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The asphalt stretched before him like a gray ribbon sliding between prairies of intense green and hills that gently undulated toward the horizon. At the wheel of his '82 Ford, a deep red that shone under the light that was beginning to tilt, Buzz Lightyear drove with his hands steady on the wheel and his heart beating with a rush that was not typical of him.
He had just returned from Star Command, after two whole weeks on an exploration mission to the far reaches of the Andromeda galaxy. He had traveled distances that the mind could barely comprehend, gazed upon nebulas of impossible hues and worlds that were born and died in the blink of an eye; and yet, none of that had filled his chest with the mix of joy and tremor he felt now, approaching that corner of the universe they called Earth — the Capital Planet for few, simply home for so many.
It was a young planet, still in the dawn of the 21st century, with modest technological development compared to civilizations from other systems. There were no ships routinely sailing through its skies nor cities shining with synthetic lights above the clouds. But precisely that slowness, that warmth of things that grow slowly, of hands that work the land and voices that rise in songs by the fire, was what had captivated him from the very first day. Here, life breathed, it had aroma, it had skin. Here, people didn't run after the future; they lived in the present, with deep roots and open hearts.
When he first arrived, on a reconnaissance mission that was supposed to be brief, he had no idea that his destiny would change forever. He met Woodrow Pride, Woody, the sheriff of that town with a name as familiar as Andysville: a man with a warm smile and loyal gaze, from whom he soon became inseparable. Together they traveled paths, lived anecdotes that he would forever treasure, and he learned to love that land as if it were his own.
But the greatest adventure, the discovery that surpassed any star or planet he had ever charted, came when his eyes met those of Jessica Jane Pride.
Jessie. Her Flower in the Desert.
There was no more fitting metaphor for her: beautiful, resilient, blooming with a natural beauty that seemed impossible in the midst of any landscape, and with an inner light that illuminated everything around her. From the very first moment he saw her, he understood that he had an entire universe to explore before him, one much vaster and more wonderful than any corner of the cosmos he had ever visited. Her eyes—large, expressive, with a hue that held the brightness of honey and the depth of sunsets—revealed to him in a blink that his place in the world would no longer be solely among the stars.
And there was something so simple and so powerful that it still amused him to think about it: every time he donned his Guardian suit and looked at her, the mechanical wings he carried on his back seemed to come alive, unfolding suddenly, perhaps not obedient to any button, but to the involuntary impulse of a heart that raced without warning. It was something she couldn't explain with any science, manuals, or protocols; it simply happened, like the sun rising each morning, like the stars shining each nite.
He drove more slowly as he entered the dirt road that led to the ranch, feeling how excitement mixed with unease. He knew that what he had to tell her could not wait any longer. The two weeks of distance had given him plenty of time to think, to miss her, to understand that no mission was more important than what he felt for her.
In the passenger seat, carefully wrapped in soft paper and tied with a cream-colored ribbon, rested the roses. Two dozen. And in his mind, that song he had first heard back in '99, which had stayed in his head throughout the entire trip, reminded him exactly of what he needed to say.
Throughout the entire journey back, his mind had not stopped weaving and unweaving ways to reach her. Thousands of ideas blossomed and faded: should he say it all at once? Should he take her in his arms before she could speak? Letting silence say what words could not reach? None seemed enough to her, none could contain everything she carried inside.
But it was then, when the doors of Star Command were already far behind and the dirt road began to welcome him, that he heard it. It played softly from the radio, a voice and a melody that felt familiar and close, like a hug waiting for him in the air: "Two Dozen Roses." And it was as if the wind itself cleared his mind; the wheels of his thoughts, previously disordered, finally began to turn with a clear direction.
He then remembered the first time he heard her. She was by his side, with eyes shining with enthusiasm, because music — and especially country music — was for Jessie as natural as breathing. Whenever he could, he would take her hand and teach her a new song, telling her the story it carried within, and he listened to them all with the same delight, marveling at the way those voices knew how to name what the heart felt. But that one in particular had always been his favorite, and now, at this very moment, it seemed written for him, for this moment, for what he had to say.
Without wasting a moment, as soon as he had the chance, he searched for and obtained the roses. Two dozen of them, so red, so vibrant, that they effortlessly evoked her hair —that reddish-brown hair that had a life of its own, that would come loose and wave in the wind, as free and beautiful as the woman he loved.
And as his hands caressed the soft petals, the memory of what had happened before he left returned with clarity, and with it, the pang of regret.
