a/n [This is, completely, obviously, AU. The setting is, like, 95% real, and while places are mentioned and described often, there's barely any mention of relative location. Sorry if that confuses any of you foreigners. Uses the prompt 'serendipity' from Caesar's Palace. For Kay in June.]
preface;
everybody's looking for something
There's a restaurant in Bodega that's half on land and half sitting on a dock held up by stilts that appears it could collapse at any moment. It's in the middle of nowhere, really, surrounded on two sides by water and faded grass and houses with peeling paint on the other, across from the old road. Before the fog rolls away to the sun, it's peaceful, and windy, and alone.
Then, an hour or so before noon, the cars start coming. They look out of place with their shiny cases and fast wheels. Sometimes, the people drive slowly, stopping at every pull-off to get out and take a photo. Those are the tourists. Even in the run-down part of town, which is that perfect place where you can really tell that you're looking at a bay, not the ocean—but who really even cares about the difference anymore—tourists still manage to squeeze in and upset the serenity of it all.
But the restaurant, an old wharf, is meant for tourists. And, sometimes, residents who are looking for a nice meal. It's busy inside, just like it always is, and waiters are bustling around trying to please everyone at once.
There's one table, in the back corner that's got windows on both sides so you can see the one encrusted dock post that always, always, has a seagull perched on top of it, that's been occupied by a couple for thirty minutes. And they haven't even ordered yet.
To the world around them, they're just another pair of tourists staying in or driving up the coast of the bay; they've even got cameras with them—hers is cheap and disposable, his is just on his iPhone. No one notices that they're loosely holding hands over the table, or that he has to read her the menu because she lost her reading glasses in the ocean. No one knows that this is the last day they'll ever see each other again.
He mispronounces a simple word, she laughs, and the world goes on around them.
saturday;
can you hear the distance calling
Annie's mother lives in Manhattan. Her father lives in San Francisco. It's a rather perilous situation, but she doesn't mind. She prefers big cities anyway. It's amazing, walking down a street filled with hundreds of other people who don't look at you twice. They never wonder we're you're going or where you've been, and vice versa you're standing in the middle of hundreds of stories that will never cross paths except for this moment right now. It's exhilarating.
There's the tourism, too. Annie can visit historical houses and different museums and famous landmarks during the day and stop by the local grocery store on her way home to pick up something for dinner. It's like living in between two worlds.
When she's with her dad, her favorite thing to do is to take a cable car over to Market Street, walk to the Ferry Building, and mix into the crowd, trying to blend in. There's a little ice cream shop not to far from the entrance that she loves. She can always expect a long line of costumers, the poor workers must serve thousands of people every day, but there's one boy who's always working when Annie finally makes it to the front, and he always greets her by name.
"White chocolate lavender again?" he asks her, before she can place her order.
"Actually, I think I want to try something new," she replies with a grin.
In the end, she always ends up getting her usual. If happiness had a flavor, that's what her ice cream would taste like.
She always eats her ice cream outside; sometimes she stands and watches the ferries leave and enter the port, sometimes there's a seat available and she sits. Her ice cream is eaten in silence, but once she throws her cup and spoon away, she puts on her headphones and walks circles around the building. She's going somewhere and nowhere all at once.
On the third day of her summer vacation—her second in San Francisco—, exactly one week after her seventeenth birthday, a stranger, a tourist, bumped into her while she was turning around a corner, which caused her to bump into someone else whom she promptly apologized to after lowering her headphones to hang around her neck and shoving her hand into her back pocket to pause the music on her Nano—her mom had offered to buy her a newer one, but she declined the offer.
Standing alone, with a soft buzz in her ears, she leans against the smooth wall and lets people—who don't notice her—pass her by. She loves that; she sees them but they don't see her. It makes her feel like an undercover spy or something. But then the moment passes and she's reaching up for her headphones again, ready to continue her march to everywhere. As she turns her head, she finds a little splash of red on the wall. Now that she sees it, it stands out greatly. She wonders how she missed it.
It's writing, she realizes, and she steps a little bit closer, her hands fumbling through her handbag. Once her glasses are out and perched on her nose, she blinks, and then reads.
It's just a simple word: Hey.
Annie blinks at it again and squints her eyes, too. What kind of person would take time out of their day to write 'Hey' on a wall? Yet, she feels obliged to add on to it. Her hand reaches back into her bag and pulls out a Sharpie; it's purple.
She writes: What's up?
