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To be a writer.
To write stories, big and short. To create something. To build a castle of words.
“You are, huh?”
“Yes.” I sigh. “But for now, I write in my journal.”
That throws him off a little bit; I can tell.
There’s a light frown between his brows and his eyes turn even more penetrating as he says, “A journal.”
“I have a diary. I write in it every night.”
That light frown of his is still in place and it stays there while he studies me in a strange way. Like he’s seeing me for the first time, or maybe in a new light. Or maybe it’s all in my head because as soon as I blink that mysterious look from his eyes is gone and he’s back to being his irreverent self.
“Dear Diary, huh.”
“More like Dear Holly.” Then, “I sort of name my diaries, depending on how they feel. This one feels like a Holly, all cute and pink.”
“Maybe you should call it Bubblegum then.”
“Don’t —”
“Because it sounds like you. And I’ll remember that for next time.”
“What?”
“That you like diaries.”
“I don’t underst...”
My words trail off when he steps back and does the most astonishing thing. The most bizarre — outlandish and strange and surreal — thing.
He goes down on his knees.
Or rather one knee.
And I’m…
I’m so shocked that all I can do is sputter. “What’s… What are you…”
“Giving you your gift,” he replies, apparently understanding my half-baked sentences.
“What?”
Like last year, he reaches back into his pocket and fishes something out. For a second or so, I think it’s a lighter and my belly whooshes. Not in fear but excitement.
In anticipation that he might set fire to the sky again.
For my birthday.
But it’s not a lighter.
It’s something else. Something shiny.
Somethingchiming.
And then he’s touching me.
