Sincerely Yours, No Matter Where

The Power of Friendship III

"Well?"

He grimaced. His face contorted while he muttered and counted with his fingers.

"Look at him," his mother nudged his father's shoulder, "are you trying to give our son a conniption? If he blows a gasket, you're paying for the repairs."

"He knows the—,"

"Twenty dollars. Now, gimme."

"I would've given you the money, anyway," his father whispered. "Here you go, buddy. Buy her the best ice cream platters."

With twenty dollars, how much ice cream could he buy? His eyes glazed over. Suddenly, all the ice cream they could try appeared before him. There were ice cream cones topped with different flavors—chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, pecan, and any other flavor he was ever curious about. There were gigantic platters, smothered with whipped cream, overflowing with syrup, all sorts of sprinkles, a cherry on top ...

"Wait a second. James, aren't you forgetting something?"

"What's that, darling?" James asked absentmindedly and gazed at his tablet, muttering, "that's not going to work."

"Really?" She shook her head and looked up at the ceiling. "How do you plan on getting there, Thomas? Thomas!"

Her voice broke through the mirage. "No," he whimpered as the feast quickly vanished. "Uh, the ... bus?" Thomas averted his eyes when she hung her head and stared open-mouthed, choosing instead to count the colorful bills he held.

"Thomas Josiah Anderson, have you lost your mind?!? No way! You're only seven years old. There is absolutely no way I'm letting you ride all the way across town alone in a bus."

"But I'm not going alone? Christina's gonna be with me."

"Oh, yeah? Christina? Who happens to be another child! No. You're going to have to drive him," she crossed her arms, "James?"

"Huh?! But Celia—," James wanted to remind his wife that he needed to turn in a manuscript by midnight, but was stopped mid-sentence when she held up a hand.

It was a gesture he was well-acquainted with—the I'm-going-to-stop-you-right-there signal—and knew very well there was no getting out of it. She lifted a thin eyebrow and squinted. If he took too long to reply, she'd uncross her arms and rest them on her hip: that meant he'd never hear the end of it. In a futile and desperate attempt, James thought up excuses, but a nagging voice inside his mind told him not to bother.

Letting out a groan, he slumped his shoulders and slowly stood. "Thomas, why don't you go grab Christina and bring her over. I'll go get dressed."

"Cool! Thank you, thank you! Be right back!" Thomas bounced up happily and ran out the door.

"You're killing me here, Celia." He walked over to where she sat and rested his head on her shoulder.

"Don't be such a Debbie Downer, honey. I know you need to finish what you're working on, but it'll just be two hours. Take your tablet with you. Maybe one last trip will inspire you? Oh! Take them to the Ayazma Fountain and have them run around while you work."

"Ugh, if you're trying to sell me on it, I suggest you try a little more physical persuasion?" He walked away, wiggling his eyebrows.

"Oh, is that what's needed? Do you want to be the one to finish packing everything up and cook what's left in the kitchen, then? How's that for some physical persuasion for you?"

There was no reply from James as he searched for a pair of jeans.

"Mm-hmm. I didn't think so." She laughed.

Thomas's shoes loudly smacked the cobblestone street as he ran toward Christina's building. A street vendor shouted a greeting when Thomas waved at him. The man smiled warmly and waved back before continuing to prepare his street cart. As he opened the cart's door, the scent of freshly baked Simit exploded into the air, filling the area with the irresistibly sweet aroma of molasses-dipped and sesame-crusted dough. It made Thomas dizzy and his stomach grumbled.

In an attempt to escape the provocative smell, he picked up his pace and nearly collided with someone. An elderly woman in a headscarf peered down at him. Her stern features softened when he stammered an apology.

"Günaydın," she said.

He smiled in relief, repeated the good morning greeting and continued on his way.

The morning had sprung to life. Several people rushed out of buildings to go to work or sightsee, and briskly scattered in search of their objective. Others gathered around entrances and chattered boisterously among themselves, often using dramatic hand gestures amidst their storytelling. Loud laughter bounced off the walls of the colorful antique-looking buildings and bicycle bells clinked all around him, as children raced each other up a small slope. He moved out of the way when one zipped by too closely, zigzagging through crowds of people, carts and a parked scooter.

When he arrived at Christina's, he looked up toward balcony where she usually played. Many times he would stand below and wave for her to come down. That day, the balcony was empty. The only occupant were the tangling vines that twisted around its iron lattice bars and cascaded over the side in a vegetable-like waterfall. Despite that, it seemed bleak and lacked the brightness only she could give it.

He knocked on the front door.

******

***Yes, I'm not entirely certain with this one and it may require some more editing. Half of it is completely new and is in dire need of rewording. Rather than four chapters, this segment will have five. The experience in Istanbul is pivotal and adds an extra emotional layer to his attachment to Christina, so I decided to expand it a bit [763 words extra—including a few more lines of dialogue and interaction with his parents].