’t.

When she had snapped the pages of the sketchpad shut earlier, tears had lingered in her eyes. A powerful, unfiltered, and gut-wrenching sensation had overwhelmed her. And in that instant, she had wanted to throw her arms around him.

But she didn’t. Because she couldn’t.

Just like she can’t now.

Because his closed-off nature leaves her questioning whether he’s open to physical affection. She can’t tell if he’s feeling the magic in the air like she is.

“Fuck.”

She has barely broken her gaze away from his face when he suddenly utters the word under his breath.

“What?” she asks, searching his face. He doesn’t answer, but there’s a muscle suddenly stretching behind his ear. Finally, she follows his line of vision until her eyes rest on his hands.

They are trembling. Extremely.

“Oh, my god,” she whispers, adjusting on the bench, her knee bumping into his right one. “Are you okay?”

His right fingers are pressing into his thigh, while his left ones are slowly loosening around the water bottle he had grabbed from the car earlier.

She hesitantly looks up at him, then gently pulls the bottle from his loose grip.

His eyes have darkened and there’s another large vein stretching down his temple, his skin slightly flushed.

His jaw ticks in such a fleeting motion it’s almost hard to notice. “I’m okay,” he says, voice calm, but she still hears the strain in it.

“Are you sure?” Her face is a canvas of distress as her eyes return to his hands. But the tremor that had worried her briefly either vanished miraculously or he figured out how to control it.

“Do you want us to go somewhere else?” she asks, looking around the park.

Initially, only three couples were present, their arrival making it four. However, sunset seems to have brought a significant increase in attendance. Now the tranquil park will soon become a bustling marketplace. And Raidon hates crowded places, especially the one where people are making a hell lot of noise.

This is probably his body’s reaction to the crowd. Maybe he’s having another panic attack.

“It’s not the crowd,” he says, dragging in a sharp breath through his nose. “It’s my meds. I forgot to carry them. Now my nerves are all over the place.” He glances down at her, a warm look in his eyes. “But I’ll be fine. It happens all the time. I’ll be back home in a few hours.”

“Oh,” she breathes, her eyes falling back on his hand. Their trembling has lessened drastically indeed, leaving only slight, easily missed twitches.

But she’s still not quite convinced that he’s okay.

He did tell her sometime ago that unlike Griscelli syndrome type 1 and 2, type 3 typically isn’t deadly. However, he is amongst the rare exceptions—one in a million—occasionally experiencing mild sensory issues. But according to his doctor, it isn’t yet a cause for concern. The doctor prescribed medication, and he must also have biennial medical check-ups to monitor for any possible development of an undiscovered recessive genetic neurological disorder.

But sometimes doctors make mistakes, right? What if the doctor isn’t looking harder to see if something is really wrong? She doesn’t want it to become alarming. She doesn’t want him to become weak and lose agility someday.

Sickness scares her. Because sickness sometimes takes people away, and it hurts more if it’s a loved one. If her mother never fell sick, she wouldn’t have died. And she knows that unlike Marlene, who hated her after her dad’s conviction, her mother would never have. She would have loved her still.

She doesn’t want him to become really sick because of some doctor’s negligence.

“Are you sure waiting it out is okay?” she asks, finally tearing her gaze from his hands. “The meds. Is it something we can maybe grab at a pharmacy?”

His lips twitch, an attempt to chuckle at her possibly ridiculous suggestion. “It’s not painkillers, Veronica. So no, we can’t just walk into a pharmacy for a pack.”

“Whatever,” she murmurs, rolling her eyes. Dismissive reactions to serious concerns are irritating. She hates that he’s doing exactly that.

A beat of silence passes between them for a while. She can’t help it as her eyes occasionally drop to his hand. She doesn’t know why he’s so nonchalant about it. This is not a mere headache or stomach upset.

“I’m fine, Veronica.” It’s only when she looks up that she realizes he has been staring at her too. “I promise.”

“Oh, okay,” she whispers, a soft smile deftly tucked between the curve of her lips. There is just something about him calling her by her name that does things to her.

She takes in a deep breath, exhaling, her eyes drifting across the park and falling on the ice cream truck she has been ignoring since.

“Should we go and grab ice cream?” she asks.

“I’d rather not,” he declines almost immediately.

“Why?”

“It’s a street food,” he deadpans, his brows furrowed in disbelief, as if his point is more than enough reason.

“So?”

