Maeva's point of view.
How in the world could that freakin' purse of mine strategically land on a human's foot? I mean, even if I spent hours calculating the perfect angle from which I was to drop it, it would've never been such a perfect landing. I just hope the guy did not lose a toe because I'm pretty sure that a crack echoed in my ears when my book collection smacked the life out of his foot.
Before I even get the chance to apologize, passengers begin exiting their seats, and my worst nightmare slowly creeps into real life. Herds of people chocking the passages manage to disrupt the quiet atmosphere that was once reining, and air becomes a whole lot heavier to inhale.
Behind me, a bunch of men struggle to get their luggage out of the overhead lockers, which makes me wonder how they even shoved all those bags in the first place. Kids scream and nag at their parents who keep shushing them while rolling their eyes at the long line leading to the exit of the aircraft.
After dozens of "excuse me"s, endless "may I pass"s and one "ma'am you're stepping on my foot", I finally pace out of the exit door and make sure to fill my lungs with as much air as humanly possible before stepping into the jet bridge.
Although it is not that elevated from solid ground, fear stings me in the chest, and my head begins to sink further in between my shoulders as I take a peek through the glass walls. All at once, everything my eyes are scanning is being duplicated, and all of my freakin' brain cells seem to be out of service. Can someone please tell me what genius suggested to use see-through walls on a ten feet elevated tunnel?
I know it's pretty weird for me to freak out in the tunnel when I seemed pretty relaxed, ten minutes earlier, in a flying can, forty thousand feet above solid ground. That was because I distracted my coward self with a book... and also made sure that I got a seat in the middle of the plane, as far as I could possibly be from the windows or any opening for that matter. Humans are not supposed to be floating around with clouds and pigeons, for crying out loud!
Once safe and sound on solid ground, I'm tempted to go down on my knees and plant a kiss on the dusty ground. I settle for a mental one, nonetheless, since passengers seem to be close to calling the mental asylum if I dare and make another scene.
Tapping my foot on the ground, and creating a beat to try and distract myself from the interminable wait, I stand before the luggage belt, eyes searching for any red suitcases. Nearly half of the passengers from earlier take their belongings before I spot a humongous red body and smile at the sight of it sliding its way towards me. Although I almost displace my shoulder while dropping it off on the ground, I cannot help but grin at the thought of finally leaving this hell hole.
Poke... What the hell is wrong with people today? Is it the national -poking the living daylight out of Maeva- day?
I can almost feel smoke dissipating from my nostrils, and an eyeroll is mandatory for me to relieve some of the stress building up in my body. However, I utter neither word nor sound for the holes dug in my back from all the previous glares still hurt, and the last thing I want to do is go all Hulk-mad on another elderly. Hence, I turn around in the speed of a sloth on a quiet afternoon, and look at whoever it is that graced me with the delicateness of his undesired touch.
'Maooga! Hello, blondie!!'
Now's not the time to get all riled up, conscience. Hold yourself, goddammit!
As I mumble under my breath, I find myself falling under the intensity of a couple of blue orbs, amusingly staring down at me. Trapped in a slow-motion bubble, I try and look away but fail because of all the bright colors exploding before my eyes.
Ash blond hair covers part of his porcelain forehead and the redness of his lips keeps intensifying as long as he casually bites its flesh. I can almost swear that I've seen that guy before, but where?
'Uh...Does it even matter? That guy sure knows how to keep a girl on her toes!'
Toes? That's it, he's the foot guy from earlier.
For split seconds, his gaze falls to the ground, and the way he frowns makes me want to step away for he seems to be scheming a way to get his revenge by breaking one of my bones.
"B-bonjour." After all that brain squashing, all he could come up with is Bonjour? I honestly expected him to recite a verse or some sort of a philosophical hypothesis since he seemed to be in pain from all the thinking he did.
'Now, now, Maeva! It's not very nice to treat people like that! Especially beautiful people like him!'
Conscience, will you shut up?