And then she puts both the marker and glasses back in her bag and continues on with her day.
sunday;
and the streets are full of strangers
To Finnick Odair, there's nothing better than wasting a whole day to go to San Francisco. In fact, he does it every Sunday, and no one can stop him. He takes his Dad's car—it's his father's fault Finnick doesn't have a car of his own, so this almost makes it better—and drives to Larkspur where he boards a ferry to take him across the Golden Gate.
Today is no different. When he gets to the Ferry Building, he walks around it, even though the entrance is right in front of him. He hopes to avoid the heart of the crowd. As he walks, he trails one hand along the wall; it bounces against each ridge and most likely becomes infected with big city germs and dirt. He doesn't mind the uncleanliness so much, just the people.
There's tall people and short people, professional people and homeless people, rude people and, well, there's no opposite for that one. Not in San Francisco, anyway. It's a dog eat dog world, so to speak, and really, he hates it. He has no idea what keeps bringing him back to the city.
He turns around the first corner, and a man with a cart offers him some cotton candy. It's not even noon yet, and the only thing Finnick's had this morning is coffee. He fishes out his wallet and pays the street vendor without a second thought. With a cardboard cone in his hand and pink sugar in his mouth, he resumes his walk, remembering that this is the reason he keeps coming back—the nobodies making money off of hyperactive tourists. It's a refreshing change from his small, well-off town.
His hand is still trailing along the wall when he reaches the second corner. He's taking another bite of his cotton candy, fighting against the fluffy tendrils, when he stops—walking, that is; he keeps chewing.
It's not the red print that stops him. That's familiar to him; he's seen it three times in the past three weeks. He wrote it. It's the thicker, purple writing below it that catches his attention. He leans a bit closer, studying the smaller print. The letters are loopy, almost written in cursive. It's definitely feminine.
Finnick glances to his left and right then back again. He has the unmistakable feeling that he's being pranked, but there's no one around even looking at him. He's an invisible person staring at a wall. Just another undiscovered story. He pats his pockets with his right hand while his left hand lifts so he can take another bite of his treat.
When he finds his Sharpie, intact, he scrawls another message onto the wall, right underneath the last one.
He writes: I'm talking to either a wall or God.
He laughs slightly at his own comment, and laughs again at the strangeness of the situation.
Later, as he's walking down Market Street, chatting with vendors and purchasing a few things from the more hopeless looking people, he looks at every girl that passes by, wondering which one is his mystery girl with the purple marker.
tuesday;
searching the world for what's right here
Switching between two houses and two schools every year is not particularly the best situation for making friends. Throughout the years, Annie has managed to keep one. Others have come and gone, and she's not a complete social outcast, but there's only one person that she can truly call a friend.
"Get dressed," Johanna orders, stepping through Annie's door.
Annie looks up. For the past three hours she's been lying on her bed, still in her pajamas, listening to music. She's most definitely a morning person, but that doesn't mean she's going to abuse the freedom of summer vacation. Johanna, however, has a big problem waking up before noon during school, and now she's standing, dressed, arms crossed, in Annie's bedroom doorway.
Reluctantly, she pauses her music. "Where are we going?" she asks.
"Away," Johanna says, throwing a balled up bunch of clothes at Annie.
She adorns the clothes Johanna picked out without further complaint; she's learned it's best not to question Johanna. When she's done, her friend drags her out of the room and out of the house. Before the front door closes, she shouts, "Bye, Mr. Cresta!" and Annie hears a faint reply.
"Where first?" Annie asks as they're walking down the sidewalk.
"Anywhere," Johanna says. "You pick first."
"Humphry Slocombe?"
She groans. "Fine."
They ride the cable car in silence. Annie is sitting in the very last seat at the back of the car; Johanna is standing at the edge and leaning into the world outside. It races by in flashes of light and color. People on the sidewalk turn their heads as the car passes by.
The very last stop is Market Street, and Johanna hops down as the cable car screeches their arrival. She grabs Annie's hand and pulls her onto the street. They walk past the vendors with their hands still intertwined, except this time Annie is pulling her friend along.
"Wait, wait, wait," Johanna pleads, pulling Annie to a stop. "Will you buy me that shirt?"
Annie looks at the shirt Johanna's pointed out before shaking her head. "Of course not."
"But I haven't been annoying yet. I deserve it."
"You're being annoying now. Come on."
"Okay, okay, wait. I'll buy it myself," she says.
Annie waits for Johanna to make her purchase, and then they continue walking to the Ferry Building. Johanna interrogates Annie about her time in New York, and most importantly, if she has a boyfriend yet. Annie ignores the boy-centered questions all together.
