"Ha! I got it!" Franco yelled cheerily as he walked inside the flat. His voice echoed loudly, overpowering the news I was watching. He had been gone for two days, he never told me where he is so I waited. . . now he's here, just in time for the 50th anniversary tomorrow. It's him who is going to deal with the reporters, not me.
"Got what?" I asked placidly, turning down the volume so we could converse better. He walked right behind me, smelling like car air freshener and from the back, slammed something hard with his arm over my shoulder.
"You love me," he whispered and let go of whatever he hit my chest with. I took it and examined it in my hand, looking like a journal and it was familiar.
Franco sat beside me, a wide, cheeky grin on his face as he watched my reaction.
"The '89 journal, dad's journal?" I quizzed skeptically, raising an eyebrow to add to the real emotion.
He grinned wider, his eyes flickering with victory. "The original. All the way from America."
I don't understand. . . "How did you get it?" I asked. I remember where I last left it, whom I last left it.
He scoffed, "Easy, asked Darwin to check for the Swifts -"
"Gleesons, idiot," I muttered and he laughed.
"My mistake," he said then continued, "Got him all the way to South Dakota where the Swifts are in. Idiot, no? But when I realised that was a mistake, I told him to check for Taylor's background. . . sorry, was curious. . ." I nodded to make it a point that I was alright with it. "Her real parents were divorced so they set her up for adoption."
I paid more attention that I turned the telly off. I remembered her telling me she was adopted because her parents got killed in an accident. And that she didn't have too much of a childhood because of that. . . she lied.
I still remembered. . . wow.
"Just thought you oughta know that sunshine isn't exactly summer and spring." He grinned. "But then I went to America myself, I needed the '89, Darwin was too slow so turns out she moved out of her flat. And oh, I got to see Cara too, still pretty, and apparently still not interested in me. So yeah, I got your '89. . . swear I didn't read it."
I laughed a bit. "Like I'll believe that."
"No, no, I swear. . ." He raised both his hands and plastered an innocent look on his face. "You can read it later, when you wake up, twelve, to the exact, no?"
"Screw you," I muttered, laughing a bit. "But thanks. . . for taking this back."
He scoffed. "It was easy. You may now start writing your original novel, '100 Reasons Why I Love Franco Styles.'" he smiled cheekily. "Reason number one, because of his awesome suit he needs to take off. Bye." He walked off.
I turned the news back on when he left. I was thankful about the journal but I highly doubt that the letter was still here. I opened it, flipping to the date of my birthday first but not really reading. . . none. I flipped to the last page, pasted against the last blank page were two small cards. Okay. That's it. The letter's still here and it didn't seem to have been touched at all.
After a quiet dinner, the of us went off to bed. And the inevitable happened, I woke up at twelve. I went on ahead to my desk, turned my lamp on and put my glasses on -I found it on the toy helicopter Franco brought home. I first read about my father's reaction when I was brought into this world. . .
1 Feb 89
This is the 8th time in my life that I went to the delivery room for a child and I can assure you, THIS WAS THE LAST!
Ouch, dad. . . I tried not to dwell on that part and instead, continued reading.
Hours and hours of labour, I already lost count but it was worth it. Do you know how it feels like to live in the city and see the sea for the first time? How it feels like to get your first toy ever on your birthday? That was what it felt like when I held the young lad.
I could swear, he smiled. Must be a cheery one like his brother.
His mum and I agreed to name him Harold Edward. . . the Edward was her idea whereas Harold was mine so I could give him the pet name "Harry" why? Because he was too slow to come out.
I waited a little bit near nine months for him to get out and he needs to "Harry" up!
I am getting a bit embarrassed. . . I smiled, grateful of the revelation but embarrassed.
But on the serious note, it was one of the best experiences in the world, holding your universe. . . apparently, I have eight but they were all the best.
Now, I am back to staring at these white hospital walls, waiting for the next chance I could hold him again. I'm still excited. They need to "Harry" up.
Last for today. Might not write for tomorrow.
Signing out, James
I shut the journal, laughing. A joke from three decades ago never felt more lame than it does now. I was trying to hold back my laughter but it was far too impossible to do so.
Shit, my dad was terrible joker!
I wish I could have met him better but I was contented with this. Now, I'm not even sure if I wanted to read his letter.
Once I've finished with the entire laughing-at-my-dad's-lame-joke mode, I skipped to the last page where two envelopes are pasted. . . or on second thought, the other one was just caught in between the sheets.
It estranged me to see two different penmanships so I turned serious once again.
One was dated seven years ago, and the other one. . . three years ago. I know which one was my dad's letter and which one isn't. I picked up the one from two years ago, taking deep breaths as I stared at it. I was sure that it was her handwriting.
I ran my fingers through the paper, feeling the indents of her harsh handwriting on it. The ink was dark a bit stained like something wet had ran down the letters. It was a moment of thinking whether you open it gently or rip it apart.
I did neither.
"You already broke me," I muttered.
