Heart on a Shoestring

Heart on a Shoestring

by Marilyn Grey

Book #4
in 

The Unspoken Series

Best after reading
Where Love Finds You
 

and
Down from the Clouds

and
The Life I Now Live

To:

Kristyn Magness

For
:

quite simply: being weird

extended version:

Who could’ve possibly imagined we’d still be friends after our AOL friendship blossomed in a sweaty gym class. We also can’t forget the prologue. Peach Oatmeal. Your desk. First grade. Some things are meant to be cherished. So, why am I dedicating this book to you, of all books? Well, because I’m weird like Miranda and you have a deep appreciation for strange people. It’s not just that though. You accept the least of us with open arms. You can handle a passionate fiery person who constantly tells you to stop eating the poison and still be her friend. You can handle angry rat faces and sarcasm with delight. You are a passionate person yourself, a dreamer, a wife, a mother, a friend, a daughter, and a huge encouragement to people like me. Since day one, you’ve read my silly attempts at writing a novel. You cheered me on from the start. You are the first person to read every book I’ve written. Every time. You are an amazing person in so many ways and I can’t thank you enough on this short little page. You are a lovely person and an even lovelier friend. I hope we have many more years together. One day, when we’re old, if we make it, I’d like to have conversations about J. Holmes and organic milk, simply because you’re the one person who would. Thank you for being weird too. Weird people appreciate weird people like you wouldn’t believe. Across the miles, I scream out to you loud enough to scare the birds in the tree outside of my window:

THANK YOU

Some people spend their lives walking by people on benches, while others spend their lives sitting on benches analyzing the people walking by. My friends would say I’m the one racing by the lonely bench sitters, candy pink hair tossed in the wind, dreams clutched in my shoulder bag, stars in my eyes, but I’m not. 

I know, it’s shocking. 

Once again, streetlights twinkled in the early summer air as I sat on another iron park bench. The best place on earth. At least to me. The place where people became stories and stories became dreams and dreams sparked the hidden echoes of my heart. All on a paint-chipped park bench. 

An older woman jogged by and stepped on someone’s lost newspaper, crumpling it and sending it flopping down the path behind her. One persons hard work, another’s doormat. I turned my head and watched her jog into the clouds, back to her smiling newborn and eager husband, back to the beauty of her family. 

She passed a young couple huddled together, shivering in the nighttime chill. They walked by me, laughing, her head tilted back against his chest, eyes on the budding tree branches above them, their love story unfolding like a handwritten note from a seventh grade crush. Excitement abounds. His arm, tight around her waist, and the frown on his face when she checked her phone, showed his possessiveness. But the cherry lipstick mark an inch from the corner of his mouth showed that she liked being owned as much as he liked owning her. 

I listened. Watched. Breathed in and adored all that lived around me. Around me. Always around me. I so envied the world around me. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my own life too, but that didn’t stop me from wishing I could close my eyes and slip into someone else’s life. You know, explore the world with different eyes, a different heart.

Another couple walked by, swinging hands in the breeze. A ring sparkled on her left hand, but not his. Engaged. Judging by their excitement, he proposed recently. He looked ahead as they passed me. Her eyes met mine, then she turned to make sure he wasn’t looking at me too. Funny. Her insecurity would sure enough wilt their relationship. Odd considering her preoccupation with herself seemed more important than him. Her awkward five inch heels and layers of makeup made it obvious. When he tried to touch her hair she pulled back and rearranged it. Perhaps she had mistaken the eyes of lust for the beat of his heart. They walked into a growing fire. Soon their swinging hands would fall to their sides as she consumed herself with dresses and flowers and cakes. Everything but her beloved. The beginning of the end. The end of their bliss. The beginning of struggles and conflicts and maybe, just maybe, their love would triumph through it all.

Rare though.

I’m not cynical, I swear. You can call the sky blue or you can find a way to make yourself believe it’s green, but in the end it’s still blue. I’m not afraid to see blue even when it’s not the most appealing. Love is hard. It’s not easy to make love to a person only to find out that their very person is chipping away the rotted parts of your person, making you into something better, but often in the most excruciating ways. That’s when most people run. But hey, that’s love. Becoming one. Being one. Living as one and morphing your soul into the soul of another.

Then, there’s marriages like my parents have….

A group of high school kids walked by. Joking and stepping on each others shoe laces while slapping gum and spraying out a colorful array of cuss words like graffiti on the walls of life. Heads held high, shoulders back. Maybe juniors. Just on the brink of saying goodbye to their senior friends and claiming the role themselves. The ever coveted senior status. When you think you’re the coolest thing to walk the locker-lined halls, when really you’re just like everyone else. A puppet in the game of life. Controlled by everything around you and not enough inside you.

I stood and walked away from the bench, becoming a passer by. I nodded to each empty bench I passed, bowed, said hello, and kept walking. Not hello to imaginary friends. Sorry, I’m not that weird. Saying hello to the dreamer that would sit there next, wishing and hoping to slip into the life of a passerby for a minute. Only a minute. To see if the grass is really greener on the other side.