It's still morning when they arrive at the ice cream shop, so there isn't the usual long line. A girl asks Annie and Johanna what flavor they'd like, and as Johanna's answering, another worker places a medium cup on top of the divider.
"White chocolate lavender," he says, smiling at Annie who smiles back.
She takes the cup and picks up a spoon, handing Peeta the money. He doesn't even count it, just trusts her and places it in the register.
"So, where are you going today, Annie?" he asks.
"Away," she answers. Johanna laughs.
They exit the ferry building through the back door because Johanna insists the best way to get away is to go the long way—'short cuts are for losers'. They're talking as they walk around the building, but Annie falters when she passes her corner. She's not sure what excuse she should give Johanna, so she just tells her to wait and then hurries back to the spot on the wall.
She isn't really expecting anything new, so when she finds the messages on the wall and there seems to be an extra line of red words, she's too shocked to pull out her glasses. She pulls out her marker first, and then stupidly realizes her mistake. She's searching for her glasses when Johanna comes around the corner.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Annie slips on her glasses and quickly scrawls a reply on the wall. "Nothing," she says, walking away and tugging Johanna with her.
sunday;
you go wherever you go today
"How long did this take you?" Finnick asks.
The young lady at the booth looks ecstatic to be talking to him. Her partner, well, not so much. The two are selling wire jewelry, and while Finnick has no interest in their work at all, he figures they must be extremely bored. He couldn't imagine coming out here and selling almost every day.
"Barely half an hour," the girl replies. "It's really simple. I could show you."
"Hayley," her partner warns quietly.
"I'm okay," Finnick says. "I'd just end up breaking something, anyway."
The girl giggles, and Finnick smiles slightly before turning away with a wave of his hand.
As soon as he stepped off the ferry, he made his way to Market Street without a second thought. He even walked through the building, so he wouldn't get sidetracked—or be let down by not finding a response on his wall. He's been wandering around for hours now, and now he's stuck in the busiest time of the day. Tourists and residents alike are everywhere, avoiding each other to an exaggerated point. Everyone in San Francisco is so distant.
A small table with wind chimes catches his attention.
"Did you make these?" he asks the vendor.
"Of course!" the lady answers, indignantly, like she can't believe he even considered another possibly. She reminds Finnick of Mags.
He inspects each one on the table, prodding them and lifting them, until he finds one he likes. He holds it up in the frigid air. "Is this made out of sea shells?"
"Of course!"
"How much?" Finnick asks, searching blindly for his wallet.
"Fifty?" She's testing the boundaries.
Finnick hands her the bill and walks away, thanking her for the wind chime. She thanks him back.
He checks the time on his phone, and judges how long he'll have until the next ferry boards. A vendor nudges him as he's tucking the phone into his back pocket, and she holds up a canvas grocery bag with an abstract tree design.
"Need something to carry that in?" She's smiling extra bright. "It's just twenty dollars."
"Sure," Finnick answers, handing her the money and taking the bag. He doesn't put the wind chime in the bag, just carries them both. He'll find another use for the bag most likely, and if he doesn't, well, he doesn't care. He just likes spending his dad's money.
"Do you need directions?" the girl calls after him.
Finnick just waves in her direction without looking back. He's got twenty minutes to get to his ferry, and he's convinced himself to check his wall, even if it means being sad and disappointed for the rest of the day.
Yet, when he arrives at the corner, he finds a response, and he laughs gleefully, earning a few strange glances from the crowd. He wonders how pleased the girl was when she discovered he had responded as well. He's still smiling as he bends down a little to read her writing.
She wrote: I assure you; I'm most definitely God.
He laughs once, shortly, and writes: Funny, I'm not that reassured.
Then, as an afterthought: You live here?
He caps his Sharpie, still smiling to himself, and turns away from the wall, wind chime clanging. He runs to the ticket station and boards the ferry, looking back a total of thrice.
thursday;
home is wherever i'm with you
Annie scrawls her answer on the wall: Partly. You?
She's sitting on the ground, pretending the filth isn't crawling up her legs, and reaching up, which makes her writing kind of sloppy. She's smiling, too, because she thinks she made a friend, but she's not sure if the whole friend thing is applicable in this sort of situation.
Before she came to the Ferry Building, she stopped by a gas station and grabbed a small, gross yellow disposable camera. She lifts it up in the air, about the height of the graffiti, and clicks the shutter button, only to find out she didn't wind it up first. So she does, bringing it back to rest in her lap for a short moment, before snapping a photo, and a second one, too, for good measure. Later, when the moment has passed, she wants to remember that this wasn't all a dream.