'No I will not because I refuse to end up in the mind of a lonely cat lady, twenty years from now. I need action, and that hunk seems to be quite the dynamic type, if you know what I mean'.
I shake my head in order to mute the ridiculous voice haunting me, then twitch my lips into a perfectly innocent smile, and reply with another bonjour.
"Michael,'' he extends his hand for me to shake it and I cannot help but mirror his quite contagious smile.
"Meava." Where in the world are my manners? I never got the chance to apologize to him for almost mutilating a part of his body... "I'm so sorry about your foot."
"It's nothing, I barely felt anything." From the nervous smile and the way he's rubbing the back of his neck, it is obvious to me that he's trying to act all tough and macho. I know for a fact that having ten pounds worth of books dropped on your bones is no pleasant experience, so I apologize once again.
'I told you he was a good guy, but you never seem to listen to your wise conscience!'
Well, at least he seems to be standing just fine, which lifts a bit of the guilt weighing on my shoulders.
Ugh... It's been two minutes since any of us last spoke, what in the world is happening? The introvert in me weeps and sniffs while silence becomes insupportable to hear. Should I throw one of my many jokes or fill him in on the latest research conducted on medicinal plants? How did we get stuck in such an awkward situation in the first place?!
"Do you need help with that?" He finally asks, his index pointing towards the suitcase whose zipper seems to be on the verge of ripping open and revealing my precious collection of black shirts. Well, an extra pair of hands would be much appreciated to push that brick pile, but I cannot risk crushing his foot and spraining his wrist all in one day. Hence, I decline his offer, quite sadly might I just add, and proceed to push the suitcase while he tags along with his feather of a backpack.
"So, are you visiting someone?" I really liked the quiet version of him, did he really have to become so talkative all of a sudden?
"Nope, I live in Oakmoor." As if I just lifted a switch in him, he smiles with his head held high and the blue of his eyes twinkling under the airport lights.
"Is that so? Because I'm sure that I've never seen you around before, and I practically know everyone there." Well, technically I should've used the past tense, considering that I have not set foot in this town for almost a year now. Nonetheless, I raise an eyebrow at him, and he gets it as a clear clue to explain himself further. "I recently opened a bar near the old flower shop, and so I'm pretty much the entrusted bartender of the town." Ah, it's about time someone reopened Mr. Franklin's bar and took over his place as the town's secret keeper.
'A hot bartender hitting on you?! You, my girl, are making quite the improvement. Ask for his number!'
"So, is there anything you particularly like in our quaint village, Michael?!"
'Uh, hello?! Are you some sort of a touristic guide promoting your town? Why did you not ask for his number?!'
"Literally everything, but if I must choose, I have to go with Kelly's diner!"
"Please tell me you've tried her extreme cheeseburger, then!"
'You're a desperate case. I give up.'
As I brush off my conscience's voice, Michael jumps in his place while describing the new flavors the diner's now offering. Water forms in my mouth and I can't help but smile at the childish tone behind his voice. One day, I must go check his bar out, he must be a treat to talk to when in need of some cheering up.
Before I get to ask him more about himself, I spot three familiar silhouettes standing behind the crowd barriers, their eyes scanning every corner of the room. As if on cue, a knot instantly finds its way to my throat and I can already feel tears building up in my eyes. For a brief moment, I forget Michael's presence next to me and find myself carried away in a wave of memories and nostalgia.
~~~~~~○ five years earlier ○~~~~~~
"Will you come and take a look at this Lemon-zest yellow, Maeva? Isn't it the perfect shade for the background?" I put the book down and stare at the immaculate canvas sitting on a much colorful easel. Besides it, my mother stands in her flowy painting dress, a couple of tubes of acrylic in hand and an unreadable expression on her face.
"What about that Peachy-mango? It would give more warmth to the scenery, don't you think?" I stand beside her, hands firmly gripping on my hips and expression as serious as that of a picky art connoisseur.