I was feeling fine moments ago. Now, I just felt I needed a glass of cold water to wake me up or extinguish the flames on my throat. I lifted my glasses up and rubbed my eyes. . . I simply tossed the letter aside and took my dad's, the one that is pasted on the journal.
I carefully peeled it off. I opened the envelope and started reading. . .
I might have tried reading through it seriously but my mind was already floating in the air. It's either too distracted or feeling quite emotional, which would honestly be idiotic so I guess I needed to rest.
Too heavy for one night. I sighed, closing the journal and making my way to my bed. Timingly, tomorrow was the 50th anniversary. Franco and I both needed to be bright and early.
✵✵✵✵
Anniversaries are supposed to flow along smoothly. . . wrong.
The day was almost the worst as a load of things needed fixing. I love fixing things, but when everything is broken all at once, and you've got no idea which to fix first, things tend to be break into chaos.
One afternoon is different than the rest, and quite warmer this time as summer is coming around. Franco is around the HQ factory somewhere, searching for me. He must be somewhere up high, trying to oversee it all but not me, I was under a conveyor belt, trying to sort out what's going on. An hour earlier was a shutdown of a giant mixer and two hours earlier was the generator that needed replacing because I could no longer count the times when it splattered used grease on my face.
I had stains of black oil on my shirt and on my face and though I've wiped it off, the streaks were still visible. I rolled put from under the belt and stood up, stretching my legs. "Right, Wade, give it a go."
Wade, a worker in the cloth section of the dolls and stuffed animals pressed a button, the light lit green and the conveyor moved silently and flawlessly. "Worked, sir," he said, victorious. "Thank you, sir."
"Yep, it worked," I mumbled, sounding pleased. "Fist." I fistbumped him and then told him to go back to work, but of course telling him he did a good job as well. I put my tools back in my belt and walked along, asking where Franco is.
Franco could be busy, today is the actual 50th anniversary of everything the Styles have built and so, he could be preoccupied by numbers of reporters and writers. Thank God for him, I don't have to face any of them.
The day ticked on quickly, around five, the employees started clearing off, the ones obligated to be the last stayed around for the shut down. I stayed on the robots factory as it was the one that takes the longest to shut down -mostly because the old employees have retired at almost the same week and the newbies haven't fully grasped the concept yet - and I still haven't got any idea where Franco is.
"Ben, counterclockwise," I instructed and he nodded, following my instructions then I paid attention to Derick. "Green is on, red is not, blue is bad and yellow is. . . I don't know what the heck yellow is." I'm starting to be confused by the buttons and the lights by the time Chrystal came around yet I kept on instructing.
"Mr. Styles, do you have a moment?" She asked as I was walking swiftly to the final and main shutter.
"Give me a minute," I said. "Kev, that Jazz is damaged, put it on the pile."
"Which pile sir?" Kevin asked as Chrystal was still trying to keep up with my pace. Here I am, trying my best to instruct these kids.
"The one with the damaged toys, Kev." Common sense! I walked faster. I gotta shut these down and tomorrow, maybe separate the newbies into other factories because they cannot survive if they are together.
"Mr. Styles, it will only take a short while," Chrystal said. "You have an interview scheduled." I never scheduled for one. She of all people would know that.
I looked at her briefly before climbing a ladder, the factory silencing itself down with the workers disappearing by waves. I unlocked the main breaker with a key and shut it down, completely shutting the electricity of the factory. Safety.
"I don't have an interview. Never scheduled for one. Franco handles them," I reminded her as I climbed down. "You can go home now, C. Take one robot for Jake."
But she was serious about what she's saying.
"Sir, this is important," she told me strictly. "A writer is just at the door, waiting for you."
I wasn't listening or I didn't hear it, nothing just processed. I knew she spoke but I didn't hear it all too much. "Pardon?" I asked.
"Sir, a writer from Sail, Sand and Sky wants to talk to you, saying it's imperative," she said and I had a bad feeling right then. It was that moment where the only thing you could hear was your heartbeat, not the footsteps walking away, not the chatters of people around you. . . just your heartbeat, slowing down, stopping, and speeding up again.
My eyebrows met, and I frowned. The name of the magazine or newspaper or whatever it is was unfamiliar but I don't have to be a genius to know what kind it was.
I licked my lips, "Okay, send her in."
She nodded. "Yes, sir."
Chrystal never realised how I asked for a 'her' despite the fact that she never told me the gender of that writer. . . it was either I knew or I was counting on it.
But, to speak of the truth, nothing ever prepared me for the moment of her coming back to my life.
Taylor walked in, the light from the skies flashed through as she went through the doors. She was a face easily seen in the crowd. . . or the face I was looking for.
I swallowed harshly. I didn't ask for this but she's already here and we both know she's not here for the stupid interview, no, that was her excuse. Her real reason was yet to be unravelled.
Once she was three metres away, her steps slowed down. Her eyes were on me as she cautiously walked towards me as if I were some wild animal ready to attack. I wasn't. Other than the thought of how she moved and how careful she was, I asked myself what I was feeling. . . if I felt the same spark as I did before, if I saw the sunshine I've seen before. . . I didn't.