A stranger comes up to her and asks if she's all right. She freezes up, nodding her head quickly, and scampers away from the site, eager to head home.
For five years she's been traveling by cable cars by herself, and at this point, it doesn't seem all too exciting anymore. She lets the tourists soak up the thrill and wishes she could see what they saw in this place.
Her home is a green building with two floors; the Crestas live on the first. When she arrives, she knocks on the door. It's no longer worth the trouble to dig through her bag for her key. Organization is her one flaw that she actually wishes to fix.
Her dad is on the phone when he opens the door, so Annie slips in quietly, dumping her bag on a chair and sitting in another one. She turns on the TV and picks up a book to read; it's a habit her dad doesn't try to understand anymore.
He finishes his phone call thirty minutes later, but Annie misses the sound of the click of the phone placed back its dock and the sudden silence of the TV. She's almost done with her chapter when her dad clears his throat, loudly, and she feels obliged to look up. The look in her dad's eyes has her closing the book, and setting it down. She wonders when the TV was turned off.
"Annie, your mother and I have been talking," her dad starts off.
She refuses to have a serious talk. Serious means something bad has happened, and she just wants her life to be good. "You talk all the time, don't you?"
"Next year is your senior year."
"Yeah."
"We think it's best you stay at one school."
She's too hopeful when she asks, "Here?"
"With your mother," he answers, his eyes apologetic. "You'll be heading back to New York after summer."
"But that's not the deal," she mutters.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart."
"It's okay," she says, standing up and grabbing her bag. "I'm going to call Jo."
sunday;
we're half awake in a fake empire
When he reaches the corner, it's blank. Finnick reaches his hand out, slowly, as if his written conversation will suddenly appear and jump out of him. It hasn't, and his hand touches the wall. There's nothing. He walks around the building twice, wondering if maybe he's forgotten the location, but it's nowhere to be found. He stops at the corner where he started; the corner that he's certain contained a chance conversation written in Sharpie.
It's all been painted over. He doesn't know what to do.
So, he does what feels right; he pulls out his marker and writes.
Then, he pulls out his very crumpled San Franciscan map and decides where to go next. There isn't much of the city he hasn't seen yet, but he decides stopping by the aquarium on Pier 39 once more can't hurt.
Finnick walks to Pier 39. It'll take him over half and hour, and he knows that, but on a weekend in the city, it's almost quicker than trying to take a cab. He passes by the other piers, which are largely insignificant according to him but still tourist destinations. More importantly, he passes dozens of vendors and outdoor shops. When he reaches the aquarium, he has to wait outside for a few minutes until he finishes all of his—greatly unhealthy—lunch.
The aquarium is small, considerably, and crowded. Finnick pays and walks in, stopping for as long as he wants in front of the tanks and getting in everyone's way. He watches the shark tank for an hour, even though he's supposed to move right through on the moving belt.
It's not a wasted day.
monday;
this great big world is calling me
Annie's got a cup of her Humphry Slocombe white chocolate lavender ice cream in her hand and a blue spoon in her mouth when she sees her wall; blank save for four short words.
Her plan was to eat her ice cream under her long wall conversation—she'd wish someone would take her picture like that, but she wouldn't trust anyone with her camera—and then finish, throw her paper cup away, and reply with her Sharpie, which was unfortunately starting to run out of ink.
Instead, she sees a—almost—fresh wall. It says: Oops. I blame you.
She blinks indignantly; was he laughing at her as he wrote this? Annie almost inhales her ice cream, knowing it would feel better to respond quickly to his accusation like she would if she was talking.
She doesn't even throw her cup away when she's done. She sets it on the ground by her feet, swearing she won't forget it's there, and ruffles through her bag. Her marker has somehow wormed its way inside her half-open and empty glasses case.
She writes, quick as a flash: You started it!
And Annie huffs aloud, too, for good measure.
When she leaves, she forgets her cup. A custodian will find it later and blame the lousy tourists instead of a teenage girl falling in love with a person she's never met.
sunday;
where the streets have no name
He's laughing loudly at a wall—he doesn't mind if people stare at him. Finnick pulls out his Sharpie, still red in all its glory, and writes.
His words: Did I? You've got no proof.
He adds a winking face to the end, decides it looks stupid, and wonders briefly how the hell he'll inconspicuously erase Sharpie off of a wall in San Francisco. Well, honestly, it wouldn't be the strangest thing anyone in this city has ever seen, but he figures it isn't worth the trouble.
