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A notepad—white, creased—hit the counter with a plop. A black pen was the next to fall, smacking onto the small, lined sheets—the two objects brought together, just as they had been for the last six hours. It was romantic, in a way, for those that had the eyes to see it.
Lucy, who gazed down at the wooden counter, only sighed at the ridiculous, ill-conceived notion. The scent of coffee tickled her freckled nose: rich, bold. It was a comforting scent, she thought, even if she knew so little about comfort. Surely, however, the warm scent tied people together—a child curiously watching steam rise from their guardian’s white cup; a group of friends trying each other’s drinks; lovers holding both their cups and their partner’s hands.
It was purely conceptual. After all, Lucy didn’t care for spoiled children, obnoxious friends, or mawkish couples, and if the world was fair, then the guardian would die, the friends would turn on each other, and the couple would break up, forced to be alone.
As if she had been stunned by the very word, the red-haired woman paused, straightening her posture. Wasn’t she trying to stop thinking like that?
In a forced fit of distraction, because she didn’t feel ashamed, nor could she force the feeling to bubble to the surface, Lucy turned her head, glancing away. Her braids moved with her, just as they always had. She couldn’t imagine herself with any other hairstyle.
She knew, deep down, that there was a practicality in braids—that they kept thick hair contained; that they minimized distractions. Nonetheless, even as a child, she had wondered if she was hideous with her hair down, the ugly, red strands draped across her bony shoulders, and if that was why the orphanage caregivers had braided her hair before she had learned how to do it herself.
If that were the case, however, it hadn’t helped her get adopted. No one had wanted her. No one had been willing to save her.
She wouldn’t have been a bad daughter. She was temperamental, stubborn, and sensitive, but a mother’s kiss on her freckled cheek—tender, sweet—would have quieted her stifled sobs, and a father’s hand in hers—calloused yet consoling—would have softened her anger. She would’ve made the best grades. She would’ve helped with dinner. She would’ve finished her chores.
Her green-colored gaze landed on the café’s empty sink, several drying dishes sitting just beside it, right where she had left them. Hesitantly, the young waitress lifted her slender hands, staring at her palms.
They were not wrinkled. They were not raw. They were not bloody.
There were traces of her past on her fingers—those nights spent scrubbing at dishes; at her crimson skin; at her sanity—but they were hidden, visible only when she looked for them. Abrasions had always healed better than burns.
But none of that mattered anymore. She was not a child. Any childhood—a soft bed covered in stuffed animals; giggles from a playful chase in the grass; a mouth stuffed with chocolate—had been stripped from her, and she was still forced to walk forward as an adult.
She could not reclaim what had been lost, nor could she replace the memories—but, admittedly, there had been times where she had gotten lost in her daydreams, believing that she truly had parents that loved her and a classmate that liked her, and she had snapped out of these reveries with tears streaming down her pink cheeks, only to be reminded with a hot iron poker that some children were granted everything while she was given nothing.
Just to feel something, the waitress brought her hands together, squeezing the pale flesh. A breath left her lips, heavy yet soft. She let her gaze lift and wander to the space around her: clean, safe. There were no coworkers—no customers: ones that she was trying to see as people, despite her struggling, even if her eyes twitched when she saw them pull out too much yen.
She was trying to work on her jealousy, too.
Having a random burst of energy, Lucy swiftly wiped her hands on her blue-colored apron, flesh meeting fabric. She stepped out from behind the café’s counter, her cheap, black shoes tapping against intricate, wooden flooring. Only when she approached the café’s front doors did she swipe the silver key ring from the front pocket of her apron, gently pushing one of the simplistic doors open and stepping out, only to turn on her heel.
With quiet determination, she found the correct key and leaned in, locking one door and then the next. Just to ensure the quality of her work—because she could not be denied the trust that she had been given—she pulled at both door handles. Neither of them moved. Successful, the young woman slipped the key ring back into her apron’s pocket, turning to the left.
“Ah!”
A taller figure stood right before her, dressed in black and white. His belt hung low, slowly swinging at his side, and his hand remained raised, obscured by a black, fingerless glove.
