Redemption

The sun rose early, but Leila’s alarm clock came first in the race to annoy her.

She felt a strong kinship with Anna from Frozen. Strands of russet-colored hair lay strewn on her face, tickling her nose, adding dry flavor to her tongue. It was a new day, and all Leila wanted to do was burrow down in the comforting grey of her quilts. Regret and desolation could be her company.

Groaning, Leila threw the quilts off herself and slammed the briinngingg red alarm clock. It was like a movie scene.

She stubbed her toe on the wooden floor, the two bright bells of the alarm clock broke, and the quilts somehow ended up on her head. The only thing that separated this moment from a movie scene was the empty, wallowing feeling that ate away at her heart.

Loneliness.

She didn’t feel like a heroine, only a misplaced twenty-five-year-old who was wasting away her life.

Leila frowned, slapped herself, and staggered, finally standing up.

The world was spinning, the little bedside table was colored in so many shades of brown that it could easily be life’s worst villain, and Leila felt like a dizzy salsa dancer.

She stumbled to the bathroom, gripping the door with more strength than one would expect from a hungover adult, and loosed her guts into the sink.

Leila guzzled a bottle of water, ten of which were artfully placed against the master bedroom mirror.

Her sober self knew what to expect on most mornings.

A notepad with crisp, lined paper sat on the sink counter, frowning in her face.

At the top, scrawling black script formed the words New Year’s Resolutions.

Leila groaned.

Her list was a bit too long to be considered the proper, normal person’s resolutions. Most would write something along the lines of “Go to the gym” or “Drink more water” or “Sleep more.”

Leila’s list was as followed: Quit smoking. Stop day-drinking. Do something with your life. Stop pushing away friends. Get over him ghosting you. Start writing again. Smile more. Stop crying like a love-sick fool. Control anger. Stop hitting things.

And lastly, the scariest one of all: Find love again.

Leila growled at the notebook, threw it up in the air, and spiked it to the end of the bathroom.

It landed with a satisfying thunk and the screech of ripped pages.

The motions made her feel like who she used to be: star volleyball hitter bound for Stanford and the Summer Olympics.

Those titles seemed so far away and insignificant. Now, the crappy assistant job she had barely covered the bills. She felt more bossed around than in control on most days. Knew in her bones she’d never have a chance to write that dream novel that had been sitting in the outskirts of her mind for years now.

Her dreams seemed like pretty bits of colored glass—broken beyond repair, but still beautiful.

Leila sighed, splashing water on her face till she resembled her favorite animal: a half-drowned cat.

The water dripped down her cheeks, almost reminding her of last night’s tears.

Leila slapped herself again.

Enough was enough, and today was the day. She hadn’t managed to follow any of her resolutions.

She’d been putting them off, saying she’d start progress on her birthday in late January. On her little sister’s engagement in February. The list of could-be’s and when-I’ll-do-it stretched a mile long, and last on the list was the first day of spring.

Leila smiled tightly. Grimly. Today was March 19^th, and it was time to follow through.

She picked up the fallen, battered notebook and set it on the counter.

Pulled out her last pack of smokes. Lit one, took a few strong inhales. Exhaled, letting the cloying, warm feeling wrap around her lungs and hiss against her soul. The burnt-fire smell stuck to her clothes, her dry mouth, her teeth.

Leila stubbed it against her ashtray and tossed the rest of the pack in the small dustbin at her feet. Shrugging, she tossed the ashtray in as well.

She brushed her teeth, took a swig of water, and felt clean again.

Leila glanced at the dustbin. Her hand was already moving. Halfway there, she stopped. Receded her greedy arm.

And slapped herself again, albeit lightly.  

She opened one of the beige drawers under the sink and pulled out the prescription. All right. She’d go through with it today.

Leila put on a bright, daffodil-yellow sweater and a paisley skirt. If she felt as innocent as she looked, maybe it’d help her in the daunting task that lay ahead.

Her next movements were a blur. Shoving a muffin down her throat, hopping in the car, and zooming to the local pharmacy as fast as her wheels would take her, fast enough to avoid turning back when the pangs of doubt hit.

The pharmacy doors were clean and white. So, so white. It was even whiter inside. Leila felt uncomfortable, seeing the moms pick up Tylenol for their kids. She was dirty. She didn’t belong here. She’d only be a bad influence.

Leila could feel a headache coming on, but she walked to the counter, leaned in towards the pharmacist, and whispered, “I need some medicine.” She passed the prescription to the lady secretively, as if they were part of the inner circle of a drug cartel.

The lady seemed unaffected. She glanced at the words written on the tiny slip of paper, then looked up at Leila, her gaze entirely different.

As if she was seeing a different person.

Leila bit her lip. “I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

The lady nodded quickly, like a startled rabbit, almost as if remembering her job. “Of course, miss. I’ll be right back.”

Leila waited, drumming her long fingers on the counter, trying to avoid the suspicious glances of the other moms at the counter.

When the pharmacist came back, she had a bulging brown paper bag. “Here are your bottles of Varenicline. You’re very brave. And strong, too. The journey forward won’t be easy, but look to loved ones for support, sweetie.”

“Thanks,” Leila murmured, tears almost pricking at my eyes. “I’ll do my best.”