“What if he didn’t wash his hands?”

“You are literally gonna stand there and watch him scoop it from the machine.” She can’t believe her ears.

“It doesn’t change anything.”

“You gotta be kidding me right now—”

“Mommy, look! Daddy is a big bad wolf!”

A nearby shriek makes her sharply turn.

There’s a family a little further to the right. Veronica had actually spotted them long before, but never really paid attention. Looking at them now, as the mother, a stunning woman with chestnut hair, sits on the picnic mat, the camera of her phone follows the husband as he runs after the daughter, pretending to be a monster. A nasty biting feeling, a lot like jealousy, burns in her chest.

She tries to look away, but for some reason, she can’t.

Their eyes crinkle with delight—the little family—their laughter weaving through the evening air like droplets of stars gathering in a mirthful embrace.

Nostalgia grips her, freezing both body and mind, as the weight of their union drags her back—fourteen years ago, when she was just a girl who still dared to dream. Back then, the monster hid in the dark, afraid of her light. Now they have grown so bold they walk around freely, some daring to live inside her head

She tries to wrestle herself back to the present, because a trip to the past only does more damage to her than good. But she can’t, because all of a sudden, her late mom, her dad, and her are in the community park. They have just finished the sandwich and orange juice her mom parked.

She had come along with a copy of the little red riding hood that she’s currently clutching in her hand. Her mom proceeds to read it to her like she has done a thousand times since she got the book. Her dad has decided to make it more fun, so he’s offering to play the role of the big bad wolf, and mom, the grandmother. The basket she used to pack their snacks now holds the invisible cookies.

As this girl runs around the park with her dad, so is Veronica running away from her dad as he makes monstrous noises. She’s screaming, pretending to be scared, but deep inside, she’s happy. Her Dad is the best in the whole wide world. He loves her endlessly. She’s his little butterfly, after all.

His rosette.

“Are you alright?” Raidon’s deep yet gentle voice pulls her out of the treacherous dream.

“Huh?” She stares up at those luminous eyes, the fire licking at her skin.

“You’re about to cry, aren’t you?” he asks. “Why?”

“Because I’m sad,” she confesses, blinking away the tears settling on her lower lid.

He studies her, his brows furrowed, a torn look settling on his features. Veronica can tell from the struggle within the confinement of his mind. He wants to do something. He wants to help her. But he doesn’t know how.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, his voice low and defeated.

“For what?”

“I’m really not used to comforting people.” There’s genuineness and helplessness in his tone. “All these are new to me.”

“It’s fine,” she beams, her heart content because at least he cares. “You can just hold my hand.”

His eyes drop to her hand that she has stretched before him. He hesitates, only for a brief moment. Then gently, he raises his hand, clasping it around hers.

There’s a slow movement of his jaw, a fleeting dilation of his pupils while a low gasp, barely audible, escapes his lips.

He feels it too. Their skin connection is like live wire, a powerful jolt of electricity spreading to the nerves and ending at the fingertips. He feels the same thing she’s feeling.

And she wonders, as he watches her, if he can see it, her flushed cheeks as everything that feels numb comes to life within her. Her heart pounds like a hummingbird’s wings.

This is the first time they’re officially holding hands.

“Better?” he asks below breath.

“Yes, better.” She nods, beaming. “Thank you.”

“Shane!” A chirpy voice full of life and excitement slices through the air. “I found a suitable spot.”

Veronica’s head slightly turns. It’s a girl, probably the same age as her, waving a boy over to a flower bush up ahead.

The boy who’s putting on blue jeans, with strands of blonde hair tucking out of his black hoodie, jogs across the trimmed grass in the park to the girl, a Camon camera held in his hand. On reaching her, he pulls her to the side, pressing a kiss to her cheek and raising the camera mid air to capture the moment.

“Snow white?” she whispers, not tearing her gaze away from the couple.

“Yes?”

Her gaze returns to him. He’s watching her.

“Do you want to be my boyfriend?” Before she can even think, the words slip out of her mouth.

She snaps her eyes shut immediately as his hold on her suddenly tightens. But there’s no point crying over spilled milk. The question is out there in the wind. She can still feel the echo in her ears.

“So…?” she trails off, her expectant gaze on him, her heart in her mouth.

“Will you?” she asks again.

There’s a torment in his eyes. As if fighting dark forces.

“Just say yes or no,” she prods.

“No.”

Something cracks and shatters around her.

Hope .