“Montgomery-chan!” Atsushi chirped, an enthusiastic smile tugging at his lips, only for his expression to soften at her reaction. “Sorry,” he added quickly, “did I scare you?” His concern was so sincere that it was frustrating—a glimpse of the life that Lucy could have lived, if only someone had actually worried. “I told you I would wait.”
“How long have you been here?” Lucy pressed, trying to erase the other’s memory of her shock. She wasn’t fearful. She was strong—a lady sculpted by bruises, burns, and betrayal.
Embarrassment seemed to flood Atsushi’s form, the corner of his lips twitching. His hand moved, too, traveling to his neck, two fingers rubbing at the smooth skin. “Not that long, really,” he answered, honest, but his breathing had momentarily faltered.
The redhead merely crossed her arms, tilting her head away in false arrogance. She was much like a house cat, in that regard, pretending to be something that she was not. “Well, warn me next time!” she huffed.
The young man’s face flushed in response, the soft pink contrasting against his short, light-colored hair—with a single black streak. He, on the other hand, possessed the energy of a tiger. He did not prance and pretend. He did not bend and break—not for her, at least. “I told you I would wait!” he argued gently, defensive.
There was truth to that, of course. Atsushi was irritatingly truthful—but only if you encircled his haphazard world. Hypocritical redheads, with only one parachute, didn’t count, apparently.
Deep down, however, in a place she kept tucked away—all fragile porcelain and chipped edges—Lucy wanted to believe that she meant more to him, now. They had laughed at the same stupid remarks. They had taste-tested the same horrible drinks. It wouldn’t be right for her to care for him and for him not to care for her.
But there were signs that she clung to, with all the hope and desperation of a teary-eyed child: a tender smile in her direction; an earnest question; even their earlier conversation.
“Do you get off soon?” Atsushi had asked her, looking up at her from his usual spot in the green-colored booth. The overhead light caught in his eyes—in the picturesque sky of purple and yellow.
Lucy had only squinted, confused by the sudden question. It hardly mattered. She wasn’t tired. Fewer customers had come in, and only two of them had been difficult to deal with, the older man reeking of alcohol, and the dark-haired woman possessing a snarky tongue that Lucy had combatted with feigned elation and obliviousness.
Nonetheless, she answered. “In a little more than two hours.”
The detective had blinked, then, tilting his head ever so slightly. Light, choppy hair had shifted with the minor movement. “Would you wanna go on a walk?”
The words pierced through the woman’s heart like a flying dart, leaving only a sensation that was both warm and bubbling. There was a heat at her cheeks that had not been there prior, and stupidly, with a pressing weight to her words, she inquired, “Why?”
“It’s just—”
Atsushi paused. He seemed guilty, almost, his gaze wavering and his shoulders tucking. His lips moved, his tongue swiping at his sharp teeth, and, for a moment, Lucy wondered if his mind was like hers: filled with numerous novels when she could only voice so little.
When the explanation did come, it came just a smidge softer. “I haven’t gotten to spend much time with you.”
Lucy didn’t want to entertain the idea. She knew the type of person she was: the type that clutched onto radiant daydreams, over and over again, and had only gotten hurt by it.
But wanting had never helped her. It was carved in her scars. It was etched in her crooked teeth. So, of course, a thought had slipped through the crevices of her suspended shield: He wants to spend time with me.
A knot had loosened, somewhere, and another one had formed, snagging on her stomach. Wide-eyed, something buzzed beneath the waitress’ freckled skin.
Her words were forced from her throat, breathy and loud, and she had hoped that they hadn’t caught on her braces. “A walk is fine,” she stated, swift, and—albeit embarassingly—she had suddenly grabbed Atsushi’s empty teacup from the smooth, wooden table, hurrying away.
Now, the red-haired woman didn’t hide her expression with a turned back and quick feet. She faced forward—a sunflower meeting the sun. Her soft eyes flicked back in Atsushi’s direction, and their gazes met, focused.
“You did, I guess,” Lucy finally admitted, giving credit where credit was due. She slowly unfolded her arms, letting them hang at her sides like ribbons. “So,” she started, controlling her tone, “where are we going?”
“I actually didn’t have anywhere in mind,” Atsushi voiced, the words coming as a surprise. He had plenty of time to think of something, being the one who had asked and all.