"Are you ladies craving a fruit salad? Those names sure don't sound like paint to me." A giggle escapes my lips as mom rolls her eyes at dad's comment. He's always been a man of science, and will never be able to understand the finesse and depth that a single brush stroke can convey; at least that's what she told me during my first art class in our garage.
"Andrew, darling, don't distract us. Choosing colors is the most crucial part of my painting process!" Knowing that his wife can be quite touchy if anyone dares and critiques her process, he goes back to his computer, fingers forcefully tapping on the keys and expression ever so soft.
As we continue discussing more fruit-named shades, the fade double bass beat coming from the living room is suddenly interrupted and an angry kid bursts into the kitchen, eyes glowing red in anger.
"Can you please keep it down? How will I ever become the next Charles Mingus if I don't work in a peaceful environment?!" Speechless as to how my little ten years old brother just snapped at us or is even aware of such an iconic musician, I stand there, eyes widely opened and words struggling to get out of my mouth...
~~~~~~○ back to the present day ○~~~~~~
I would give everything I have, and do everything in my power to go back to how we were before. Everything was so perfect, so peaceful.
A couple of steps forward later, I finally make it to their field of view and the moment they spot me, wide yet pained smiles take over their faces. Although I've only been away for one year, my folks seem to have grown ten years older if that's even possible. I suppose that intense stress and sadness go hand in hand with skin damage and wrinkles.
"Meava, chérie!" screams Mom with such a jovial tone that nearby passengers can't help but match my Cheshire smile as I throw myself in between her outstretched arms.
Greeted by her signature magnolia perfume scent, I bury my face in the crook of her neck, which brings a faint acrylic smell to my almost clogged nose. Being so close to her, I can feel her gentle voice traveling through her body as she mumbles a couple of words in her impeccable French accent. My glasses fog up gradually, but I do not break the embrace, for it feels so good. Having her brushing my hair with her delicate hands, I feel like I'm back to the days where all it took to vanish any night monster haunting me was the sound of her slippers tapping on the floor as she walked back from the atelier.
"Welcome back, kiddo!" whispers Dad as he brushes his palm on my back in reassurance. From the black jeans and loose-fitting black shirt, it seems that he did not bother to change his clothing style while I was abroad. His brownish eyes scream 'Get me to bed', but the smile flashing on his lips overpower the tired façade, and made him look as jovial as he could ever be. However, that does not suppress the urge boiling in me to lecture him about the disadvantages of the endless nights he must've spent working in front of a computer's monitor.
"Wow, did they starve you to death in Toulouse?" Tearing up as I hear a familiar high pitched, yet sophisticated voice, I wrap my arms around Anthony's neck and push him towards me in a giant teddy-bear hug, as he likes to call it. "You seem like you've been kidnapped and haven't had anything to eat for ages."
Oh, I've missed the kid's sarcasm! Sometimes I wonder if the inside of his young boy's body hides a grown-up man with wisdom and wit to spare. "Take a macaron, it's nana's recipe." He hands me a wooden box that I open at once. Inside of it, a dozen of perfectly round gems lay flawlessly on a white piece of fabric and the sugary scent emanating is too hard to resist. I'm about to place one in my mouth when an outbreathed Michael calls me from behind.
"Uh, Maeva... what is it that you're carrying in your suitcase? It's so hefty!" As if he only just had the chance to take a good look at my parents, a wave of recognition settles on his face and he asks in disbelief: "You're Andrew's daughter?! Mea..."
Mea? How on earth is he aware of that nickname? Only one person used to call me that, and the mere memory of him never talking to me again shatters my heart. Oh boy, here comes another rush of hormones boiling in my blood and making me sob like a toddler.
'Just breathe in and out, Maeva! You've got this.'
He hates my gut, and I can't blame him for that. I'm the one who decided to leave after all...Conscience, I don't think I'm ready to go back.
'Maeva Clara Anderson, you have exactly three seconds to get your act together and calm down. We've already discussed this. You're already here, and this time you'll stay and face everything.'