Twelve Years & Twenty Minutes

Holly H.
Holly H.
Aug 23, 2017 · 10 min read

A short story, prompted by Reedsy.

“When people die, they are transported to the event that ultimately caused their death. One day, you are hit by a car and sent 12 years into the past.”

The wind pulled my jumper away from my skin and a strong gust swept its way up my back. I shivered and pulled it even tighter. Unsurprisingly, the weather channel had incorrectly predicted the weather of the day to be sunny with a light chill. Instead, it was one of the wettest and windiest days that we’d seen all Fall and I was standing in the middle of the market with no jacket and shoes that were quickly filling up with water. I’d come to meet him like I did every Thursday but couldn’t find him anywhere. As always, we’d arranged to meet by the daffodils at the edge of the park. On our first date he’d shown up with a handful of them for me and decorated my life with them for years since. But he’d been showing up less and less and later and later these days.

“Work.” He’d grunt, when I pestered him about being more on time. More available. “You know how it is at the firm.”

I didn’t, I’d tell him. And he’d never really tell me how it was. Perhaps he didn’t think that I actually wanted to know, or perhaps he was just as bored talking about it as I would be listening to it. Either way, I didn’t know much about what went on in that office.

I looked frustratedly down at my phone, hoping that by some miracle I’d just missed his call. I hadn’t, and decided to walk across the market for coffee. If he was going to make me wait, I would make him wait for me too.

One more time, I thought. I’ll try his phone one more time. I dialed the number as the walkman turned green. Stepping into the street I could hear his phone sending me straight to voicemail, again.

“It’s me. I don’t understand why you’re 20 minutes late and here I am standing in the rain just waiting for you like an idiot. This is the third time you’ve stood me up in weeks and I don’t have time for it anymore, just like you apparently don’t have time for us anymore. If you don’t call me back soon I’ll — ”

I heard it before I saw it. As if in auditory slow motion. The car turned onto the street, peeling around the corner and looking the other way. I was almost to the other side when I felt the cold, wet mettle clip my legs from behind. I fell. The cobblestones felt cold beneath my head. Someone screamed. I’m not sure if it was me. The car screeched to a halt and I heard a man open and close the door and run over to me. He was yelling, calling for help. I couldn’t make out was he was saying but I could see his eyes through the slow black fade of my own. They were green.

Photo by Omar Yassen on Unsplash

I opened my eyes.

It was a day like many others in Edinburgh. The rain hadn’t started as anything worth writing home about but it certainly ended up that way. After hours in the library I had ventured out in search of something warm before tonight’s show. The café was a personal favorite. Hidden at the side of a sleepy bookshop, I’d spent hours there pouring over research papers or grabbing cake on the way home from a night that ran a little too late. I slid my soaking wet self through the side entrance and into an empty table near the far left window. As I peeled my jacket from my damp shoulders, I ordered a coffee and croissant from the counter and smiled softly at the waitress. I hadn’t seen her before in here. She looks friendly, but then again most people do when they’re delivering you baked goods.

I used to come here and fill out the crossword puzzles. For the most part, I’d come with Duncan. He worked in a butcher’s shop across the street. It was how we met. He’d come in for coffee every day on his way into work. I normally spent long mornings there too, finishing up an overdue paper or recovering from the night before. It didn’t take him long to come over to my table and start bothering me at every chance he got.

The sound of a small bell shook me from my memory.

The door opened and chimed as he walked through it. A tall man dipped his head under the low entryway and shook the rain from his hair and boots. He was carrying flowers and a shopping bag and ordered two large coffees at the bar.

“Actually, make one iced and I’ll take a slice of the cake to go. Please,” he said.

I looked up from my corner at the sound of the bag rustling. It was a small space and the only sound piercing the quiet was the pattering of torrential rain hitting the shop’s windows. The barista give him a quick look and got to work releasing steam from the expensive looking coffee machine. He sat down.

I looked back at my own coffee and wrapped my hands tighter around the warm cup. Like most days before it, I’d come here to think. I was meant to meet Duncan that night. It would be the first time we’d seen each other since we’d split. I still wasn’t exactly sure how I felt about it, after the way we ended things, but a small piece of me was curious to hear what he had to say.

Months after we first met I’d discover that Duncan wanted to be a lawyer. He was studying nights at the local college to bring his grades up enough to apply for university. I was amazed by his commitment and work ethic. He’d work all day in the shop, meet me for dinner, and study until sometimes two or three in the morning. We’d arranged to meet one night after his class got out at a pub around the corner. He was late, as usual, and wired when he arrived.

The man chose a table in the corner. He laid his flowers on the seat next to him and smiled warmly as the waitress brought his drinks to the table. Taking a second look out the window he seemed to change his mind about heading home so quickly and carefully unboxed the cake she brought him.

I looked up and out the window also. He caught me doing so.

“No weather that a slice of cake can’t fix, is there?” he pondered.

“No,” I laughed softly. “I guess their isn’t. Only if it’s chocolate, though.”

He grinned. “Alas, carrot.”

I smiled and lowered my nose back into my book. As I did I could hear him shift his chair. His eyes were still on me.

“What are you reading?” He asked.

