The Sun Will Rise Again

Wesley’s alarm was rude enough to wake him up at 5 a.m.—such an ungodly hour. 

The sun hadn’t even broken through the clouds yet, his room still bathed in darkness. Wesley rolled over, pressing one of his pillows to his ear. It did nothing to drown out the incessant, high-pitched beeping of the alarm. He checked his phone, and groaned. Why wasn’t it Friday yet? The weeks always seemed to drag—it was as though Wesley was slugging through honey, his footsteps agonisingly slow. 

He rolled out of bed—it was closer to 6 a.m. at this time—the floorboards icy cold beneath his feet. Wesley hated the cold; the shivering, the chattering teeth, the blue toes. The one thing Wesley liked about the mornings was the sound of his coffee machine whirring and buzzing, before dribbling the liquid energy into his mug. Sipping on the bitter brew, Wesley flicked through his phone. Unsurprisingly, there was nothing in the news to improve his mood. 

With a sigh, Wesley pulled on his suit, wrapped his tie around the collar—he figured that wearing a bright yellow tie would inspire happiness, it didn’t—and pulled on his shoes. He stuffed his laptop, pens, and other miscellaneous office items into his suitcase, and reluctantly left the warmth and comfort of his home. He locked the door with a click, and began his trek down the street. 

The sun was just peeking through the clouds now, bathing the city in a lazy, golden grey haze. The sounds of beeping horns, trucks whizzing by, and angry drivers yelling out their sleep-deprived rage filled Wesley’s ears. The pavement was slightly stained with the remnants of rain, puddles gathering in dips in the concrete. Wesley unwittingly stepped in one, the water soaking his socks. He sighed. How Wesley hated wet socks. 

He perked up slightly when he smelt fresh coffee being brewed. Wesley stopped at the tiny coffee shop wedged into the corner of the block, the cute barista—Maia—at her usual spot behind the counter. Her green apron was stained with coffee and coffee grounds, her blonde hair twisted into perfect french braids. 

“Good morning, Wesley!” She said. “Double shot with three sugars again?”

Wesley nodded, his tongue like lead; this wasn’t unusual, as Wesley’s inability to talk to women seemed to be a chronic condition. Of course, this isn’t what he told his mother when she asked about why he was still single at twenty-seven.

“At your age, honey, I was already pregnant.” His mother would say. “And long since married. What happened to Penelope? She was a nice girl, right?”

“Sure,” Wesley replied, scowling. “Until I found out that she was nicer to Eli.” His best friend, or, more accurately, his ex-best friend. 

“Well, why don’t you go out and meet another nice girl?” His mother would continue to press, sipping at her tea with her eyebrows raised. 

Wesley would concede, “I could start dating again. I guess.” He never did, of course. He’d wasted five years on Penelope—had even bought her a ring—and wasn’t all too interested in spending that much time or money on someone who might just break his heart in return, again. A concept his mother failed to understand. 

“Your total comes to five-fifty.” Maia said, breaking Wesley from his disturbing reverie. “Cash or card?”

“Um,” Wesley cleared his throat, “cash—” He stuffed his hands into his pockets, coming up empty each time. “Well, card then, I guess.” He rummaged through his suitcase and, of course, he’d forgotten to pack his wallet. 

“Hey buddy,” the round man behind huffed, “you’re holding up the line.”

“Sorry,” Wesley mumbled, “I’m sorry, I’m such an idiot. Looks like I’ll have to—”

Maia pushed the coffee in to his hands and winked. “You have a nice day, Wesley.”

Nodding his gratitude, Wesley clasped the fresh coffee between his red, numb fingers and scurried down the street. 

He checked his phone. He would be late—possibly another of Wesley’s chronic conditions—but there were hardly enough people in the office who would care. His cheeks still burned from embarrassment; it was just like him to step in a puddle and soak his socks, and it was just like him to forget his money! Maia would most likely get into trouble because of him. He tried not to think about it; it only reminded him how useless he was. 

It was when Wesley was crossing the road that he was hit—by a measly Honda Jazz, they told him later on. He saw nothing else, but the black and white stripes beneath his shoes, nothing but the phone clutched in his palm. There was a burst of sharp pain on the right side of his body, his phone flew out of his hand—shattering somewhere he couldn’t see—his feet flew out from under him, then, there was nothing. Pitch black nothing. 

***

When Wesley came to, he was blinded by fluorescent lighting. 

There was more beeping. He also had a headache—it felt as though his head might explode. He rolled over, with the intention of silencing his irksome alarm, but was met with in IV line instead. 

“What the heck?” Wesley said, his voice husky. He observed his surroundings, and it became horrifyingly clear that he was in a hospital bed. He was cocooned in white covers, the sterile smell of sanitiser filling his nose, the chattering of the hospital staff an ambient noise. His right arm was in a cast, the pain a dull, constant thudding—not particularly unbearable, not pleasant either. 

“Andy, he’s awake!” A familiar voice exclaimed. His parents’ faces came into view; his mother’s brown hair dishevelled for the first time in her life, his father studying Wesley over his thick-rimmed glasses. “Wesley? Can you understand me?” His mother shouted, annunciating each word carefully, as though she were speaking to a confused child or a dog.

