Only Connect
By Laura Schiller
Based on the Grimbaud Series
Copyright: Kimberly Karalius
Emma Ward knew quite well that Bram de Groote was not her type. He was too scruffy (never mind that long hair and a five o'clock shadow looked great on him); too cynical (just like her, on a bad day) and had a twelve-year-old boy's sense of humor (which, annoyingly, still made her laugh).
So why did she feel distinctly uneasy at the sight of him pocketing a missed-connection charm?
No one else seemed to have noticed. Everyone was cheering for Ken and Hijiri, who stood onstage with their arms around each other and matching looks of delight. Bram, still in announcer mode, handed the girl her trophy. She and Ken climbed down the stage only to disappear under an avalanche of hugs: Fallon, Sebastian, the De Keysers and the Kitamuras all wanted to congratulate her first. Emma clapped until her palms tingled, ordering herself to be happy. If anyone deserved to win the love charm competition, her young student did. The missed connections charm was a masterpiece. Hijiri and Ken's discovery of mutual love had proved that beyond a doubt. If only …
But if only was a game she had tired of long ago.
Someone tapped her on the shoulder. She spun around.
"Hey, Emma!" Bram tipped his hat to her and grinned. "Quite the occasion, eh? If you'd told me a year ago I'd be this happy for a teenage love-charm maker, I'd have told you where to shove it. But Hijiri did good."
"Oh, absolutely. It's wonderful. I'm so happy for her and Ken."
"Not to mention the city. Can you imagine if any of those losers had won instead? They'd have made Zita look like a bunny rabbit. Especially the younger Chappelle guy with his cheesy nightmare robot – I was already picturing Grimbaud as the starting point of a B-Movie cyborg plague."
She giggled at the absurd (and terrifying) idea. "You watch too many science fiction shows."
"Too many? Ever hear the proverb about glass houses?"
He seemed different, besides the ponytail, the red ribbon on his fedora or the ruffles showing above his trench coat, both of which reminded her of an eighteenth-century pirate captain from one of her romance novels. He rocked on the balls of his feet and gestured widely, like a man with stage fright, even though his MC duties had just ended. What was the matter with him?
"Nice outfit," she teased, trying to provoke one of his grumbles about the city council and their ridiculous ideas. "Very dashing."
Instead he turned pink underneath his stubble. "Oh, this? I, uh … Thanks." He adjusted his sleeves without looking her in the eye.
She could have bitten her tongue when she remembered the charm bottle in his pocket. Of course. He had dressed up for the charm's intended recipient, whoever she (or he – Emma didn't even know Bram's orientation) might be. Emma had no business complimenting an outfit that was chosen with someone else in mind.
"Well! I should go." Her voice came out a little high and breathless. "Best of luck, by the way."
"With what?" His hand flew self-consciously to his coat pocket. How he had kept his radio show a secret for so long was a mystery to her.
"I saw you." She pointed to where he hid the bottle. "No judgment. I was the first test subject, after all. I hope … I sincerely hope yours has a better ending than mine did."
"Yours didn't … Huh." He bit his lip, looking at her with an expression she couldn't read. "What kind of idiot – Never mind. Yeah, that's gotta suck."
Was that pity in his face? It had better not be. "Goodness, Bram, it's not the end of the world," she said, with a light wave of her hand. "The man's married with children. I'm used to it. I'm stronger than I look."
"I know." He smiled crookedly. "It's not just any librarian who'd risk one of her precious books by using it to whack a robot on the head."
"And you saved that book for me, didn't you?"
"Well, sure. What's a warrior without her weapon of choice?"
The way he said that, it sounded oddly like a compliment. She wrapped her crimson scarf more securely around her neck, to hold on to a fleeting sense of comfort.
"Whoever gets that bottle," she said, "I hope they're good enough for you."
"For me?" He chuckled. For someone who wasn't her type, he really was unnervingly attractive when he laughed. Instead of sharing the joke, though, he turned suddenly grim and awkward again, just like the first time they'd met. He cleared his throat repeatedly, which must have hurt, and shuffled backward on the snowy cobblestones.
"Yeah, well … anyway … I need to go," he rasped. His breath misted the air. "Bye, Emma. Take care."
There was an odd finality about his tone, as if he were leaving for a trip around the world. Too confused to make sense of it and him, she simply nodded, shook hands with him, and turned to weave her way through the crowd.
She wondered who the recipient of the bottle might be. Detective Archambault, perhaps? She was certainly charismatic. They could wear matching trench coats and fedoras and fight crime together, Emma thought cattily, before dismissing that idea. The detective didn't seem the type who would be interested in an accountant/radio host who burped the alphabet when he got drunk. But then you never knew.
