Eh, Guess who finally got around to uploading a story? If you guessed me, then congrats.
She stood in the isle, cart carefully pushed to the side and out of the way as she compared ingredients in two different brands of grape juice. They looked the same, and were made of the same things, and she just could not figure out why one cost five dollars more. Name brands? Screw that. Her kids could go without.
She threw the bargain brand juice into the cart and looked down at the neatly penned list in her right hand. Eggs and Milk.
"My, Elizabeta Hèrderváry is that you?" She stopped her cart at the mention of her name, and turned. That voice, she knew it from somewhere.
Blond hair, blue eyes, a patch of stubble that had filled in nicely since puberty, a self-satisfied smirk. There stood Francis Bonnefoy, in the center of her neighborhood grocer with an obscenely large bottle of tomato juice tucked under his arm. It was like 1995 all over again.
"I actually go by Edelstein now, Monsieur," She told him, and he grinned and approached her.
"I always knew you two would end up together. But I'm insulted, no wedding invite for poor old Francis?" He pouted, something grossly over exaggerated and theatrical. Francis looked virtually the same as he did seventeen years ago, aside from rounding a little around the middle and cultivating a few laugh lines on his face.
The pout was one that she remembered well from her childhood and teenage years. She laughed and threw her arms around him for lack of words, a hug that he heartily returned with his free arm. She couldn't quite explain the thrill of joy that coursed through her at seeing her old friend.
"I've missed you," she told him when they pulled away, watching as his eyes twinkled with mirth. Her own green eyes shown with childish joy.
"How have you been? You look fantastic." He had been half-expecting him to use one of those silly pet names that he always had on hand, or at least slip some French into his response, but she supposed that time must have changed that effeminate boy she had known.
"I'm doing well. Roderich never made it as a pianist,"
"Pity, he was so talented,"
"But he's a wonderful accountant, and we have two beautiful children, both just as talented as their father," Francis eyebrows shot up and she laughed when she felt his eyes comb over her.
"Two? I would have never guessed. Mother nature has been kind to you, chérie," There's the pet name, the sense of familiarity and security that came with it. "I'm sure your père didn't mean it, chérie. You said he had been drinking, non?" She smiled at the vague memory, kicking herself for cutting all ties with him and their friends after graduation. "I don't know what I was thinking, ever letting you go. You've always been stunning."
"And how many ladies have you said that to?" She laughed.
"Ah, I did not keep track," He winked, laughing himself, "But I mean it this time. I do not care if I was, what? Thirteen? It was a mistake,"
"Oh shush," She playfully swatted at him, "But how have you been?"
"You might not believe it," He started, straightening up with self-importance, "but I'm a good church-going man now, with a wife and a lovely little girl.'
"You've always been a good man, Francis, just a bit of a whore, is all," He laughed.
"Oui, and Antonio, you remember him? Never lets me forget that. But I began to straighten up when I met my Jeannie. The patience of a saint, she has,"
"Anyone who puts up with you must be patient," She said with a smile, "But You still talk to them, Antonio and Gilbert? How are they?"
"Antonio is doing great. He and Lovino have been together for eight years now," Francis laughed when he saw the joy bubbling over in Elizabeta's eyes.
"I knew it!" she almost cheered, "I bet they're just lovely together. I always knew it,"
"Mhmm, Antonio is actually a kindergarten teacher now, and Lovino helps me and Jeanne at the bakery,"
"You run a bakery?"
"Oui, Le Petit Oiseau, have you heard of it?" She's heard of it, guilty of stopping by every now and then for a treat, but she had never once spotted a familiar face in there.
"Yeah, I actually love that place," She told him and he swelled with pride.
"Really? Next time you stop by, you should ask for me. I'm almost always milling about in the kitchen," Francis beamed.
"And Gilbert? How's he?" She asked, remembering fondly the white-haired boy who had made it his life goal to annoy her. Francis frowned.
"Lizzie," He started, Elizabeta couldn't remember the last time she was called by that stupid nickname she hated so, "Gilbert's dead,"
The information hit her like a ton of bricks. Gilbert was stupid and reckless and invincible. Where was she when it happened?
"He passed six years ago. Ran himself into a tree after several beers too many," Elizabeta feared Francis would start crying, he had always been such a crier, if the glassy look to his usually clear eyes was any indication.
"Come now, he lived a good life, Lizzie, don't cry," Francis let out a small laugh, and Elizabeta reached up to wipe the wetness from her eyes that she didn't realize was there. She had never cried as a child, and even as an adult she scoffed at the idea of breaking down to tears, but she couldn't find herself to care. All she cared about was that Gilbert was dead and she had been such a jerk to him, to all of them, the last time she saw them. It was like there was suddenly a huge void somewhere in her heart that she had no idea was there until it was gaping and empty.
"I'm sorry it's just that, you guys were the best friends I'd ever had, along with Feli, and Lud, and even Lovino. And- and" And she could have tracked them down and made everything okay again, rather easily with all the technology that's around today.
"Shh, mon chou, please don't," Francis was hugging her, raking his fingers through her hair and rubbing her back. He had changed so much, she was suddenly painfully aware when his hands didn't bother to venture any lower.
"Listen," He pulled back, lifting her chin so she would look him in the eye, "we are having a barbecue at my house today at five, and everyone'll be there. I would be honored if you came as well. Bring your family," He reached into his pocket and fished out an embroidered handkerchief, the black thread faded from time and riddled with mistakes. She recognized the floral cloth as her first attempt at doing something feminine when she was 14. She had been so proud of it then, giving it to the Frenchman as a birthday present.
"You kept it," was all she said as she used it to dry her eyes.
"Why wouldn't I, ma cocotte?" He smiled, jotting down his address on her grocery list. She could think of a reason or two.
"I mean it. Everyone would love to see you again," He placed a kiss to her forehead before walking off, that same little strut in his step that he had back when they were kids.
Elizabeta laughed when she saw his address, complete with a hokey little heart drawn beside it it.
He lived three blocks away.
It was like 1995 all over again.