Author's Note: The characters in this story will be based off the actors who play them. (Example: Emma Watson, Tom Felton, etc.) I still hope you enjoy; the first chapter is always the hardest!
CHAPTER 1
Emma liked the color of the sky during the spring. The sky personified a pure blue, a serene color that created bright days. It was a natural canvas, a realistic canvas, where she could vividly imagine anything and anyone in the vacant horizon.
Emma also liked the warmth of a spring sun. She enjoyed the way the sun radiated specks of light against the dappled freckles across her nose and cheeks. She liked the glow she earned from the sun.
She liked sitting on the blossoming spring grass, too. The grass was healthy, soft, and easy to tug from the roots. She liked to lie on her back, drawing on her sky canvas and feeling the sun's heat breathing on her tranquil body.
In case you haven't noticed, Emma liked spring. It was her favorite season, and for obvious reasons. Spring was a reincarnation, a rebirth and blossoming from the bitterness and the dreariness of the ugly winter that had passed prior. Spring was about new beginnings and bright colors and rejoicing.
Spring was about second chances.
It was mid-March, when the grass was beginning to thaw and the air was beginning to become gentler to the lungs. There were melting patches of ice on the curbs, leaf-less branches on trees, and most civilians in the area were wearing long coats.
But not Emma.
Emma was taking the meaning of spring literal this year. She had unloaded the last of her storage boxes, arranging and rearranging her house essentials until she was comforted with the soothing feeling of calling her new loft her "home". She had cut her hair, a strange yet reckless move on her part, and she was scheduled for a tattoo appointment in about four weeks. This spring, Emma was becoming a different, poised, and much stronger woman.
Her new loft was in a private, elite location in Palo Alto, California. There were two bedrooms, a large bathroom, a spacious living room and kitchen, and a den in which Emma used as her study. There was a grassy hill that led to a small boardwalk which brought her to a beach. It was a new environment, a sunnier environment compared to dreary England, and Emma was … content.
There were about ten cookbooks spewed across her kitchen island of various cultures; there was a television guide where she highlighted all her favorite channels; and there were about twenty notebooks, textbooks, planners, and folders for her History studies. Overlooking at her loft now, she realized there was more to reorganize but she left it alone for now.
Emma, in her high-waist shorts and thin long-sleeved sweater, decided for a breezy stroll to the beach. It was a private area for the richest of California residents; she was free of the media. And for that, she decided to slip on her bathing suit.
She had trouble remembering where she had stored her beach accessories, and nearly destroyed her entire bedroom looking for a very simple navy blue one-piece that slightly accentuated both breasts and soft curves of her subtle hips. She grabbed the nearest book she could find and set out into the new, refreshing California sun.
The nearer she approached the coastline, the chillier the air seemed. She braced herself for the worst, slipping off her shorts gracefully, and dipping her small toes into the shore. Yes, the water was frighteningly cold.
No, Emma Watson was not going to give up. It was part of her spring rebirth plan; she was going to face the consequence of all that she put herself through. Buying her loft was the first challenge, and she succeeded. Swimming in mid-March was her next. Except …
Emma wasn't an expert swimmer.
Since she was a little girl, the open ocean seemed to make her a bit antsy, a bit anxious; like spiders were crawling in her bones. She never liked being carried out farther, especially to the depths were she could no longer reach. Her mother had taken her to private swimming lessons in pools and oceans, but she loathed every session she attended. She couldn't tell a breaststroke from a backstroke, anyway.
Yet, Emma walked into the low-tide ocean with its gentle bumps of waves until she could no longer feel the warmth of her feet, her legs, or her lower abdomen. She was numbed by the icy feel, the frigidity making her teeth chatter and her lips vibrating to keep some sort of movement in her body.
She moved out further until her chin was touching the surface of the water. On her toes now, toes that had no warmth executing through them, she took one more balanced step and her nose touched the surface. Closing her eyes, she ducked her head into the arctic-like ocean while bending her knees a bit. She remembered the swimming lessons with her mother: Breathe through your nose.
She puffed out her cheeks like a chipmunk, allowing water and oxygen to pass to and fro from the corners of her mouth. She lowered herself until she could sit on the sandy bottom of the ocean. She tilted her head back, opening her eyes where the sun reflected to the top of the ocean.
One . . .
Two . . .
Emma counted the seconds with her blood rushing to her ears. She counted the seconds until she felt her lips darken into a bloody purple, resembling the flesh of a blood orange; she counted until she had trouble flexing the bones of her hands.
Five . . .
Six . . .
Emma heard the gentle pounding of her heart just above her ribcage. It was a calming, deep drone that vibrated in sound waves to reach her clouded ears. The rhythm, the pattern of her heartbeat sounded like the beat of an African drum. Dum . . . da-dum . . . dum . . . da-dum . . .
Ten . . .
Eleven . . .
Feeling her lungs run dry, Emma plunged back to the surface. With a huff of a fresh breath, she walked with frozen legs back to the shore. Emma had no idea what possessed her to want to swim in mid-March, or hear the pattern of her heartbeat on the ocean floor, but it made her feel . . . reckless, fearless. It made her feel like she was invincible; like she could do whatever her mind set out to do.
She had forgotten a towel, but that was okay. She walked up the deserted boardwalk and into her backyard. She looked up at the vacant, perfectly blue sky. And then Emma received her next idea.