She stuck her gloved hands deep into her coat pockets and hunched her shoulders, but it didn't help much. February was the vilest month of the year; why Grimbaudians had chosen it to end the competition, she would never understand. The wave of cold, wet, slushy desolation flooding over her as she walked away from Bram was only natural. It was just the weather, nothing more.
/
She got the shock of her life when one of the green bottles materialized in her bedroom that very evening. She could have sworn that one for the street musician was the only one she'd sent, so it couldn't be a reply. That had to mean –
"Hey, Emma," came the husky voice of Hard-boiled Hal. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to say this. Too long, maybe. But I can't wait another second."
She smoothed her indigo pajamas, absurdly grateful to be wearing them tonight instead of one of the cat-printed things Yasmine insisted on giving her for Christmas. Could he see her over the line? She'd forgotten how that aspect of it worked.
Her toes curled under her quilt. That voice had always done something to her, long before she'd found out to whom it belonged. Bram was so much more confident when nobody could see his face.
A memory appeared above the bottle. It showed Emma her sixteen-year-old self, reading at a picnic table. Goodness. Was I that pretty? I can't have been.
The Emma in Bram's memory had hair like polished mahogany, gleaming in the sunshine, blending warmly with the brown of her Grimbaud High uniform. The spots she'd been so self-conscious about were almost invisible. The round glasses she'd thrown away because of how they emphasized her round, soft face only made her eyes bigger. She turned a page, and Bram's eyes followed the graceful motion of her hand.
"Emma, I really like you. Will you go out with me?" Bram's voice, much younger, the uncertain, still-breaking voice of a teenage boy. "Zita's fortune warned me not tell you 'cause she said I'd only embarrass myself, but I can't help it. So will you? Uh … Emma? You listening?"
Present Emma struck her own forehead with a clenched fist. She couldn't remember this. Why couldn't she remember?
Memory-Emma stuck her finger between the pages of Jane Austen's Persuasion, and said: "Oh, hi, Bram. Can you move, please? You're blocking my light."
Laughter. Shrill, discordant laughter from every corner of the schoolyard, most likely exaggerated in Bram's memory after all these years, but no less horrible. The image faded to a jerky blur as Memory-Bram ran for the nearest bathroom. Then it faded altogether, and the air was clear.
Emma's eyes were streaming.
All those years. All those missed connections. How many of them were Zita's or the men's fault, after all, and how many were her own? She loved books like nothing in the world, but were they getting between her and real life?
Oh, Bram, why didn't I look up? Why didn't I listen?
"I should've asked you again," said Present Bram ruefully. "I was too young. Too cowardly. But I'm saying it now. One chance, that's all I'm asking for. Can you at least give me that? I'm half agony, half hope. See, I even read the damn book just to find out what was so interesting."
Emma let out a tearful laugh in the privacy ofher bedroom.
"Meet me at the café on Verbeke Square tomorrow at five p.m. for your answer, yes or no. Just … whatever you do, don't ignore me."
The golden sparks inside the bottle faded. The message was over.
/
The next morning brought a fresh dusting of snow. The whole city looked sugared, like a Welcome Love Festival cake. Emma listened to it crunching under her boots and turned her face up to the sun as she reached Verbeke Square. Her cheeks tingled, and it wasn't just the cold.
Bram stood outside with his hands in the pockets of his trench coat. He was slouching, as usual, but he stood tall as soon as he saw her. She had rehearsed what to say to him countless times in her mind – endless variations of yes, I will - but what popped out of her mouth was nothing she had planned.
"I should warn you," she said. "Sometimes I sleep with a paperback under my pillow." Crap. Still, if he was going to turn tail like her other dates, better to get it over with now.
Bram only raised a peaked eyebrow at her from under his hat. "Bedroom talk, Miss Ward? I haven't even bought you coffee yet."
Her red cheeks were just about to turn purple – honestly, he had to be the most tactless man alive – when he added: "In that case, I should warn you that there are superhero action figures in my room. I set them up in different battle formations, and I hate seeing them disturbed."
He was so solemn saying that, like a little boy, that she had to smile. He caught her eye, his lips twitched, and before long they were both laughing out loud. Smoke poured out of their mouths in the wintry air like dragon's breath. She hadn't felt this happy since she was thirteen.
"Which of us is weirder, would you say?" asked Bram.
"I really couldn't judge," said Emma.
"Well, c'mon, weirdo. It's freezing out here."
"I would be delighted."
He put his hand on the small of her back and opened the door for her. Warm air and the scent of baking enveloped them. She smiled up at her date as he followed her inside.