“Lillian,” his father clicked his tongue, “he’s not a vegetable, and this is a hospital, so please.”

“Hush, honey.” His mother said, throwing her arms around Wesley, squeezing his neck. She smelled strongly of roses—his mother always wore too much perfume.

“I’m okay,” Wesley said. “I’m just a bit sore, and I have this massive headache.”

“Well, that would make sense,” his father replied, “since you were hit by a car. You remember, don't you?”

His mother sobbed. “You could have been killed!”

“Killed, huh?” He said.

Wesley studied his arm, still throbbing and slightly itchy—it was on the back of his hand, underneath the cast. An itch he would never be able to scratch; all he could do was sit there and grit his teeth until the urge left him. 

“Could’ve been worse, darling,” an older nurse in blue scrubs scurried to his bedside, and tinkered with the IV line. “Just some fractures and bruising; some people are lucky if they walk away with internal bleeding. Most end up with head injuries, which is the worst case.”

“Could’ve been worse?” Wesley repeated. 

“Andy,” his mother whimpered, “are his words slurred? Am I just hearing things?”

His father sighed, casting Wesley a withering look. “You’re imagining things, Lillian.” 

“Your injuries are very mild.” The nurse said. “We’ll be sending you home tomorrow morning with some pain killers. Just take them as directed, and you'll be all better in no time.” Before Wesley could thank her, the nurse bustled over to the next bed. 

“You hear that, Lillian?” His father said. “It could’ve been a lot worse, and he’ll be just as new in no time. Isn’t that great?”

“It is great.” Wesley replied. He spoke slowly, savouring the words; he didn’t think he’d ever said such a thing before. He was in the hospital with broken bones, bruises, and a headache his mothers’ sobbing only made worse—he should’ve been furious, questioning why it was he who would be so unlucky. But, instead, Wesley felt gratitude. Gratitude was a warm, fuzzy feeling—of course, that could’ve also been the morphine—but it was a feeling he liked, nonetheless. 

***

Wesley enjoyed being home for the first time since he moved in.

He no longer minded the drab walls, the sparse furniture, or even the heater that whirred and hummed far too loudly. It was home, and he was lucky to have a home to come back to. His mother fussed over him the entire way there, and even held onto him as he walked up the three steps to his front door. While this might have once bothered Wesley, he was slightly unsteady on his feet, and didn’t mind the help. 

“Okay, hunny, I’ve left some food in the fridge for you, just make sure that you don’t forget to eat. And I know my old phone isn’t what you young people use these days, but make sure to call if you need me. Should we stay with him, Andy?” His mother said, his father ushering her out the door. 

“I’m sure he can handle himself, Lillian,” his father said. “Isn’t that right, Wesley?”

“Yes,” Wesley replied, waving them off, “thank you.”

Wesley spent the afternoon on the couch, his feet up—his toes peeked out of the holes in his socks—drifting off at the beginning of one show, and waking up in the middle of another. He woke up again the next morning, the alarm in his room beeping incessantly, just as it had two mornings before. He didn’t mind it so much this particular morning; in fact, Wesley was especially excited to be able to see the sun peeking through the curtains. 

It was Friday, and Wesley didn’t have work—his mother had so graciously organised his time off—but he found himself pulling on a sweatshirt, sweatpants, and striding out of the front door at his usual time. The ground was wet again, and his arm was still throbbing, but the air was fresh and crisp, a welcome thing. 

The little coffee shop in the corner announced itself blocks before Wesley reached it, the smell of freshly brewed coffee filling his nose. Maia was at the counter, her eyes widening when she saw him.

“Oh my gosh!” She hurried with the customer she’d been serving, before scurrying around the counter and throwing her arms around Wesley.

“Ouch!” Stabbing pain shot through Wesley’s arm. “Broken bone!” 

She recoiled, her pale cheeks—which were dusted with freckles—turning to deep red. “Oh,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I’d just heard what happened, and…can I get you some coffee?”

Wesley chuckled, and, before he could convince himself otherwise, he said, “Listen, Maia, can I call you Maia? Anyway, I was maybe wondering…” He struggled to finish the sentence, the words becoming jumbled together. He would’ve possibly cursed himself yesterday for his inability to contain his awkwardness, but the sun had risen for Wesley again today, so he was determined to get it right. 

“Would you like to go out to dinner with me, sometime?” Maia said, her serene blue eyes locked onto her worn Timberlands, the end of her long, blonde braid twisted around her finger. 

  Wesley blinked. “Yes, I would.” 

Pulling a notepad from her apron pocket, and the pen from behind her ear, Maia scribbled her phone number onto a piece of paper. She shoved it into Wesley’s hand—her cheeks were still tinged pink. 

“I’ll pick you up at seven?” Wesley said, his heart pounding. 

“I think I’d better pick you up.” Maia said with a grin. 

“Oh, right, broken arm.” Wesley said. “I’ll see you at seven.” 

“I’d better get back to work,” she said. “But, I’m really glad you’re okay.” 

“Thanks.” Wesley found that he almost skipped down the street on his way home, finally feeling hopeful. The sun had risen again, he felt it on his face, and his heart was pounding with the excitement of the promise of love. “It’s going to be a good day.” He mused to himself, “A really good day.” 

THE END