Alex's POV
The hum of last night's open mic had dissipated at the Hometown Café; it was quieter here now, the late-morning sun filtering in through the windows. I was back at that corner table, with my sketchbook open and blank, a half-empty cup cooling to my right. It was a still, small sound that had been directed at me, singing For the Girl in Blue, the sound of Alex's voice echoing in my head.I was holding the pencil between my fingers but I wasn't looking at the page; instead, I was thinking about the boy who'd sung to me, back when I was a girl in blue. That, of course, would be silly to imagine. He didn't mean me, not quite. But there was the look he'd given me, the one that I felt seen by in a way that I wasn't prepared to be.
My chest continued to ache constantly, as it had the day before, but the cough had mercifully remained suppressed — so far. I trailed my fingers on the paper edge of the napkin he'd left me — the number scrawled in messy black ink — and thought about what it would be like to call him. To allow myself to be consumed by whatever it happened to be. But I knew better. Spontaneity wasn't what I'd built this life for, not with the appointments, pills, insemination; not with the daily demanding reminder that time was ticking on ahead faster than I could.
The door jingled when the bell rang, jolting me out of my musings. I peeked into the living room and watched as Alex entered, a guitar case hanging from one shoulder, his dark hair slightly mussed from the night before. He glimpsed me and grinned that lopsided smile that made my stomach do a silly little jump. He didn't hesitate, spotted my table and promptly sat across from me.
"Back so soon?" I snapped shut my sketchbook before he noticed the half-drawn doodles of his guitar.
"Couldn't stay away," he said, a crinkle at the edges of his eyes. "No, I left my picks here last night. I was just thinking I'd stop by and, you know, maybe you're free?"
I cocked my head and it was hard not to smile. "Lucky me."
He laughed and leaned back in his chair with that casual nonchalance that I was coming to associate with little else but Alex. "Well, were you thinking what I'd just said? About Paris?"
I blinked, caught off guard. "Paris?"
"Of course, of course — your longing to paint by the Seine." He bent and set his elbows on the table. You said you would some day, but now it's why not now?'
I gripped the coffee cup with my knuckles. Two words: Richard Branson He made it look seamless, like I could just toss a bag and take off. As if I weren't tied to this town by a thousand invisible threads — doctors' appointments, prescriptions, the wordless dread that settled in whenever I developed another symptom. "Not so simple, Alex," My response came out softer than I wanted. "There's a lot to consider."
"Like what?" he pressed, his gaze steady. "Money? Time off work? Those are just excuses, Emma. If that's what you dream of then give it a try.
I stared in my coffee till the steam vanished to nowhere. He wasn't aware of the hospital bills sitting on my kitchen counter or how I had to plan my days around how tired I'd be after my treatments. He didn't know "someday" wasn't a project there; it was a wish I draped over myself on long nights. How was I supposed to tell him that without the roof just flying off?
"It's complicated," I finally said, when I looked up at him. "There's… there are just some things I can't, uh, leave behind."
He appeared to tone things down some, and I thought maybe he was going to let it drop. But then, he shocked me — once more. "What if you didn't have to do it by yourself?"
I frowned, confused. "What do you mean?"
"I just mean," he continued, lowering his voice as if confiding in her, "what if I went with you? I have always wanted to go to Paris, and could stand to get the hell out of this place. We could make it an adventure — paint, play music, be bohemians for a while."
My heart stuttered. Was he serious? It was a bat-shit idea — we didn't even know each other, he barely knew me, I barely knew him. And yet there was something electric in it, something that made no sense to want to say yes just to see where this was going ahead. I could see us: the two of us wandering cobblestone streets, me with my sketchbook, him with his guitar, laughing under a Paris sky.
"Alex, that's … crazy," I said, laughing in surprise. "We just met."
"So?" He shrugged his shoulders, his grin now spreading cheek to cheek. "Life's short, Emma. May as well let our hair down while we still can.
My head ducked, and then I'm peering down at him. He was right — life was short, and shorter for me than anyone could have guessed. And part of me wanted to throw myself at this, to seize something reckless and beautiful before it slips through my fingers. But the other half, the half that knew what happened, dug in. I couldn't let him enter my world, world of hospital gowns and sterile waiting rooms. He shouldn't do it, and it wouldn't be fair to him, or to me.
I can't," I finally whispered. "It's not the right time."
His smile fled; he did not deny the accusation. "Okay, I get it. Maybe someday, then."
I nodded, forcing a grin of my own. "Yeah, maybe."
There was just a moment when we sat there, the air itself weighted with what I couldn't say. But Alex didn't let it sit. He made a sharp turn, inquiring about my most recent sketch, and before we even realized it, we were laughing and joking like the incident had never occurred. The nerves disappeared and I fell easily back into our rhythm, which we'd started to find.
But even as we talked, his proposition nagged at me. Paris—with Alex. The idea was a silly one, wild and far-fetched, but it set something alight in me, a spark I hadn't felt for so many years, the mad, crazy hope that one holds in one's heart for the one thing that might set one free. What if I did go? What if I let myself have this one feral little moment?
A cough broke into my thoughts, acute and unanticipated. I turned my head under it, covered it with the end of my scarf, gagged the words. Alarm flashed in Alex's eyes and he knitted his brows.
"You sure you're okay?" he asked, his voice gentle.
"Yeah, just … allergies," I said, brushing it aside. "Spring in the city, you know?
He didn't look convinced, but he asked thank God and did not press. "Well, if you ever change your mind about Paris, you're always welcome here."
I smiled, really smiled. "Thanks, Alex. That means a lot."
The lunch crowd was beginning to fill up the café, and Alex checked his watch. "I gotta go — rehearsal in a bit. "But I'll see you around, won't I?"
"Sure," I said, and my heart lifted off even as it weighed down my chest.
Pulling his guitar over his shoulder, he rose now. "And hey, if you ever need a muse — or just a coffee date — I'm your guy.
I laughed then, when he left my side, silhouetted by the light streaming through the door. After he exited the room I opened my sketchbook to a blank page. My hand had a mind of its own, the traveling lines of his face, his guitar, the smile you can't say know to. But this time, I included a new element: the faintest shadow of the Eiffel Tower in the background, a daydream I simply couldn't let go.
It was only a dream, no more. But it was the most like real since I can remember.