Lucy’s eyebrows raised, her tone accidentally sharpening—thick, prickly thorns embedded in her soul. “So, we’re just walking in one direction?”
“If that’s what you’d like,” the light-haired man returned, casual and indifferent, unaware of the impact that his remark had made.
The waitress’ heart pulsed in her chest, moved by the consideration. It was pathetic, surely, how touched she was by such a simple act, but Atsushi wanted to do what she wanted to do, and something nice and fuzzy flowed to her fingertips. “I didn’t say that,” she spouted quickly, pausing. “But I don’t care.”
“This way?” Atsushi asked, lifting his hand and pointing behind her. “Or that way?” he said, retracting his index finger and sticking out his thumb, pointing behind him. “Or—”
“That way,” Lucy interrupted, pointing behind him. She had gone the opposite direction numerous times, and a change of scenery might be nice. She tried not to think about how, for the briefest moment, she noted that it was—probably—the direction that Atsushi needed to go, in order to get home safe.
The detective dropped his hand and glanced behind him, like something could have changed. Perhaps it was for the best, really. Atsushi wasn’t unfamiliar with kidnappers. “Okay!” he replied, clearly seeing nothing of notice. He faced forward with a small smile, only to turn to the side, close to the café.
Lucy recognized the action, ambling forward. Atsushi followed, slipping beside her like it was natural—like she had never intended to imprison him; like she had never taunted him.
It must have been difficult to be so forgiving.
“How was your shift?” Atsushi inquired, and despite the dull subject matter, he did sound genuinely curious. Lucy wasn’t sure why, of course. Nothing much had changed in those few hours. Nothing much could change, her actions mind-numbingly repetitive. Even her sentences were the same, although she had stuttered every now and then.
“It was”—Lucy paused, not wanting to drop a suitcase that she was perfectly capable of carrying—“fine.”
“That’s good,” the young man returned, the words pillowy. If he had noticed that something was wrong, he didn’t point it out. Maybe there was a part of him that knew, deep down, that something would always be wrong.
Lucy could wake up one morning, the sun bright and the birds happy, with everything she could ever want—a loving family; a bundle of friends; a storybook romance—and it wouldn’t fix what had happened to her. She would still hesitate before undressing, her scars thick, pink, and ugly. She would still think of her screams when she saw fire, knowing how dangerously it paired with metal.
Again, none of that mattered, and the two of them fell silent. Their quiet footsteps were synced, black shoes meeting concrete. The blue sky hung fondly overhead: pretty, clear.
Many seconds passed before the redhead finally parted her soft lips, asking, “How’s work?”
Atsushi paused, only to sigh. The sound was muted, but it was there, coated in stress and fatigue. “It’s not any different than usual.”
“So, bad, then,” Lucy remarked. She hadn’t meant to sound so certain, yet based on what she knew, Atsushi’s job wasn’t easy. She had posed a problem herself, after all—but she hadn’t indulged in cryptic messages and hidden bombs. She was merely a parasite latched to a rotten host.
“No,” the detective countered. It was more likely that he was trying to defend his strong-willed friends, rather than his job. “It could be worse.” He followed the sentence with a short, swift exhale, like it was funny—like humor was a tether when a dark sea sat below.
Lucy thought of Atsushi’s scars—of those marks he had willingly shared, when she had only been cruel. She thought that he had been privileged—a friend; a prize. She supposed, disgustingly, that she couldn’t imagine someone hiding their scars when she only wanted to parade hers: a terrible sign that she had survived so much and just wanted someone to care.
“Everything could be much worse,” she voiced.
“Yeah,” Atsushi agreed, “but it isn’t.” He turned to look at her, and Lucy glanced back, noting the gentle crease of his eyes and the tenderness of his smile. “Not right now.”
Lucy tried to ignore the warmth in her damaged form, glancing away. “Right.”
The two fell silent once more, but it wasn’t awkward. It was comforting—a sweet, merciful embrace. Their feet took them forward, and with every step, their surroundings became more green, the nearby plants having more space to thrive.