"C, you may now leave. Take one home for Jake, please," I said and Chrystal nodded with a thanks. Just like that, she and all the other workers left the door almost like they were giving us enough silence.
I brought my eyes back to Taylor, looking at the details at where she changed and where she didn't. Her hair was longer and she didn't have her bangs anymore, her lips were in the shade of crimson and her eyes, blue as ever. She changed. It might be the years or it might be just how I viewed her but she changed.
I was in front of her, more of a mess than usual though I never bothered fixing a thing. Unkempt hair, messy face, dirty hands, never thought twice to do something about it.
Taylor had always been a ray of light wherever she went, a beautiful face in an unusual place. She always had her eyes bright and her lips ready to smile. How easy was it to her to flaunt across the room and steal my attention.
"Taylor Swift," I addressed, breaking the icy atmosphere she was too gentle to break. "Is it alright if we talk here or do you want to talk somewhere else?"
She didn't answer, at least not for a moment. She was still too cautious, like she is around a time bomb ready to explode. I would have been the time bomb if she came to my door less than a month after we called it off -she called it off- but it's been years. I don't care anymore. "N-No. It's fine here."
Good. I nodded my head and brought out a genuine smile. I waited for to say something, I didn't know how long I would wait, I just waited. She's the one who came.
"How are you?" Taylor asked, her sleepy voice still the same.
"Fine."
"It's been a while since -" she sighed and then I knew we were getting serious. "You know I didn't come here to talk about the anniversary, right?"
I nodded. "Yes." I had a load of questions and comments and statements I wanted her to hear. I've played them over and over inside my head for the next time I might see her yet I didn't say any of those. . . I asked one that just came in. . . "Did you uh. . . get Scott's gift?"
Her lips parted, seemingly like she couldn't believe I asked her. "Y-Yeah."
"Good," I answered.
Silence filled the entire factory, I should be making my last rounds. I should be. That reminds me. "Can I ask you to walk with me while we talk? I gotta - check things."
She nodded and we walked silently. With us walking, it felt much better as it didn't have to be purely silent between us. It was better to hear some noise, something to distract yourself with, otherwise I might just start asking her everything.
I'm not an idiot, these sort of things never happen on coincidence, not with Franco playing matchmaker. He has something to do with this because he was always the who answers the interviews, that was one. Two, he gave me the journal that Taylor has. Three, she shows up the next day.
"This is Franco's fault, isn't it?" I asked her and she nodded. Somehow things feel reversed, she's the one who is less wordy.
"He kind of barged into my apartment. And, yeah. . . he was asking for the journal." There it was, her storytelling mode I've been waiting for. "I'm sorry I didn't -"
"I've heard enough apologies in a lifetime," I told her, we reached the next factory which was empty was the one before. "Why are you really here?" I asked getting impatient of our small talk.
"It was wrong," she said serenely, that tone that used to drag me to her magic and make me never want to get out. Used to. . . "It was wrong to leave you hanging like that."
"And you're realising that now?" I asked her calmly, never glancing at her.
"No." I realised she walked slower yet I didn't mention a thing. "What, am I that insensitive?"
At one point of my life, I thought of that. Not anymore. Plus, that one point of my life was in between of the time when I was pain-stricken in-love with her and the time when I was trying to get over her.
"Not," I answered. "The three years thing was sort of just too long."
"By then I thought you would have been over it," she replied casually, just the calm and subtle tone as always.
"I am." I distracted myself by looking at the pile of kitchen playsets in boxes at the far end of the room. "But I was left hanging."
"I know. And I'm really sorr-"
I looked at her for the first time in a while and looking into my eyes, her sentence was gone. I did tell her not to apologise anymore. It wouldn't mean anything anymore.
"It was done," I told her. "You haven't answered. . . why are you really here?"
"Franco told me what it was like - after we - br-broke up and you didn't deserve that," Taylor said and I am still debating whether I punch Franco later or kick him.
"And he told you about the ring?" I asked, looking at her with a half smile. It disappeared right after when she stopped in her tracks and stared at me incredulously. Was I joking? No. Was I lying? Heck. No.
"What ring?" She asked.
I'm surprised she didn't know that because she seemed to know everything. We both stopped walking and we're face to face once again.
"I was going to propose to you that day," I said, making it sound bland though I was starting to feel uncomfortable. My throat is feeling dry and my chest is feeling tighter. The factory air isn't that much better when it's shut down.
I heard her exhale, I saw how her fingers clutched tightly to her shirt. "What?" Disbelief was painted across her beautiful eyes.
Something hurts, like there was a razor blade inside somewhere and I don't know where it hurts but it was painful. This was her again, with her brilliant talent for torture without knowing how she does it. I didn't want to go back to those memories. I didn't want them back to me just as much as I didn't want her back.
I didn't show it and instead, repeated what I said, "I was going to propose to you that day."