It had all started right after his last mission. He had faced Zurg's henchmen, and although he had returned alive, he had not returned whole: bruises, wounds, the deep fatigue of someone who has fought beyond their strength. Jessie had seen him arrive like that, bruised and silent, and fear had gripped her suddenly. It wasn't just the fear of seeing him injured; it was the certainty that up there, where he fulfilled his duty, dangers always lurked. And just then, when he was barely starting to heal, the urgent call came: he had to return to Star Command immediately.
Her concern turned into words spoken with a trembling voice, and he, exhausted and tense, responded with the wrong firmness. What started as fear in her and duty in him turned into an argument that grew out of control, until they found themselves saying things they didn't mean, with anger and anguish mixed together. And then, without having planned it, Buzz left. He boarded his ship with wounds still unhealed, both of the body and the soul, and set off into space, leaving her there, without a gentle farewell, without an embrace to seal the promise of return.
Almost the moment the ship took off, he regretted it. He wanted to turn back, land, apologize, stay long enough for her to understand, for him to understand as well. But it was already too late: the distance had come between them, and for a full fourteen days, silence was the only companion they had.
Now, with the roses on the seat and the road open before him, he knew that nothing mattered more than arriving. That the stars could wait, that the missions could wait, but she could not. No more farewells without resolution. No more silences without breaking.
The rest of the journey melted into a single melody, repeating in his mind a thousand times, as if his very heart were singing the lyrics.
If I had two dozen roses
And an older bottle of wine
If I really coulda hung the moon
Would it change your mind
If I could cry a little harder
And get a little less sleep at night
If I had two dozen roses
Would it change your mind
It seemed impossible to him that two men—Mac McAnally and Robert Byrne—had written something that fit so perfectly with their story, as if the song had always been waiting there, anticipating this moment, for him and for Jessie.
Nite had already fallen when the car's headlights illuminated the entrance of Round Up Pride Ranch. He knew that Woody and Bo wouldn't be there that nite; they had mentioned it before leaving, and that left him with a strange mix of calm and tremor: finally alone with her, without hurry, but also without anyone to soften the moment if things went wrong.
He turned off the engine and the silence enveloped him suddenly. He took the roses in his hands, took a deep breath, and got out of the car. Each step toward the door seemed heavier than the last, as if the very ground knew what was at stake. He held the key in his hand, but upon reaching the threshold, he put it in his pocket and preferred to ring the bell. He didn't want to enter without permission; he didn't want to be an intruder in her heart, not after everything.
The seconds that passed felt like an eternity to him, each one as long as an entire day of those fourteen without seeing her. And then the door opened.
The world stopped.
There she was. The face he had drawn a thousand times in his mind from afar, now real, just a few steps away, illuminated by the soft light of the hallway. Her eyes—those deep green eyes that were his refuge and his universe—looked at him with surprise, with longing, with everything they had not been able to say to each other. Buzz felt that he could drown in them, happy to lose himself forever.
—Buzz... —she replied, and his name came out soft, trembling, as if she had also been repeating it silently.
None of them knew what to say afterward. The words got stuck between the sadness of absence and the joy of reunion, so dense and palpable that they could almost be touched in the air. Jessie looked at the two dozen roses, so red and vibrant, and something in her gaze softened even more: she understood. She didn't need any explanation; she recognized the gesture, remembered the song, and knew that he had returned ready to make amends.
Without saying anything else, she stepped forward and threw herself into his arms with all the strength of what she had held back for weeks.
—How much I've missed you! —she exclaimed, clinging to him as if she feared that if she let go, he would disappear again—. Buzz, how much, how much...
Buzz wrapped her in his arms with tender desperation, holding her, feeling her alive, warm, real against his chest. The impulse was so strong that they both lost their balance and fell together onto the wooden floor of the porch, without letting go for a single moment.
"Forgive me, forgive me," he said between kisses he left on her forehead, her cheeks, her hands. I was a fool, I left without fixing anything, I left you scared and I left...
—No, me too, me too —she replied, kissing him in turn, seeking his lips, his jaw, everything she had missed—. I said things I didn't mean, I blamed you without wanting to...
"I thought about you every second up there," he said, cradling her face in his hands. No star shines like you, none.
—And I have waited for you every second down here —she whispered with her eyes filled with bright tears—. My Space Guardian... the sweetest in the whole world... don't leave like that again, please.
"—Never again —he promised, sealing it with a deep kiss, where all the apologies, all the reunions, all the songs they had yet to sing together fit—." Never again without you.