Emma was going to learn out to paint.
oOo
Emma's first month in Palo Alto was painfully quiet. Emma hated silence, and hate was always one of the few words she used excessively. But the sound of silence, the drone in her ears, made her skin crawl and her body shake and her hands fold into fists. She hated when her loft was eerily silent, when the television was turned off. She loathed when people held their tongue instead of telling her the truth. Needless to say, the sound of silence (an oxymoron, isn't it?) made her feel like she was becoming insane; like a mental patient in a solitary ward.
Despite the silence in her loft, Emma slowly but surely became acquainted with Palo Alto. She became familiar with a few of the local neighbors, many of which were quite famous in Hollywood.
She had met Zac Efron at a local bistro as she zoomed through about four to six books about art, paint, paint brushes, and the like. He was nothing but friendly and courteous; he had bought her a latte and offered to show her around. He, too, was new to the area after his breakup with Vanessa. Emma, however, avoided any discussion on love, heartache, breakups, and whatnot. Her heart was not prepared for that.
The house to the left was bigger than Emma's, and it belonged to Katie Cassidy. Emma was startled by her beautiful looks, and the simplicity of her voice. She may have looked like a Barbie doll, but she was intelligent and witty and quite sarcastic. Several times, she surprised Emma with Thai takeout and loads of DVDs for the night. They ended up sharing tales (Emma, as with Zac, avoided discussion on love) until their heads rolled back and sleep overcame them.
The house to the right was also seemingly larger than Emma's guileless home, and Katie Cassidy had smiled dreamily on the 31st of March as she took a plentiful bite of pizza. "They've been here since forever. You know James Franco? Dave Franco? They live there."
A name like James Franco was notoriously, wildly popular in Hollywood, in England … in the world. She didn't know if Katie was capable of lying or not, but there was a sincerity in her shimmering blue eyes that made Emma believe her hopelessly. Ironically so, after taking a bite from her crust while flipping through her magazine in her lap, a photo of James Franco appeared.
"He's gorgeous," Katie giggled, snatching the magazine. "His brothers, Tom and Dave, are just as handsome. They're a sweet family . . . I haven't seen them in a couple of weeks . . . but . . ."
Since Emma's move to Palo Alto, she had never once seen any of the Franco family members. They were obviously busy people, people who had worthy careers and worthy names to keep up with. And so, that was the last time Emma worried about them. She was perfectly fine in her albeit quiet home, with Zac and Katie as her new friends, while keeping her mind occupied by practicing drawing and painting, cooking, and (when no one was by the shore) swimming in the cold ocean.
Yes, Emma was practicing drawing and painting. She had purchased at least ten to fifteen quality books on art and paint and art history (all of the books were now taking a day off in her wall-covering bookshelf) and, when she felt like an idle day was coming her way, she whipped out a fresh canvas and practiced her strokes, her hues, her shades, and all the techniques she had read about. Though it was a new hobby she had collected, Emma felt her blood pressure become calm whenever she sat in front of the blank canvas; and she liked the adrenaline rush she felt when she felt inspiration appear on the television, in a book, on a graphic T-shirt, or in the blank sky. Art was just what she needed to get her mind off of … him.
It was early April, early spring, and the final ice patches had melted. Leaves were blossoming on trees; flowers were blooming in gardens; and Emma's toes were breathing in spring air as she was beginning to wear sandals each day to keep her feet from being suffocated in closed shoes. Spring made Emma smile and, despite the eerie silence that overcame her loft when Zac and Katie weren't around, she was beginning to accept the events of the year prior.
She had an Italian cookbook wide open (risotto with arugula and baby scallops) on her kitchen island; her hair, thank goodness she had chopped her hair into a pixie cut! Her apron was stained with olive oil; her face was flushed from the steam of the steaming skillet, but the dinner was progressively becoming successful. She had the table in her small dining room set for four—she, Katie, Zac, and a guest friend of Katie's named Miley. Miley Cyrus. Emma wasn't one to openly be intimidated, but her evening guests were just as popular worldwide as she was. And for that, Emma wanted this meal, her first "dinner party" in Palo Alto, to be a winner.
It wasn't until she poured herself a second helping to her Pinot Grigio after checking the grilled salmon in the oven when the doorbell rang over the loud recording of Saturday Night Live; she didn't like cooking in silence.
With her brows furrowed together, she murmured underneath her breath, "They're here too early," before rushing to the front door. It was still early evening, and the sun was slowly descending below the horizon, creating a dappled purple-and-orange glow to the sky.
No one was at the door.
Her eyes fell at the vacant private court; Katie's house was empty. She was meeting Miley at Zac's. The private area was only occupied by a man sitting on the Franco's porch. He had a lit cigarette resting idly between his lips, his head hunched over what appeared to be a sketchbook. He looked like he hadn't moved a muscle. He looked like James Franco.
And then, Emma's eyes looked down to her feet. Resting by her toes was a small pot of daisies … purple daisies. Her spine curled involuntarily; her hands scooped the pot with delight. It was her first gift, even if she had no idea who the giver was. In the dirt was a small note. After closing the door, and silencing the television in the midst of a comical skit, Emma read the note aloud to herself:
Emma—
The color purple represents purpose; use your imagination to the fullest, rebalance your life, and use these purple daisies as a reminder to overcome depression.
Whoever sent Emma Watson these purple daisies seemed to know exactly what she really needed. A constant reminder.