100 Yellow Doors

september 7th, 2019, 8:52 p.m.

    Downtown fell away behind them, the roads stretching longer, emptier. Beck kept talking, and Iman was content with listening to his stories, about his mom's favorite dress and about her favorite bedtime story ("I almost think she enjoyed reading it more than I did") and about how she got grumpy if she didn't have her earl grey tea in the morning. Beck talked, and Iman watched him as he did, the way the edges of his mouth turned up, his eyes softening as he described his mother's coiled hair ("Nappy was her favorite way of saying it"), and how she had taught him to love his, as he described her honey brown eyes, as he described the scent of her: "Like a garden. Not one flower in particular, but like, all of them."

    By the time the words slowed, Annapolis was far, far away, the roads rising into the mountains, making Iman's ears pop. Beck dragged his SUV to a stop at a vacant scenic overlook, only the trees to watch as Beck climbed out of the car. He came around, pulling open the door for Iman and offering her his hand.

    "Beck," she said, raising an eyebrow at him. "What are we doing?"

    "Looking," he said, the moonlight glinting in his glasses. "It's a scenic overlook. That's what we're supposed to do."

    Iman rolled her eyes, but nevertheless followed Beck to the edge of the overlook, leaning against the railing.

    Her breath hitched in her chest. Below them was a sea of yellow lights, most stagnant, some twinkling like grounded stars. Ahead of the lights was the Chesapeake Bay, a tranquil black-blue mass, peppered with white where the waves broke along the shoreline. If she squinted, Iman could make out the cars moving through the streets of the city, ever slowly, like the shadow of water through a straw.

    An unimaginable feeling washed through Iman, like she was everything and nothing at the same time, like the world was this big, big place and she was so lucky to live within it.

    It should have been discouraging, looking down at the city from the top of this mountain, watching it all go on without her father. Instead, it was oddly comforting. The world hadn't stopped; the universe went on. She could, too.

    "I really wish she could have met you, Iman."

    She turned at Beck's voice. He was bracing himself against the railing, all the lights of Annapolis reflected in his glasses, something in his face suddenly grave.

    "Who?" asked Iman. "Your mom?"

    He nodded, then pivoted his whole body towards Iman, folding her hand into his. His hands were bigger, his palms wider, a writer's callus on the inside of his index finger. His pulse pounded through his skin, Iman noticed, his fingers ever so slightly quivering. Before she could ask, Beck went on, "She really would have liked you; I'm sure of it."

    "Beck..."

    "Iman, I love you," he blurted, then made a face, as if rethinking every word he was about to say. "After my mom died, you know, I got really used to being alone? Like, I thought: this is how it's going to be from now on? My sister, my dad, yeah, but no one else—and you just, wow. I met you and I have realized, wow, what a massive lie that is."

    Now Iman was shaking. "Beck...?"

    "Everyone has a person, they say. A soulmate, if you will. I wondered for a long time what that would even look like. I thought, probably if you feel like a piece of you's missing when they're not there, then that's it. Or if everything you see—even little things, like...like how every time I see a ladybug it reminds me of that time you stopped everyone in the hallway just so you could get that one ladybug out of the way?—anyway, if everything just reminds you of them for some reason, then that must be it. If you can sit in total silence with them and still have the most fun of your life, then that's...that's it."

    Iman's heart raced, thundering against her ribcage. She kept her eyes down at where Beck's hand held hers, tracing the fine lines of his skin with her gaze, rubbing her thumb back and forth across his knuckles.

    "Every time you...travel somewhere, and I don't know where you are, or if you're okay, I feel like I'm drowning," said Beck. "Then you come back, and only then does the world start turning again. Jesus. I'm not making any sense. Iman?"

    Stopping. Fumbling in his pocket, fingers clumsy, breath getting shallow.

    Beck's hand slipped from Iman's. He lowered himself, slowly, to one knee.

    A tear slid down Iman's cheek.

    "I guess what I'm...what I'm trying to say, Iman, is that..." He shook his head. "Is that I think you are my person, and I love you, and I don't ever want to let you go again."

    Another tear rolling down her cheek—Beck flipping the box open—diamond a lucid white, like a dream—

    "Iman Patel," Beck said. "Will you marry me?"

    She wanted to speak—needed to speak—but her heart was hammering and she felt so out of breath, so terribly out of breath—something in her stomach was airy, like she was floating away—

    She dropped to her knees, crushing Beck in a hug. "Yes," she cried, and when she looked up into Beck's eyes, starry, like the night itself, she noticed his face was wet, too. "Yes, Beck, yes—"

    He laughed, stopped, laughed again, taking her hand in his, sliding the ring onto her finger—

    Iman's world caved; she vanished.

    The ring clinked against the asphalt.