He buys a root beer from a small one-stop store just across the street and walks back to the Ferry building, figuring he'll go inside for the second time in his life. The first time was three years ago, and he hated it. He did remember, however, a little gelato shop inside that wasn't half bad.
After about ten minutes of searching, he comes to the conclusion that the gelato shop is gone, just like the wind chime lady. There's an ice cream shop, but he doesn't think the line is worth it. No ice cream is that good.
This ends up being a day wasted, but Finnick doesn't mind too much.
On his way out of the building, he stops by his corner, glancing it over. Before he can think better of it, he adds onto his previous message, writing just below it.
The last Sharpie scrawled words to wind up on the wall: You want to meet up Sunday? I'll be here at 11.
(next)sunday;
with a fly, a bird, and a wooden heart
Annie has been sitting on the ground, legs crossed, her back against the wall, since ten o'clock. She's been sitting for fifty-two minutes—she knows because she checks her watch every three seconds. There's a nagging voice in her head that's telling her she's got the wrong Sunday, and she was supposed to meet the red Sharpie guy last week, but she refuses to listen to it. Another voice tells her that he changed his mind and won't show up at all.
She's too busy regretting everything and contemplating going home that she almost misses the man that walks slower than the others in the crowd, as if he's searching for something and he already knows where it is. He comes to a stop in front of Annie, but he isn't really looking at her yet, and she almost stops breathing.
For two days, Annie has been picturing this moment and exactly how it would go. It's amazing how she never once questioned if reality would end up like she planned. She does have a great opening line, though, planned and thought through to the last syllable. But first on her agenda is not words, but an action.
She holds up her ugly yellow camera—she made sure it was wound up twelve times—and takes his picture while he's still standing there speechless and uncertain. There's no flash, and the click emitted is too soft for him to have heard over the sound of the city being the city, but as soon as she takes her photo, he smiles.
"I do have proof," Annie says, holding up her camera for him to see. She chews on her cheek. "You know–because of the–you started it?"
He laughs a little bit, but Annie isn't sure why, and moves to sit down next to her—but not next to next to her. He doesn't cross his legs, instead just sticks them straight out. He seems amused when people almost trip over his feet.
He holds out his hand, awkward and sideways, and says, "I'm Finnick Odair."
"Annie Cresta," she says, and takes his hand. "I promise I'm not a serial killer."
"Aw, and here I was hoping we could be partners in crime." He laughs, and she laughs, and suddenly it feels like they've known each other for a very long time.
"I never did get your answer," he says. "You live here?"
"For summer and fall, yeah," she answers. "I'm in New York the other half."
He relaxes his posture. "Which one's crazier?"
"Definitely New York."
"I live over there," he says, pointing to what Annie assumes is beyond the bay. "And I think nowhere is crazier than San Francisco."
"Then you don't travel much, I'd bet."
"I don't understand people who leave California."
"I don't understand people who don't love to travel."
"That sounded kind of insulting," Finnick says, putting a hand to his heart. "I thought we were friends."
"But–you said it first!" she protests, grinning. That little voice is back and telling her she isn't friends with this guy; they've just met, technically. Annie considers this a special circumstance kind of thing.
"You've got no proof this time, though," he says, glancing at her camera.
Annie holds her camera up at him threateningly, and he laughs.
"Any reason you always come here?"
"To piss off my dad, mostly," he says. "Have you ever been to the Exploratorium?"
Annie looks at him with raised eyebrows. She grew up in San Francisco, living here year round. Of course she's been there.
"But, like, recently," he adds.
"No," Annie admits.
"Let's go," he says, standing up. He offers her a hand.
"I don't have enough money with me."
"I'll pay."
"You can't!"
Finnick leans down to grab her hand himself and pulls her up. Annie reluctantly stands, straightening her bag.
"But I will."
"Why?" Annie asks, scrutinizing him. Because even with her special circumstance rule, this seems a bit out there. Admittedly, she's wary to go somewhere with him, even if looks perfectly normal—she's seen enough crime shows to know how this could end.
He smiles at her. "Like I said, to piss off my dad. You want to come?"
"Sure," Annie decides. And away they go.
(next)sunday;
my mind is set, i walk the line
Finnick's done the math, and he's got eight weeks left in San Francisco. Eight weeks until he heads south for UCLA and leaves Annie behind. He doesn't know why she matters so much, but she does, and he's worried that at the end of his summer he won't be able to say goodbye. That's partly the reason he doesn't tell Annie about his departure.