Minutes passed before red drew closer. Lucy turned and paused at the sight, hovering over the bright red tulips: dainty, healthy. She had overheard a conversation, once, of a strange, awkward man that had circled the orphanage.
He had called tulips pixie babies’ cradles, ranting and raving about how mother pixies would come out of the woods at twilight and rock their young to sleep in the tulip cups. He said that was why tulips lasted much longer than other flowers—that the pixie babies needed a cradle until they were all grown up, and they were all grown up very quickly. He declared, with all the tenacity and absurdity that a madman could, that on a spring evening, when the tulips are out, you can hear the sweetest fairy music in his garden, and it is the pixies singing as they rock their babies to sleep.
Embarrassingly, Lucy, still young, had briefly wondered how exciting her life could be if he had adopted her. She knew, now, that she was stupid. He must’ve been intoxicated. She, however, was of her right mind, and she gazed down at the red-colored tulips and heard nothing. She felt something, however: that tug in her heart, seeking likeness.
“Hmm?” Atsushi hummed, confused, noticing her absence and turning his head. Seeing her in place, he stopped walking, spinning to take her in more easily.
Laughably, the redhead met his multicolored gaze—attentive, curious—and pointed downwards, like a fascinated toddler. “I wish I was like that.”
“You wish you were a flower?” the detective asked, after a short moment of hesitation. It was clear that he had tried to think of something better to say—something kinder; something smarter.
Embarrassment still shot through the young woman’s veins: prompt, hot. “No!” she hissed, with the same intensity of the sensation. Who wanted to be a flower? Did he really find her that strange?
“Oh,” Atsushi replied, his lips in a line. Gears were turning in his head, clearly, but they weren’t turning fast enough, caught on something. “Umm—”
“I want to be like a red tulip,” Lucy attempted to explain. She knew the feeling, fervent and envious, yet it was difficult to put it into words. She wanted to look and feel like a red tulip, but she didn’t want to be one. She wanted to be just as pretty. She wanted to be just as vibrant. She wanted to possess the same aromatic and ephemeral air.
But she didn’t want to be a red tulip.
“I don’t”—Atsushi paused—“exactly follow…” He trailed off, his eyes narrowing. Usually, it was a judgmental expression, aimed at a certain brunet or a touchy, black-haired girl, but it seemed a bit different, now, formed by genuine thought. “Like,” the light-haired man started, finding something in the depths of his mind, “free from responsibility?”
“If that was the case, the color wouldn’t matter!” Lucy quickly countered with a huff, frustration bubbling beneath her pale, freckled skin. It wasn’t aimed at Atsushi—not really. It was aimed at the only person who was listening—who likely ever would, when she was so critical—and that just so happened to be Atsushi.
“I’m talking about that feeling, you know?” she added, trying to simmer rather than boil. There was no need to overflow. “That—” The redhead hesitated, her next words poisonous with honesty. “That jealous feeling.”
“Jealous?” Atsushi repeated, and it was clear by his tone that he didn’t understand. That did nothing to halt the storm forming in Lucy’s stomach, nauseating and unpredictable. Did Atsushi think less of her? she suddenly worried, her head heavy. He knew how she was at her worst. Did he think that she wasn’t trying to change—all because of a poorly-described sentiment?
She recognized the wrongness of it all immediately—Atsushi’s expression; Atsushi’s questions—only feeling more ashamed. Her heart began to race in her fragile, white ribs as she sputtered, “I get it with, well, red tulips, and deers, and safety pins.”
“Safety pins?” Atsushi muttered. That was fair, Lucy supposed. Out of the three items, it seemed like the odd one out: cold, sharp, lifeless. But the problem did not lie in that. It lay in the other’s gaze, where there wasn’t even a flicker of recognition.
The waitress paused at the realization, her green eyes widening. She hadn’t realized, before, how thick the air outside was. “You don’t ever have that feeling?”
Atsushi didn’t answer, his lips slightly parted. His gaze lingered on her form—all shocked and pathetic—long eyelashes fluttering against his soft skin with every blink. It was difficult to read his expression. Maybe he pitied her, but did it really matter?
“Oh,” Lucy voiced, because in the end, Atsushi surely thought that she was weird. She wasn’t like him at all. She was erratic. She was confusing. She was a freak, like everyone else had said, her ability—her protection—too dangerous.
