Conversation Hearts: A Romantic Valentine’s Day Story
Rusty Fischer
Conversation Hearts:
A Romantic Valentine’s Day Story
By Rusty Fischer, author of A Town Called Snowflake
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Conversation Hearts
Rusty Fischer
Copyright 2014 by Rusty Fischer
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This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Cover credit: © vladimirfloyd – Fotolia.com
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Author’s Note:
The following is a FREE short story edited by the author himself. If you see any glaring mistakes, I apologize in advance and hope you don’t take it out on my poor characters, who had nothing to do with their author’s bad grammar!
Happy reading… and Happy Valentine’s Day!
Enjoy!
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Conversation Hearts:
A Romantic Valentine’s Day Story
The kid is red-faced, limping and drenched in sweat. He’s wearing a matching sweat suit and old sneakers and a headband and he’s been walking up and down the sidewalk beneath my office window for the last forty minutes.
Normally I wouldn’t notice, but this latest book cover design is giving me no end of trouble and so I keep staring past my computer monitor, outside my window, spotting him huffing, wheezing and limping by downstairs.
He’s a neighborhood kid, lives a few doors down from me with his Mom. Shy kid, quiet, keeps to himself mostly. I see him going to and from school, say “Hi” to him in the mailroom or if I’m coming back from the pool and he’s taking out the trash.
Sweet enough kid, but quiet. And not very… physical. He’s tall, but chunky, an apple cheeked boy department store salesmen might call “husky” to be polite.
And he looks like he’s about to pass out. I shake my hand, save my latest version of the book cover even though I’m not happy with it and walk downstairs, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. It’s cool enough outside, but February is practically summer in Florida so it’s far from cold. Nowhere near sweat suit weather.
I stand in my driveway, leaning against my ten year old Honda, watching him – hearing him – wheeze his way back up the sidewalk. “Benjy,” I say, waving him down.
He smiles, almost gratefully, and puts a hand on my trash can for support. “Hey Mr. Sampson,” he huffs, sweat dripping down his pug nose. “Nice day.”
“How many times have I told you… call me Todd.”
“I can’t call you Todd,” he gasps, unzipping his powder blue track jacket with navy stripes down the sleeves. It looks new; stiff and shiny and new. Underneath is a crisp white T-shirt so wet it might as well be see through.
“Why not?” I ask, handing him the water.
He arches one eyebrow until I nod and then he grabs it, gulping half of it down in three ugly chugs. “You’re… you’re a grown man,” he grunts, trying to catch his breath between swallows. “I should call you ‘Mister,’ right?”
“I’m 29, Benjy. I’m not a ‘Mister’ until I’m at least 60.”
He chuckles, spitting out a little water, which is good. “Don’t drink it all at once,” I remember to tell him, even though he’s down to the last few sips.
He ignores me, chugs it, and then grabs his stomach. “Oooooh,” he groans, and I help him sit down on the overturned recycling bin next to my trash can. It’s Tuesday, trash and recycling day. Lucky for him, or he would have just crumpled to the sidewalk.
“Too late!” he huffs.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask him.
“I’m… trying to get in shape,” he admits, avoiding my eyes.
“For what?” I ask him.
“For Valentine’s Day.”
Now it’s my turn to arch an eyebrow. “You mean… this Valentine’s Day?”
He looks up at me, smiling. “I know, I know, I meant to start earlier…” Then that’s too many words for him, and he goes back to focusing on breathing instead.
“Benjy, Valentine’s Day is tomorrow. As in… 24-hours from now. Right now, this very moment now.”
“I know, I know,” he says, getting his breath back and turning sideways on the recycling bin to face me. “I bought this track suit, like, with my Christmas money. New Year’s resolution, that kind of thing. But then, there was all that half-price Christmas candy and I stocked up and ate that instead. Before I knew it, it was February and now… it’s the 13th!”
I shake my head. “So, Benjy, help me out here: How much ‘shape’ did you think you were going to get into in 24-hours?”
He nods, struggling to his feet. Well, almost; I have to help him the last half of the way. “Not a lot, I suppose,” he huffs, blowing hot air all over me.
“Is this for a date?” I ask him.
“Hopefully.”
“You don’t have a date yet?”
He shakes his head. “But you want to?” I ask.
He nods. “And… this is all to impress some girl?”
He pauses, as if embarrassed, looks away, then back… blushing. “Toby,” he says.
I look at him, big and burly but clever and sweet. “Listen,” I say, because my book cover sucks and I’ve got no plans for V-Day myself and the last thing I want to do is spend the next 24-hours dwelling on that. “You need a new strategy. This… you don’t need to change yourself, okay? You just need to believe in yourself.”
He cocks his head; misses the point entirely. “So… I should stop walking?”
“Nice try,” I grin. “You should walk, sure, it’s good for you. But… let’s not focus on losing anything for now. Let’s focus on what you’ve already got.”
He grabs his belly. “Like this?” he chuckles.
I shrug. “Hey, you know, some girls are into that.”
He shakes his head, staring at his sneakers. “Not Toby.”
“Okay, okay, fine. But… you’re not going to lose that in a day, Benjy. You’ll just make yourself unhappy trying to.”
He nods, leaning next to me along the trunk of my car. We stare at the fence that separates our row of townhouses from the condos next door. Above them, the Florida sky is blue and practically cloudless, tall palms waving in the February breeze.
“So… what then?”
“Don’t you graduate this year?” I ask him. “Maybe I could design you an invitation that looks like a graduation hat, you know, and…”
“Todd, I go to Seaside Community College,” he blurts, shaking his head in disbelief. “I’m a freshman there.”
“Oh God,” I say. “I was going to get you a graduation present and everything.”
“Gheez,” he snorts. “Some neighbor you turned out to be.”
“You’re right,” I fret, biting my lower lip. “Look, I’ll make it up to you: my belated graduation present will be to help you get this Toby chick and have the best Valentine’s Day of your life.”
“That should be easy,” he grunts, disbelieving. “I mean,” he rushes to explain, “I’ve never had a Valentine, so…”
“Really?” I ask, more determined than ever to help Benjy out. He nods. I stand up, and drag him up with me. “Shower, change and meet me here in ten minutes,” I tell him.
“What for?” he asks suspiciously.
“We’re gonna find something for you to wear on your date.”
“For reals?”
He shows up right on time, fresh scrubbed and apple-cheeked, and we pile in the car. “I don’t have much money,” he grumbles, fiddling with his seatbelt as we
pull out of the Mango Manor entrance and head toward downtown.
“It’s on me,” I remind him, and then: “But I don’t, either.”
He chuckles and shrugs. “It won’t matter anyway. Toby will never go for it.”
“Not with that attitude,” I tell him, heading toward my favorite store.
“Here?” he asks as we pull up in front of the Retro Metro thrift shop.
“Hey,” I warn him. “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”
He smiles uncertainly and follows me inside. 80s music is playing from a boom box in the corner and the surly teenager behind the counter barely looks up as we walk in.
“You know her?” I whisper as we shuffle through the racks and racks of vintage clothing.
“No, should I?” he whispers back, hair still wet from his shower.
I shrug. “It’d be cool if that was Toby and she thought it was all romantic that we were in here buying clothes for your big date.”
He pauses near a rack of ungodly vintage dresses. “Is that your big plan? Because… I don’t think that will work.”
I laugh, and the girl finally looks up, sees us, rolls her eyes, goes back to her fashion magazine. “It’s not my plan,” I tell him.
