My eyes flutter open. Sunlight tints my room a morning yellow. I pull the covers over my head, thinking about what today is. The anniversary of my mother's death.
Eleven years ago, my mother was on her way back to my grandma's house from the store with Ang and my aunt Claire. She was in the passenger seat when a car ran through a red light, crashing into them. The only survivor was Angie, and from the way the cars were totaled the firefighters called it a miracle. I didn't feel like going on a boring store run, so I said that I'd stay with grandma. We waited for hours until there was a knock at the door. It was the police, giving us the worst news of our lives. Angie wouldn't talk for days until one of the nurses got her to open up. My mother's name was May.
A knock at my door sinks my heart, reminding me all too well of that day. It's grandma. She made breakfast. I get dressed, but can't eat.
Gospel music plays on the car radio. We ride to the graveyard. My grandma must feel gutted. We lost a mother and aunt, but she lost her only two children. It must haunt her, but she doesn't let on. I know that's the reason why she's so protective over Ang and I. She's let fear rule over our lives, but I don't blame her. I can't understand the toll of a loss that big, especially after already losing her husband. We're all she has left.
We're all that Angie has too. Her dad was a one night stand. Her mom couldn't get into contact with him. All she knew was that he was a Latino truck driver.
Then there's me. My dad is in the military, but he may as well be a one hit wonder trucker too. He hardly comes around. He joined soon after my mom passed. Said it was to provide for me, but when his visits became less frequent I saw reality for what it was. He had run away. He couldn't confront the pain, and instead left his child to face it alone. He may get respect for his service, but he'll never be my hero. The money he sends is only a man trying to buy forgiveness.
I lay a rose on my mother's gravestone like I do every year. It's my way of saying that I'm with her. They lay down flowers as well, placing them nicely around the stones. Years of tears on this day slowly turned into heavy expressions and few words. It never got any easier. It just finally sunk in.
After the grave visit, we stay to ourselves. Grandma locks herself in the room and Angie leaves the house. This is the only day grandma won't say anything about it.
I sit on the sofa, numb and empty. I thought I wouldn't do it, but I cry. I can't keep it in. Yesterday, I counted on having my friends to distract me. For a moment I forgot. I sigh and wipe my face.
I have messages from Matt and Penny in our group chat telling me that they're here if I need them. As I reply, a message pops up from an unsaved number.
"Hey."
Three bubbles appear as another text loads.
"It's your dance partner. We haven't practiced in a while, so I don't know how you're going to learn the routine."
It dawns on me.
"Ben?"
"You remembered my name? I must dance better than I thought."
I smile.
"You've got some moves. Had a lot of dance partners?"
"I guess I walked right into that. I'm just gonna head out now."
He sends a gif of a sad man with hunched shoulders walking out of a door.
I laugh.
"You can come back."
He sends a gif of someone turning around with a hopeful smile.
I reply.
"You made my day."
"Don't give me too much credit, your day just started."
"It's true."
I bite my lip as his text loads.
"Really? If you want, I could swing by and really brighten your day?"
"I'm free."
"I'm on my way."
I muffle a scream. While running up the stairs, I FaceTime Penny and Matt. They're confused to see me smiling.
"I've got a date today!"
Their brows raise.
"You're going on a date today?" Penny asks, concerned.
"It's not an official date. I'm hanging out with Ben."
She isn't convinced. "Which is why you're destroying your closet?"
"Okay, it's a date. But it's also a nice distraction. Is that so bad?"
She thinks, then shrugs. "She'd want you to have fun. Besides, maybe now we'll all have homecoming dates. Not that it wasn't fun with just us three."
"All of us?" I ask.
Matt scratches the back of his head. "Yeaahh, I sort of asked out Heather."
"Sort of?"
"I don't know, I was drunk at the bonfire. She texted me a reminder, and I just went with it. Was I supposed to tell her that I had no idea what she was talking about?" He sighs. "Anyway, our date's this Wednesday. She should've known I was wasted when I picked stupid Wednesday."
"Give it a chance. Heather's so nice and pretty," Penny says.
He sighs again. "Yep."
"Rose, it's almost eleven thirty!"
"I have a clock on my phone, Pen. I don't need another one."
They wish me luck and click off.
I change into poofy navy pants, and a breathable white shirt. I add a gold necklace and earrings. I'm going for purposefully simple.
"You look great," Ben says when he sees me.
I admire the pavement. "Thanks."
His car smells like cologne and air freshener. I've never rode in a Mercedes.
He notices when I rub my arms. "Is it too cold?"
"Just a little."
He adjusts the air and turns out of my neighborhood. Is it possible to find someone's driving attractive? He has a fresh cut, and is dressed in a white polo, navy slacks, and loafers.
"We're matching."