I looked at him across the cafe, curiously. “A love story written by a friend,” I said, and gestured the cover in the air.

“Wow. Reading a book written by someone you know. That has to be pretty cool. Are you a writer too?” he asked.

Pausing, and not entirely sure how to answer the question, I looked back at my book.

“Sorry,” he said, “you likely didn’t come here to be bombarded with questions. I’ll leave you be.”

“Oh, no!” I said, “it wasn’t that, I just wasn’t quite sure how to answer the question. I am a writer but I’ve been struggling with it recently. So I’ve taken to reading other people’s beautiful words instead.”

Duncan was high that night. I could see it in his face immediately. It wasn’t the first time that I’d seen him like this but I’d certainly hoped that I’d long since seen the last of it. He walked hurriedly through the crowd of people and slid into the booth next to me. As he leaned over to give me a kiss I pushed him away.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“What do you mean what am I doing here?” he responded. “We arranged to meet at 8 you silly goose.”

“You know what I mean, Duncan. Don’t be an asshole.”

He laughed. “You’re being ridiculous. What’s wrong with you?”

I pushed passed him and dropped some cash on the table behind me. He went to grab my wrist but I was already walking toward the exit sign. I heard him push a chair quickly out of the way as he called after me but I didn’t stop to listen to him. Maybe I would’ve been okay with it on any other night. Maybe I wouldn’t have even noticed. Duncan had his bad habits — some worse than others — and I’d even been around him before when he’d explored them. You’re unlikely to forget the first time you walk in on your boyfriend doing lines with a model with purple hair. I’d laughed about it then.

Spilling into the street and sharply inhaling as the cold air hit my bare legs, I walked toward the corner of the block and looked to hail a taxi as quickly as possible. The door swung open behind me and I heard him yell my name down the length of the street. I kept walking. He started running.

“Wait. Please babe, wait!” he yelled after me, finally catching up as I hit a red light.

“You promised, Duncan. You f*cking promised.” I swore at him.

“I didn’t know how to… I didn’t think it would…” he spluttered.

“You didn’t think what? That I would notice? That I would care? Why wouldn’t I care, Duncan? I call you with that kind of news and this is your reaction? We come here to talk about our future, our family, and you show up high off your ass?” I shivered, but the anger was almost helping keep me warm.

“What was I supposed to do? I don’t know what you want me to say to that! I’m not old enough. I didn’t think this would happen to us and I, I…” He faltered.

My taxi pulled to the curb and I pulled away from his hands.

Photo by Tim Wilgus on Unsplash

Pulling myself from my memory and back to the cafe I folded the page in my book and looked up at my new cafe acquaintance. Truthfully, I wasn’t quite sure why. It had started months ago, right after that night with Duncan. Right after that night, two weeks later, when I laid crying on my bathroom floor into my roommate’s new bath mats. Right after that night, days after that, when the doctor told me I was back to being me. Just me.

On the surface it would make sense that my emotional response to the situation might present itself as writer’s block, except that writing had always been my release. Through every painful experience in my life I had turned to writing to help me cope and heal, and I expected — and, quite frankly, needed — this to be no different. But for some reason it was. I had barely written anything in months. For someone using her words to put her through graduate school, it wasn’t ideal.

“I’m trying to figure that out,” I sighed.

“Well,” he said, “have faith. You can never put too much pressure on yourself to create. My wife says that ideas work best when you let them build themselves.”

“Oh, yeah?” I ask “Is she a writer too?”

“She’s a painter. Whenever she’s frustrated with her work or struggling to find a starting point for her next piece she’d go out into our garden and ask the world to bring it to her.”

“Does that work for her?” I asked.

“It does,” he said. “Between you and I, I think it’s a bit kooky but it works for her. She tells me that the universe is filled with ideas. Completely buzzing with them, she says. Remnants of places and stories and people long gone, ready to be brought into the world again. You just have to be bold enough to ask to receive something big and magical and the universe will make it happen. When you ask it to send one your way you’ll never know what it’s going to send you, but it will send you something.”

“That sounds very celestial, and quite romantic,” I say.

“Ha!” he laughed, “She’d love that. No, romance for her comes in the form of coffee and flowers, hence my pit stop today on the way home.”

As if on cue, we both looked up at the nearby window. The rain had stopped.

“I’d better run and make it before the heavens reopen,” he said.

“Me too,” I said. I was going to be late now to meet Duncan.

Pushing himself up from his chair he collected his things and moved toward the bar for his coffee. I packed my book into my purse and slipped my arms into my damp coat. We stepped toward the door in tandem and he graciously pushed it open while offering a cheery “Thank you!” to the waitress now behind us.

Photo by Mario Calvo on Unsplash

“Thank you,” I said. “I know this won’t make much sense, but I needed something like this today.”

He stepped into the sparkling street and looked at me, his green eyes crinkling as he smiled.

“You are most welcome,” he said, before closing the door and shaking open his umbrella. “It’ll all work out,” he gestured, “It always does.”

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Honeysuckle Street

short stories

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Holly H.

Written by

Holly H.

Aspiring podcast producer & actual writer. Overly enthusiastic about reality television.

Honeysuckle Street

short stories

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