I walked fast, tilted my head back, and stretched out my arms. Couldn’t hide my smile if I wanted to. The cool air clung to my cheeks as the stars twinkled above. Enormous fire balls that never moved. Ah, what it would be like to be a huge ball of plasma. So neutral. Yet so exhilaratingly beautiful, held together by your own gravity. Yes, gravity. Stability. Words I had yet to acquaint myself with. I coalesced with no one. Not even myself. 

I looked ahead. Dreaming of the day I’d share these thoughts with another soul. It would take a lot for someone to know me. The real me. Not even sure if I did.

Love. It would be hard. Very hard. Breaking down my walls and letting someone in? I don’t know. I liked my life. Singleness didn’t scare me as much as marriage did. Commitment. Falling in love a thousand times appealed to me more than falling in love once and working to feel in love with that same person every morning and night of my life. For. Ever. 

Besides, most guys were far, far too normal for me. And I just can’t do normal. 

“Oh, are you a southern belle tonight?” a man said.

I turned. Ah, Earl. The skinny homeless man with one half of his dirty button-down shirt tucked in, just like his life. He dreamed to help the world, to do something nobel prize worthy. He always spoke of Rosa Parks and Maya Angelou. But his breath always smelled of Jack Daniels and he could barely help himself off the curb. I scooted my dress out of the way, did a curtsy, and said with my finest southern drawl, “Fancy seeing you here tonight, Mr. Earl. Need some help off thissy here curb?”

He nodded and took my hand. I helped him to the park bench where he leaned back and almost passed out.

“Yesterday you were Irish with blue hair and now you’re a southern lady with a huge dress and pink hair,” he said. “Unless you are a dream.”

“Why, yes, sir. My name is Annabelle and we’re back quite a few decades in the state of Georgia.” I spun in a circle. “Would you like to see my five step waltz?”

“Your five step what?” He mumbled and smiled. “You about the strangest girl I know.”

“My pleasure.” I bowed and danced away, down the streets of life, right to my apartment door.

Derek called me, but I ignored and skipped up the steps and unlocked my door. He wanted to visit again. He was nice and all. Extremely attractive, in a rugged Johnny Depp kind of way. But strange. And boring. Nothing like his sister, Ella, who saw life through the eyes of Cupid. And I dreamed of a man who would dress up with me and dance the streets of Philadelphia. He barely changed his shirt, much less his mind. I couldn’t even convince him to ride a go-kart.

Not my flavor starburst, that’s for sure. I wanted a cherry. A little sweet, a little sour, and yum-diddly-licious. He was a lemon. Yellow, but not like the sun. More like a bitter, rotten lemon rind. Did I mention that he was nice though? He was nice. And had a great smile. A great smile he rarely showed.

He texted. I ignored and rolled onto my bed. Feet in the air, hoop dress a flying, I smiled.

Life didn’t need a man to be enjoyed. In fact, for me, a man could ruin everything. Take my fun and leave me lifeless.

Mmm, yeah, not ready for such things. Not ready at all. 

No one, and I mean no one, pissed me off like Miranda did. She flirted like someone playing darts with no hand-eye coordination. Not a lick of aim in her body. A casual flirt who probably gave hundreds of guys the wrong impression, like she obviously did to me, but something drew me to her. No idea why. I swore off women long ago. Marriage? Not for me. That didn’t change, but I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to see her again. Her odd and dimpled smile and whacked out hair styles. If anything, just to laugh.

I needed to laugh. Work zapped the life out of me like a squirrel eating an electric wire. My parents convinced my sister and I into college. Ella lasted a week. I lasted eight years. Yes. Eight. Don’t ask.

Eight years of school and all I had to show for it was a dingy apartment and faded jeans.

Derek Rhodes. Marketing Manager for Doodle Dandy Dog Candy. At your service. Pleased to meet you. How do you like my fake smile? Good. Great. Wonderful.

The only person I can blame is myself. No one, not even my parents, knew my successes or failures. I told no one who I was and what I really did. Even created a fake name and legally changed it. My family knew me as Derek Rhodes. My old colleagues knew me as David Bennett. I kept the two world’s separate because I feared the exact thing that happened. Failure. And man, that kind of failure is more than embarrassing. It’s flat-out crippling. No one could know David Bennett. I didn’t even want to know him. Hated everything he did and loathed his existence.

Yeah. Needed a smile.

Something to take my mind off of what could have been and help me start over. But the girl wouldn’t answer her phone. Only when she was bored. According to her I was too normal and only wanted as a last resort. Not like I wanted to get into her pants, just wanted a friend.

Thirty-three years old and spending my life at Doodle Dandy Dog Candy didn’t exactly provide the most friendships. And the friends I did have were all married and sprinkled across America. Kids. White picket fences. Minivans.

Miranda could say I was normal all she wanted, but I didn’t have kids, a white picket fence, and certainly no minivan. Couldn’t fathom driving one of those ghastly things.

A text popped up on my phone screen. Miranda finally responded.
What’s going on tonight Mr. Rhodes? Counting the tiles in your ceiling again?

You are so annoying
, I typed back, then erased, and typed,
If you think I’m so boring how about answering your phone so I can live a little?

Miranda: I
mpossible. I’ve tried. You are not receptive to my ingenious plans.

Derek:
I’m coming up this weekend and I will be at your house Saturday at noon. If you want to hang out... be there.