Eleven Eleven

by Micalea Smeltzer

“Does it bother you that I’m younger?” With a gulp, I survey him, getting lost for a heartbeat in those uniquely green eyes. Shaking myself out of my stupor, I dip my chin. “Yes.” His smile returns. “Good.” “Good?” I rear back. “How is that good?” “It means you’re thinking about me in less than decent ways.”

“Come on, Via, what do you say?” He leans in, his mouth pressed to my ear. “Don’t overthink it. Everything is temporary anyway. Me. You. The stars in the sky. We’re all just a blip. Take the risk. I’m worth your while.”

His eyes twinkle with humor. “Do what? Go to my place and play Candy Land? What did you think we were going to do?” He rests his forearm on top of the steering wheel and shifts so he’s looking at me full-on, a chestnut brown strand of hair falling over his forehead in the process.

“Because you were sitting there with this lonely look in your eyes.” He brushes a thumb along my jawline. “I wanted to be the reason you didn’t feel that way anymore.”

She shrugs. “Sometimes, even if you don’t know every detail about a person, they can light up your soul.”

Reid is a vibrant splash of color in the dull landscape that is my life. He’s red. Passion and energy. He’s blue. Friendly, a rock I can hold on to against the crash of waves. He’s green. Infallibly positive, with a generous soul. He’s yellow. The optimistic sunshine on my cloudy days. He’s every color in-between streaked across my blank white canvas.

“Sometimes,” I begin, “when you’re in it, you don’t see the toxicity for what it is.”

“I’m not sure if I believe in destiny either,” she admits, her cheeks pink from the brisk cold. “But since I was a little girl, I’ve done this thing. Where I wish on elevens. When the clock turns to 11:11, it’s like a sign. Angel numbers,” she goes on. “The night I came to Parkerville, I wished on 11:11 that this move would be the right thing. I think that wish came true when I met you.”