She looks so at ease, sitting next to him eating her ice cream—Finnick tried it and it tasted disgusting, but he didn't tell her that. They're sitting in silence, and it isn't awkward. The whole situation is, in fact, very awkward, he supposes, but it doesn't feel like it is.
He watches the horizon, his own finished ice cream in his hand, and smiles.
"It looks like it's going to rain," he muses.
"Hm?" Annie looks up from her ice cream. "Here?"
"The clouds over there"—he points—"are getting closer. So it'll rain."
Annie squints at the sky. "When?" she asks.
"I don't know."
She laughs, her eyes bright, and Finnick wants to know what wonderful thing she's thinking now.
They are, in some ways, polar opposites, and in others, Finnick could almost swear they were the same person. No one else would so willingly and quickly accept that he spent every Sunday wasting his day in an overcrowded city. She understood. But sometimes she didn't, and that was okay. He liked her even when she disagreed with him.
When Annie finishes her ice cream, Finnick throws the cups and spoons away. They've already planned out their day, and next on the agenda is Market Street. Annie had admitted earlier to not loving shopping from various vendors, so Finnick almost begged for a quick walk down the street. By the end, he hopes Annie sees as much greatness in it as he does.
The walk from the Ferry Building to Market Street is longer than it looks, but maybe that's because there's a great chance of getting stuck waiting for the little white walking simple to replace the glowing red hand. The hand always has looked slightly threatening. And as they cross the street, Finnick grabs Annie's hand—loosely, to see what she'll do. She doesn't pull away.
She lets Finnick drag her across the street and back again to look at homemade products he'll never buy.
She refuses to stand around while he talks to the vendors.
She turns her nose up in disgust when he holds up a pair of earrings that match her eyes.
"They're just cheap products," she says once Finnick has given up.
"They're the product of hard work, blood, sweat, and tears," Finnick argues.
"Ew."
Finnick shrugs. "Ready for lunch?"
A droplet of rain lands on Finnick's shoulder and soon he can hear the soft plinks of more drops hitting the pavement. Annie smiles. "Let's go."
(next)sunday;
it ain't often that you'll ever find a friend
They go to the zoo via city bus, and they both hate it. They aren't bus people. They're wild animals that are no longer wild kind of people. That's why they—Finnick—paid the bus fee and sat on worn seats that smelled vaguely of disinfectant.
The zoo is even more crowded than the streets, almost, and at the gates, Annie pays for her own ticket. She grabs Finnick's hand and they try to navigate the crowd. They have a zoo map, one of the kiddy ones that has cartoon-like pictures of all the animals in their sections. Annie wants to see the koalas first. Finnick wants to see the monkeys.
They both want to see the penguins.
They travel around the zoo counter clockwise, starting in the African section. They hold hands as they walk, and Annie swings their arms back and forth.
Finnick has a habit of naming all of the animals he sees. When they reach the penguins, he names one Annie. She smiles with her face pressed against the glass of the habitat, watching her penguin waddle by the water's edge.
They eat lunch in the Bear Country section. Finnick has a burger; Annie eats his fries, feeling odd to eat meat while surrounded by animals. They both get an ice cream cone when they're done, both chocolate.
It's starting to get late by the time they make a full circle, and Annie's worried Finnick'll miss his ferry if the bus doesn't come on time. Finnick just drags her into the gift shop. She stands in the back, looking with her eyes, while he walks around the store examining each and every product. When he's done shopping, he comes back to her and offers his arm and a present. She takes both.
"Thank you," she says, looking at her stuffed koala.
"You're welcome," Finnick says as they exit the zoo. "His name's Benny."
"Did you just come up with that?"
"Duh."
He's grinning, and his hair's mussed up. Annie kisses his cheek without thinking twice.
(next)sunday;
it's hard to keep track of you falling through the sky
They're sitting on a park bench, counting pigeons—with six more weeks, including today, to be together—when Annie's laughing face grows solemn and she's wincing as she tells Finnick that her mom's bought plane tickets. She's leaving for New York in three weeks, including today, and there's nothing she can do about it.
And he's thinking why on Earth he even cares so much about this girl. He's spent about four days with this girl, including today, in total, and he's spent the rest of his life without her. It should be a no brainer. Yet his heart feels like it's breaking.
They exchange numbers. They'll text. Keep in touch. They've still got two more Sundays. This isn't the end of the world, not even close.
A new pigeon flutters awkwardly into view on wings that are out of use. "Fifty-two," Finnick mutters.
Annie points to a pigeon that's waddling on its feet across the small playground. "Fifty-three."
"It's going to rain."
"Here?"
