Back on the highway, Scarlette watches the colour of the sky changing by the minute, nodding her head along to the sound of the soft music playing from my speakers. I’m curious to know if I’ll be meeting her father when we ar rive.
“What about your dad? Will he be joinin g us?”
“He’s working a twelve -h our overnight shift,” she tells me with her eyes still on the road, and her hand holding onto mine on top of the gear s tick.
We drive through dusk into Burnaby, making our way down Hastings Street. An unwanted memory races through my mind as we drive past that back alley, and Scarlette’s hand squeezes mine a little tighter than usual. She must have felt my tension. I haven’t seen that road for years; only in my dreams about that night. Dreams?
I should correct myself, more like nightm ares.
I continue a few more blocks as she directs me where to go, and we finally enter a small suburban community. We pull up to a tiny blue cottage -l ike house with a white picket fence. I smile to myself—it’s the perfect home for a little doll like her.
As we get to her front door, a neighbour walking his dog notices us standing together, holding hands. “Hello, Scarlette,” he calls from two houses down, smiling kindly, and waving his hand.
Scarlette waves back. “Hi, Mr. Middl eton.”.
He stares at me for a few seconds, still holding the same smile, raising his palm in greeting to me as well, and I nod with the same smile, and wave back in re turn.
Scarlette opens the door and we walk into her home. The first thing my eyes latch onto is a bright blue painting with white writing, hanging on the wall next to the front door.
my happy p lace
starts with you .
She walks ahead of me into the living room and turns on the TV
but doesn’t pay any attention to what’s on as she heads straight to the kit chen.
I follow her lead.
“So has Mr. Middleton been your neighbour for a long time?” I ask.
“Yes, ever since we moved here when I was a little girl. He and his late wife helped take care of me after my mother died,” she calls from the kit chen.
Looking around, I pause when I see a photograph of Scarlette, sitting on top of a wooden cabinet beside the couch. She’s just a little girl in the picture, standing with a man and a woman who I guess must be her par ents.
“You look just like your mother, Scarlette,” I say in awe.
She pokes her head around the corner and sm iles.
“I do, don ’t I?”
As I turn away from the photo and look around her cozy little home, I can’t help but admire the paintings displayed on the living room walls. “Wow. These are beautiful,” I say, joining Scarlette in the kit chen.
“They’re my mother’s work,” she tells me with a note of pride in her v oice.
She was right—her mother was an extraordinary painter. I see where Scarlette gets her talent from.
Scarlette pulls two plates out of a light -g rey cupboard, placing them on top of their mats on the little kitchen table. I stand there, watching her move gracefully from one end of the kitchen to the other, setting up the table. I take a step closer to her, still holding onto the bag full of food containers, and lean down to kiss her lips. She kisses mine back, and I step to the side to drop the bag on the countertop, without our lips separating once. I can’t get enough of her, no matter how many
hours in the day we spend together. Scarlette eventually pulls back, looking up at me with heavy -l idded eyes.
“Let’s have some sushi,” she stammers, blushing away.
We take seats across from each other around her four -p erson table, listening to the kitchen radio playing on low volume in the background. We fill our plates with different rolls and eat, enjoying every bite. Scarlette tells me about some of her course feedback, and how she’s glad it’s approaching the end of them. I focus on her, falling more in love with her.
Once we finish eating, Scarlette walks over to the sink, placing our dishes under the running water before scrubbing them clean.
She reaches over to the windowsill, picks up a hair clip, and swiftly lifts her hair, clipping it out of the way. I watch her for some time before standing up, bringing myself closer to her, and placing my hands on her w aist.
“Can I help you with anything?” I ask. She tilts her head to the side, exposing her neck.
“Can you get the fire started in the back yard? You can find everything you need just around the side.”
“Sure,” I r eply.
I walk to the kitchen side door that leads me to the back of the house and find a stack of cut firewood on the stand. Scarlette’s father clearly knew what he was doing, as it was chopped and arranged preci sely.
It’s a clear black night, perfect for a fire. I set to work, and within minutes, the fire pit is alive with flames. I stand on my own, just watching it, admiring the different colours. It’s calming, in a way. Then I hear her light footsteps approaching behind, and I can feel her energy rush through me as she comes closer. Her hand slips into mine effortlessly, and we both stand in front of the fire, side by side, watching the flames rise.
I lean towards her and give her cheek a line of soft kisses. She still has her hair clipped up, with just a few strands falling down. As I reach her scar, I give it a gentle kiss, and Scarlette closes her eyes in a f lash.
She remains quiet for a few seconds, then asks, “Do you want to know?”
I don’t even think before whispering, “Yes, I do.”
She faces me, taking both my hands into hers. “Let’s sit at the bench f irst.”
I follow her instructions, allowing her to guide me by the hand, wondering why she seems so nervous about her scar. I can tell
she’s gathering her thoughts together, preparing herself to tell me. The warm glow of the fire reflects off the side of her face, and she plays with my hands, seeming hesitant to say a word, then she finally begins to s peak.
“It was the biggest graduation party before prom.” She pauses to take a breath in, and I feel my heart slowly begin to sink.
“I didn’t want to go … I wished I hadn’t after that night.” She stops again. I don’t say a word, I just listen. “It was getting busy in the banquet hall. There were so many students, all from different high schools. I was just starting to have some fun
. . . then out of nowhere there were these guys who forced themselves into our circle. They tried to cut in to dance with me and Paige, grabbing us from behind. We tried to stop them, but they were stronger than us. Then this other guy suddenly appeared
—I don’t know where he came from—and started to fight one of them, pulling them off of us. I couldn’t see who he was as the crowd began pushing in while the brawl was going on, and I figured that was a good opportunity for me to leave, so I did. I was walking home, when suddenly these footsteps behind caught up to me, following me. I felt scared. Before I could run away, one of them hit me, punching his fist into the side of my head, and I fell and hit the pavement. That’s when the scar happened. The doctors believe it was from a ring the guy was wearing.” She stops for a few seconds to catch her br eath.
I feel like I’m in a daze, listening to every word Scarlette says about that night, reliving the memory of it myself. Please, don’t let this be true . My heart is accelerating wildly, thumping in my chest, and my whole body is tingling. This doesn’t feel real.