Leila scurried out faster than she had come. She pulled out the notebook from her car and crossed off the first resolution.

A weight seemed to lift off her shoulders as the charcoal-black line obscured any evidence of the scrawled words.

On to the next few tasks. Leila whipped out her phone and called Amina. “Hey. It’s been some time since we talked, but I want to apologize. For everything. Can you come over?”

Amina was silent on the other end for some time. “Okay. I’ll be there in ten.”

Leila was about to hang up but paused. “I really miss you. And I was a dickish best friend. I’m going to be better.”

Amina’s response was instantaneous. “Leila, shut your face. You’ve been through hell, and you’re finally admitting that you’ll try. So I’m not going to tolerate any sort of self-deprecation. And I’m coming over with some sugar. So just sit your ass down and smile.”

Leila smiled. Beatrice’s apple-cinnamon pastries, or “sugars,” as most of the town called them, had the ability to cheer anyone up.

“See you soon.” And then, she hung up.

A little jolt of nervous excitement skittered down Leila’s spine. And she drove home as fast as she could.

Amina came in with large, steaming white paper bags.

At first, they didn’t speak.

They only hugged, crying. Sobbing, spilling their hearts on the floor.

They ate the sugars faster than one would have thought humanly possible. 

When their cheeks were brown with cinnamon and streaked white with the mischief of sweet, powdered happiness, only then did they speak.

“I hate him for doing this to you. He shouldn’t have that type of power,” Amina bit out, words edged in steel.

“I’ve tried to stop thinking about him. I’m making some progress. Today, I went to the pharmacy. Officially quit smoking,” Leila said.

“Yay!” Amina squealed, reaching across the table to hug her tightly.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Leila smirked. “I don’t know if I can do it.”

Amina frowned. “I’m moving in with you for the next month. My clothes are in the car. I’ll shove that medicine down your throat every day if you make me.”

Leila laughed. “I mean, I’d have appreciated some quicker notice, but it’s not like anyone is using the guest bedroom. You’ll have to deal with my slobbiness.”

“Okay, okay, that I can deal with. But first. Where’s the alcohol?”

Leila sighed. “I don’t know if I can quit that. It’s in the cabinet, though.”

Amina grinned deviously. She sprinted to the cabinet, pulled out a midnight-colored bottle with gold embellishments, and poised it over the kitchen sink.

“Shit, don’t do that!” Leila screeched. “It’s a hundred-dollar bottle!”

Amina set it down, snickering. “Chill. We’re returning your stash to Costco. Or we’ll sell it on eBay, and you’ll be a millionaire.”

Leila rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”

“Ok. Now, on to more important matters. Where’s the notebook?”

Leila feigned innocence. “What notebook?”

“Shut up. Give it to me or I’ll burn your bottles faster than you can say pages.”

Leila grunted and got the damned thing from the car. She threw it down on the table. “Happy?”

Amina smirked. “Your resolutions are interesting. I like the one that involves hitting things, but let’s do the last one. Ooh, and we can get a head-start on the writing one, too. We’re going to the coffee-shop, baby!”

Leila paled. “Florencia’s probably straight.”

Amina snorted. “You’ve had a crush on her even before you and bastard-face started dating. So give it a damn shot. And I’ve heard she’s gay.”

Before long, they were in the coffee-shop, and Leila could feel her heart shaking in her chest. She pulled her laptop closer to her chest.

“I’m writing first. I’ll ask her out when we go. I don’t want to sit at a table awkwardly after she rejects me.”

Amina tugged Leila inside.

Carl’s Coffee was a homey place—brown, weathered couches clustered around a roaring fire that spit heat in shades of auburn and tawny gold. The tables were brown and rounded so that toddlers wouldn’t trip and split their heads open on a sharp corner. The floor was heaped with colorful rugs that never dirtied because there was a black carpet that everyone would walk on and get rid of their troubles and grime when ordering. And the display—that was best of all. Warm fairy lights were strewn at the bottom, casting a rose-gold glow on the delicacies on the rest of the racks.

The delicacies inside were unlike any other coffee shop—freshly buttered, already toasted chicken buns, salad greens with popping crystals made from lychees, cinnamon buns that hid caramel, peppermints, and maple syrup in its sticky center. And the list went on.

Leila walked to Florencia before Amina could follow her. “I’d like a caramel macchiato, foam top with drizzle and chocolate sprinkles. And I’d also like the number of an employee name Florencia. That’d make my day more than any drink or cinnamon bun.”

Florencia regarded Leila with her heavily penciled in eyes. Her shimmery blue eyeshadow glittered with lavender and diamond flecks of light. And gods, her eyes were just the prettiest shade of gold-green-blue. It wasn’t a color; it wasn’t something Leila could put words to. Perhaps it was the shade of a feeling.

Adrenaline. That’s what she would call it.

And her lustrous, light caramel skin looked smooth and soft and perfect. Her pretty, sloping nose that met her plush, pouty lips looked positively divine. Everything about Florencia was perfect.

“You’re staring,” Florencia said in a slow, sensual drawl.

“How could I not,” Leila quipped.

“Hmm. Good to see you outta your shell. I’m picking you up. Friday night.”

A bubbling feeling shot up Leila’s throat. “Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.” And with that, Florencia winked and handed Leila her steaming macchiato.