21 - Like It's 1946

                                    

                                          
"Thanks," Forrest said once we had no choice but to break our embrace. He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. "I just felt like hugging."
                          
"Yeah, no, I get it," I cleared my throat, trying not to feel awkward. Deep down, I couldn't believe what we just did. Nobody else ever held me the way he did. "But God, you're so sentimental, you know that?"
                          
He grinned. "Feelings are meant to be felt." I knitted my brows together, but before I could remark on it, he said, "Okay, seriously now, we have to get going. I swear, the place is going to close before we make it there."
                          
I shrugged. "We would be there already if someone wasn't in the mood for –"
                          
"Don't even start with me, June," Forrest cut in. I tried to smother my smile but failed. "Wait!" he suddenly exclaimed. "Close your eyes."
                          
"Are you kidding?" I tossed him a look of confusion. "Why?"
                          
"Because," he paused, "Just because."
                          
"That's a fantastic reason," I responded, knowing my sarcasm was loud and clear, "Of course I will."
                          
"Great!" Forrest grabbed my hand, "I'll lead you from here."
                          
Reluctantly, I shut my eyes. I focused on nothing but the way his skin felt. Rough yet delicate. His palm against mine, the grasp was secure and comforting.
                          
I knew I looked rather foolish, but I didn't really mind. "Are we almost there?"
                          
"Just a few more steps and"–we stopped walking–"we're here! But hold on." He let go of my hand – immediately, I tried to not let my discontent show. I felt his touch seconds later as he made me turn to the side. "All right, open your eyes in three . . . two . . . one."
                          
I did as I was told and nearly burst out laughing once I saw where we were. "Are we . . . are we really at a toy store?" I stared at him, far too amused.
                          
He remained unfazed. "Of course we are."
                          
I went back to looking at the sign. Wooden, curved letters greeted me.
                          
Like It's 1946 – TOYSHOP
                          
The building was fairly small. From the outside, it gave off a rustic vibe. Through the two wide windows, I was able to find that this wasn't the sort of toy store for a seven-year-old. There were trinkets and dolls on display, but they were timeworn and quaint. It made the name of the place make sense.
                          
"Let's go inside," Forrest prodded and opened the door for me.
                          
I stepped in, sucking in the subdued, almost-intimate ambiance. Throughout the room, there were shelves of novelties. They looked more like pieces of art than playthings. Overhead, weak light-bulbs were doing their best while, beneath our feet, the floorboards creaked and complained. I would have thought that the place was abandoned if it weren't for the lady sitting at the cash wrap counter.
                          
She couldn't have been much older than me and Forrest. With sleek, black hair reaching her elbows, and narrow eyes, she seemed to possess a sharp elegance. Her physique was ample and her skin glowed. She was in the midst of writing something, but her eyes flickered over to us in acknowledgment. Other than that, no greeting was offered.
                          
It was eerily quiet. There was no music or indication that there was anyone else in the shop. I let my eyes roam. On the ruby-hued walls, there were framed photos, but they didn't feel personal. It appeared to be mindless photography – there was a shot of autumn leaves and another shot showing a car's headlights glaring through the night. While I was observing, Forrest moved in behind me.
                          
"Go look around," he said, keeping his tone low, "If you find anything interesting, let me know."
                          
"Alright." I hesitantly walked towards one of the shelves, my curiosity piqued. There were little classic car models and realistic-looking trains; I took a second to appreciate the amount of detail put into them. There were also metal figurines and exquisite wands. Everything felt . . . neglected, like forgotten treasures underneath a child's bed.
                          
I glanced at one of the lower shelves. There were a few boxes, the shade of turquoise, and they had some words on it. I grabbed a hold of one and upon inspection, I found that it had been written on with a black marker. In cursive, neat script, it said:
                          
Jigsaw Puzzle
                          
"Because of you, there is a garden where a muddy field used to be."
                          
For Tyler – From Frankie
                          
"There's a story behind that," a voice said, startling me. It was . . . definitely not Forrest. My head snapped up, landing on the only other person here. I didn't even hear her footsteps. There was no name tag pinned to her shirt so I had no idea what I could call her. She stared – first at what I was holding and then at me. "Would you like to know?"
                          
"Yeah, sure," I slowly answered. In the back of my mind, I wondered where Forrest was.
                          
Before she began, she bent down and picked up another box. From what I could tell, there were three others left. "Inside these," she cleared her throat, "are jigsaw puzzles, but not the kind you can find anywhere else. They're . . . personal. The artist," she paused, "made these for someone she was in love with. She worked hard on each and every one – it took so much time. But, in the end, things didn't work out between . . . her and her muse so instead of burning them or something, she decided to put them up for sale in hopes of someone else appreciating them."
                          
I swallowed, feeling strangely sad, but before I could say anything, a familiar voice said, "Wow. That's pretty . . . bittersweet." I looked behind me and saw Forrest frowning. "I feel sorry about what happened, but I'm sure all the puzzles ended up amazing."
                          
The lady blew out a breath. "Yeah, well, it was a long time ago. Anyway, the quote on the box gives you a hint of what the illustration is. All the puzzles are forty pieces and eleven dollars each."
                          
I looked down at the one in my hands, wondering if I should ask Forrest to get me it. It was intriguing, but he already spent a bunch of money today. "June," I heard him say – practically accusingly – and I could already tell what was going to leave his mouth, "If you think – for one second – that we're not going to get one of these, then I'm going to have to disappoint you." Of course. "Which one do you want?"
                          
When it came to this green-eyed boy, there really was no point in arguing. "You know what, I quite like this one." I handed it to him so he could see. "But let me look at the others."
                          
"Here," the lady gave me the one she was holding, "Meet me over there when you're ready." She turned to leave, but I stopped her.
                          
"Wait," I faltered, and then asked a question, even though I was sure I already knew the answer. "May I get your name?"
                          
She almost smiled. "Frankie."