Emotions swirled inside of her like a hurricane: anguish, irritation, regret. They traveled to her scarred fingers, ravenous, her hands clenching at her sides. It was a semblance of control—a lifted shard amongst splinters. It was a distraction. She hadn’t known what she had expected to happen. Did she want Atsushi to tell her that she was like a stupid flower? It’s not like the gratification likely would have lasted that long, anyway.
“I see,” Lucy noted through gritted teeth, suddenly wishing that Atsushi had agreed, or lied, or never invited her on a walk at all—even if it had pleased her in the moment. She couldn’t tell if she wanted to yell or cry—and both acts were overdramatic and unfair. So, she turned around, not letting the detective see her expression: an act of mercy.
She did not want to leave him. She didn’t want to be alone—not now, not ever—her heart hammering at the mere thought of it, broken and brittle, but if she left first, then she might overthink everything just a bit less. She might be able to lay on the floor, her thick, red braids resting beside her, weightless, and figure out how she could tell Atsushi that she was testing him—the lie tender and savory. She could pretend that she didn’t want to be as stunning as a red tulip, or as sacred as a deer, or as solid as a safety pin—all of which in ways that were too difficult to explain, because it was their appearance and attention that mattered.
Lucy forced herself forward with a dry, tight throat, heading where she had once been. Just when she thought that she had finally done it—that she would finally get somewhere, a hand grabbed her wrist.
“Wait!” Atsushi yelled, although she could hear him clearly. His grip was firm and warm, the black fabric of his fingerless gloves pressing against her freckled skin. The red-haired woman stopped in place, the confident touch a tether between staying and going. How ironic it was, then, that it was Atsushi’s touch: someone that she had risked her life for.
She needed to grow—or regrow—a spine. She was frozen in place—and why? Because Atsushi had spoken to her? Because he had touched her?
“I-I think I get it,” the young man added, and despite the hesitation, he didn’t sound puzzled. He sounded sincere.
Nonetheless, suspicion still coiled in Lucy’s stomach like a wild snake, hissing and biting at her bruised edges. She turned around, and Atsushi cautiously let go, his multicolored gaze caring and desperate, almost. “Do you really?” she inquired quietly, her eyebrows pinched.
She thought that Atsushi was going to mention cats. It was the easiest response, his ability allowing him to transform into a white tiger, and thus it was the simplest lie.
“I don’t know if it’s exactly the same,” the light-haired man started, to her surprise, and there was something admirable in the honesty, “but I’d like to be like a chameleon.”
The waitress thought about that, for a second, her mouth closed. She thought about the lizard—about its perceptibility; about its grip. It was able to change—a creature shaped, both physically and emotionally, by its surroundings. It was able to rely on itself. It was calm. It was cool. Strangely, with Lucy’s eyes sweeping over the other, who carried anxiety like a second shadow, it made a lot of sense.
“A-And konpeitō,” Atsushi added swiftly, and that stunned Lucy far more than the lack of cats had. The answer took much thought. It also took much understanding.
Lucy pictured that Japanese candy, shaped like stars and sugary sweet. It was colorful. It was flavorful. It was adored—by all, and at different times: on good days; on bad days; at tea ceremonies; at weddings. Her knowledge was understandably muddled, Canadian blood flowing through her veins, but she knew that konpeitō was a rare thing to say, at the very least.
And Atsushi had said it to her.
The observation left her preening, the air lighter and her thin form looser. Whatever sensation that had overtaken her throat and stomach—inconsiderate, aching—had faded, replaced by something undeniably lovely. She was happy—or as close to it as she could get, in such a short time, and with self-pity lodged in every fiber of her being.
She knew it wouldn’t last, of course. She was not a happy person by nature, and she had already spent her shift pretending to be one, but she found toasty, filling comfort in Atsushi’s understanding. Maybe he was right—maybe his feelings weren’t the same, but if they weren’t, they sounded awfully close.
Safety pins. Konpeitō. They were both strange things to envy.
Lucy slowly began to smile, unable to hide her imperfect teeth. “That’s oddly fitting.”