"Back home," Finnick answers, pointing north. "Have you ever been to Bodega?"
"No."
"You should see it."
"In two weeks," Annie promises. The day before she enters the crowded airport with a large bag and not with him.
"Two weeks," Finnick agrees.
(next)sunday;
but i never really thought it would feel this fine
By the time she emerges from her bedroom in the morning, her dad is gone. He mentioned why just before he left; there was some kind of emergency work meeting. She pulls orange juice out of the fridge and puts a slice of bread in the toaster. She waits.
She eats her breakfast quickly, one eye on the clock at all times. She doesn't want to be late to the Ferry Building like last time. When she opens the door to leave, her other hand reaching for her bag on a hook, she finds Johanna standing on the cement porch, her hand raised in a fist to knock.
"Hey," she says.
Annie pulls her bag over her shoulder and steps outside. "Hey."
"Where are you going?"
"Outside."
"Ha," Johanna says, her arms crossed and her eyes bright. "But, like, really."
"Like, really," Annie answers.
"Can I come with?"
They're walking together down the sidewalk. Johanna's trying to figure out where Annie's going.
"Not today," Annie says.
"But I walked all the way here!" Johanna whines.
"Sorry." And she really is, but this is her last day with Finnick in San Francisco, and she wants to be with him. "Catch you later?"
Johanna stops walking and waves goodbye. "Yeah, later."
Annie arrives at the Ferry Building one minute late, but still before the ferry unloads. She sits on a bench, watching people mill around her, and waiting to spot the one familiar face in this blur of people. He exits with a large chocolate chip cookie in his hand—ferry food.
He lifts a hand in greeting, smiling already. Annie doesn't think she ever stops smiling around Finnick, and she thinks the same is for him.
She stands up and walks toward him. They meet in the middle, and Annie wraps her arms around him. He hugs her back with his left arm and takes another bite of his cookie.
"Hey," he says, his mouth still full.
"What's up?"
They've come a long way from a conversation on a wall, she thinks.
(next)sunday;
turn the light out say goodnight
He's waiting at the Larkspur Landing, standing on a bench, Mags sitting beside him—because even though he's positive Annie doesn't think he's a criminal, he wants her to be comfortable being carted around in his hometown. Annie admitted via text that she's never actually been on the ferry before. Finnick wonders what she'll think of it.
He wonders what she'll think of the striking change to a small town. At least Larkspur isn't too different. It'll be a gradual change. He decides she'll love it.
"I see it!" he tells Mags.
"Good. Now sit down," she says.
He does, sitting on the edge and leaning back on his hands. Mags snorts at him.
"You didn't have to come," he reminds her.
"And pass up the chance to meet the girl you're head over heels for? No way."
He doesn't answer her. Doesn't tell her they're just friends. He doesn't know what they are; he knew the color of her Sharpie before he knew the color of her eyes.
She walks off the ferry with her bag draped over her shoulder. She's searching through it for something.
"Hey," he greets. She doesn't respond. "What's wrong?"
"I can't find my glasses."
"Well there go my plans for sitting in the library all day," he jokes. She looks up at him, exasperated.
"Sorry," he says.
She laughs then, dropping her bag back to her side. "It doesn't even matter, I guess. Where are we going today?"
"Everywhere, my dear. We're going to see the world." He looks over at his neighbor—he's known her forever, though, and she practically feels like family. "This is Mags."
"Hello," Annie says, extending her hand. Mags shakes it, a grin on her face.
They leave the port shortly after, driving the hour up to Bodega. Finnick's driving his dad's car still, and Annie's riding shotgun. Mags is in the middle in the back, butting into their conversation whenever she likes. Finnick can't stop smiling. Not even the other drivers can get him in a bad mood.
Finnick takes her to the most popular tourist sites—which, in this dull part of the town, aren't that popular at all. First up on his list is the candy and kites shop, locally famous for its taffy. Her face lights up when she sees the bright kites hanging from the eave.
"Do you like it?" he asks as she's browsing the selections of taffy.
"I love it!" she answers. The clerk laughs.
They leave the shop with two bags of taffy, one for each of them; Mags turns up her nose at the thought of the sticky candy.
Next, they drive to a small beach. There are plenty of them everywhere, blending into one another, all at the bottoms of small cliffs. She takes her time walking down the crooked, sandy path to the beach. Halfway down, she takes her yellow camera out of her bag and takes a picture—she does that every time she's with him, taking photos of things they see together.