He glances over at a light. "You must really be obsessed with me."
I fight a smile.
"So, where are we going?" he asks.
"You're asking me?
"You're leading this ship. So where to? What place makes your day?"
My answer is immediate. "The art museum."
"No kidding?" He puts an arm behind my seat, switching the car to reverse. "I've got a surprise for you then."
He's so close. I'm afraid to breathe.
He shuffles through his playlist at a stop sign. "You like Jill Scott?"
"Is that even a question? She's top five."
"Okay, top five. Who else is on your list? Let's hear it."
"You don't think I know good music?"
"Folded arms? This is serious."
"Chaka Khan, Sam Cooke, Nina Simone, and Lauryn Hill," I say.
He whistles. "You've got taste. I like that."
I look out the window. "What about you?"
"That's easy. I like whatever you like."
I watch houses go by, unable to lock eyes. "Where did they get you from?"
"I was special edition. Made just for you, girl." His smile never leaves his face, and he's got the lines to prove it.
"Corny."
"Dang, they said that's what you wanted."
I let myself laugh. He's too infectious.
The drive is filled with jazz music and fleeting glances. We arrive at the museum. Like a true gentleman, he opens my door. He stands so close that we bump shoulders when walking, but I don't mind at all. Each touch feels better than the last.
Inside is vast and white with brown wooden flooring. Our steps echo. We linger around the photography section.
"Look at this one." I point to a photo of waves rolling back into the ocean.
"They're alive."
I'm glad he sounds interested.
"To capture that movement they'd have to choose a longer shutter speed, get some low lighting, and go for a small Aperture."
"I love it when you talk dirty to me." He earns a laugh. "But seriously, you light up when you talk about this stuff. It's cool."
I blush. "You wanted to show me something?"
He leads me through the sculpture exhibit. We pass the cultural art section until we're at the paintings. "What do you think?"
It's an oil painting of a woman dancing. She's mid jump. Her blush slip dress twirls with her. She's a dark complexion with deep smile lines. Pearls spill from her necklace, falling gracefully around her.
I'm in awe. "It's so detailed. Is this a still life?"
"It's my mom. I've always liked this one photo hiding in the house, so I painted it. She was a ballerina."
"Was?"
"She doesn't dance anymore. Before, you couldn't get her to stop. She woke up with a beat in her head."
"What changed?"
His hands are in his pockets. "She had a near death experience. Horse got spooked. It messed up her knee pretty bad, and now she barely leaves the house."
I admire the work. "She's in a museum, because of you." My voice is gentle. "That's Mona Lisa status, so I'd say that she's well passed leaving the house."
He nods with a grin. "You'll get your work in here."
"How did you?"
"They have annual competitions. This piece stays here until next summer."
"Maybe I'll apply."
"Can I be your muse?" He poses.
I laugh. "Sure."
Our eyes meet, and this time I don't look away.
He fills in the space between us. "Maybe I could give you some inspiration before you start?"
"Maybe," I say softly.
Slowly, he lifts my chin. My breath catches when he leans in. I close my eyes.
"My mom died today."
His brows furrow.
"Not this day exactly, but eleven years ago today."
His face relaxes and he steps back, taking away his warmth.
"I don't want the first kiss that I've had since middle school to be on this day."
"I'm sorry to hear that. Is that why you were upset earlier?" His voice is low. Sympathetic.
I nod.
"How did she die?"
"A guy ran a red light. It cost him his life, her's, and my aunt's. Angie was the only one who survived the wreck."
He rubs his stubble. "I can't imagine how you felt that day. I see why your grandma holds on so tight."
I sigh and offer a hand. He takes it and we find a nearby bench.
"Can you paint us into a picture?" I mumble.
I lean into his chest. He wraps an arm around me, and my heart quickens.
"We're in that one there." He points to a painting of what appears to be Italy at dawn. There's a river filled with boats along a busy city and detailed stone buildings.
"What are we doing?"
"We're sitting on the docks, dipping our feet into the water. The sun's coming up, but we didn't realize it was so late. Time slipped our minds. That's how much we could sit around and talk to each other. And that restaurant across the bridge is right above your apartment. You've been telling me how good they are, so we've made plans to go for our second date."
I smile. "Our second date?"
"Yep. After the third time, I finally said yes."
"Ooooh, I asked you?"
"Sure did. I couldn't let you keep begging." He shrugs.
"And when did I say this date was?" I'm intrigued by his imagination.
"This Friday."
I bite my lip. "Yes, Ben. I'd love to go out with you this Friday."
We examine our painting for what seems like forever, talking about life and those little random things we keep on our minds. Our topics have no range. They're silly and enlightening and relatable in a refreshing fusion. He spoke our painting into existence, and time eludes us until night falls.