They sit on the sand by the waters edge, their legs stretched out in front of them, the water lapping at their heels. It's warm, and their shoes were thrown behind them, and they're alone—Mags stayed in the car, claiming she was too old to walk down to the beach.
"It's so quiet," Annie muses.
"Still love it?"
"So much."
She leans back, her head resting on the sand, and Finnick joins her. He closes his eyes, but hers remain open. They only get up when they feel the water reaching farther up their legs.
They're in the car before Finnick tells her where they're going. Well, first they're dropping Mags off at her house—she says she's tired, but no one believes her—and then they're going out for dinner. At three o'clock.
"It's totally socially acceptable," Finnick tells her, opening up the door to the restaurant for her.
"You know, I never did have lunch," she says.
"Well, it's too late for that."
The hostess looks bored as she smiles and leads them to their seat. Annie gazes out the window, and Finnick asks for a kid's menu. That's the secret restaurants always have: the kids' food is way better than the adults', especially for a not-so-socially-acceptable dinner.
"I wish I could come here all the time," Annie admits.
"Hey, no being sad," he scolds. He throws his napkin at her, making her laugh.
"All right, all right," she says. "Say something happy, then."
"You first."
"I asked you first."
"Have you got proof?"
She pulls out her camera and takes his photo. It'll most likely turn out blurry. Finnick can't stop smiling.
They talk for what seems like hours; the topic changes rapidly. After the third time a waiter asks if they know what they'd like to eat yet, they decide to look at the menu. Finnick scans his short menu up and down before selecting fish and chips. He looks up at Annie, and she's frowning at her menu.
"I can't read it."
Finnick laughs, and grabs her menu from her hands. She looks at him, confused. "Oysters," he starts, and Annie smiles.
They get their food. Neither of them wants to admit that the day is coming to an end.
They exit the restaurant in silence, holding hands. The day is still bright, it's not even evening yet, but it feels dark. Finnick thinks it would be better if it were dark.
"I should probably take a bus back," Annie says, her head looking down.
"No, I'll drive you," Finnick argues, but he knows there's no point. It'd be better for Annie to take a bus. He sighs. "I'll take you to the nearest stop."
"Thanks."
The drive is short and quiet. Finnick hates it, but he's got nothing to say. When they arrive, the bus stop is empty. Finnick pulls over and Annie gets out to check the times.
"Next bus will be here in fifteen," she tells him.
"I'll wait with you."
He sits on the bench, which is most likely filthy, and Annie sits next to him—like, next to next to. This time, the silence almost feels peaceful. He counts silently how many cars pass by while they wait. The bus comes far too soon.
Annie stands up, securing her bag with one hand. She turns to look at him, and he can read her words in her eyes.
"I'll miss you," she says, and she takes something out of her bag. She hands him her camera, ugly and yellow and disposable, and with one spot left for a photo. "And I want you to have this."
"Thanks." He can't think of anything better to say.
He knows that this would be the perfect time to kiss her, finally, but he can't bring himself to do it. It would only cause him more pain in the end. He doesn't do anything, just stands there, and Annie starts walking to the bus.
"Tell me how much New York sucks, okay?"
She turns around, her hand on the handle on the bus, and smiles one last time for him.
epilogue;
and it seems like I've got to travel on
They text like mad, back and forth, for the first couple months. Annie tells him everything about her school and the people in it. Once he arrives, he tells her about college. They're naïve to think that things can go on like this.
They planned on visiting each other sometime in the fall, but it never worked out. Annie's parents wouldn't let her go back in the middle of the semester, and Finnick didn't have the time or opportunity to leave.
There's a large handful of new students at Annie's school, and one of them asks her to the Homecoming dance. She says yes without thinking twice.
Annie holds her koala in her hands at Christmas. Her gingerbread cookies are almost done baking, and the house smells like pine needles and holiday cheer. She feels sad, staring at her toy, but then the oven dings and she drops the koala to take her cookies out.
A friend jokingly, permanently, deletes all of Finnick's contacts from his phone. He's distraught for a moment, but he knows he can almost everyone's numbers again, and he and Annie don't text that often anymore anyway.
By Valentine's Day, she's had a boyfriend for three months. He gives her heart-shaped balloons and a couple dozen kisses—not the chocolate kind.
Finnick's cleaning out his dorm room at the end of the year when he finds the disposable camera. He hesitates for a moment before tossing it in the paper bag marked trash.
Over summer, she visits her dad. Humphry Slocombe has left the Ferry Building, and her wall has been painted over again.
He moves into an apartment with his girlfriend in sophomore year.
She studies abroad in England.
They never look back.