The Chase

(A belated Happy Valentine's to all! In honor of the lovey-dovey day, here's a short story I wrote for my fiction writing class last semester. I've been giving you a lot of poetry lately, so I thought I'd change it up. I'll admit it, it's a tad bit mushy-gushy. Enjoy!)

 

 The Chase

Clara set the now-empty bottle of golden white wine on her coffee table, taking a swig from the full glass in her other hand. She missed the table by mere centimeters, and the bottle crashed to the floor. It had been hours since Clara had met Oliver at the café, and she’d been sitting on the couch watching sappy masterpiece movies on the telly ever since.  She had finished off the wine without even realizing it, but as it were, being British, post-university, her judgment was only slightly impaired. Oliver had been so strange at the café that morning, all fidgety and flustered.

****

“Clara, I can’t take it anymore, try to understand. I just, I can’t keep waiting for you,” he’d said, babbling over his cappuccino.

“I understand, Olley. But I’m going to need some time to think, alright?” she’d responded, taken aback.

“Yes, of course; of course. I get that. Well then, how about we, uh, well...,” Oliver shifted on his feet as he thought about what to say next, “I’ve just talked to a few buddies about ringing in the New Year at a pub on the Nyhave. I was going to invite you, but... yeah, maybe you can think about it today and meet me there if you, uh, if you-”

“If I need someone to snog at midnight?” Clara had jumped in, sensing his unease.

“Yeah, yeah... right then,” he said, tugging at his sweater, pushing his hands into his pockets. “I guess I’ll see you tonight; or I won’t... If you’re not there at midnight I’ll take it as your sign to me, and uh, then I’ll probably need some time, apart.”

“Alright then, that settles it. And Oliver,” Clara said, as he started to walk away, “if I don’t see you, Happy New Year.”

“Same to you, Kid,” Oliver said, flashing a side smile as he walked out of the cafe.

****

Clara worried about it all day.  She thought about Oliver, and all the time she had spent with him; would she be able to live her life without him? All of the women in the movies she had been blubbering over were so sure of what they wanted. Perhaps it was because they were formulaic masterpiece movies, girl meets boy, the pair fall in love, boy does something stupid, subsequently becoming giant arse, girl cries, boy apologizes, girl realizes she can’t live without boy, kiss; roll credits.

And with that, it hit her.  Maybe the movies were having an effect on her heart; maybe it was the chardonnay pulsing through her veins.  Whatever the cause of her sudden revelation, she finally knew what had to be done. She had to be at that pub at midnight, or Oliver would be gone forever. Clara, it’s now or never. If you aren’t at the pub at midnight, I’m not going to wait around for you. Oliver’s words replayed in Clara’s head, taking on a fiercer quality as each minute passed. Oliver had given no ultimatum, but Clara suddenly felt as if he had.  

They were meant to be, made for each other.  She was his, and he was hers; it had always been that way, but she had overlooked it for years.  They had been friends since secondary school.  Clara remembered back to how it had been when they lived in London, countless hours spent together.

****

“The name’s Oliver,” he’d said, the first day they met. They had been on the tube, both in proper uniform.

“Clara,” she’d said, finding unease in talking to a complete stranger on public transportation. Didn’t he know the token rules of the tube: don’t look anyone in the eye, and don’t talk to strangers?

“Off to school, then, yeah?” Oliver continued, making small talk.

“Right, of course,” Clara responded, trying to relay that she wasn’t interested in talking. She looked back down at the novel she was reading, and continued where she had left on when she’d been so rudely interrupted.

It had worked for awhile, until her stop came up and Oliver had exited onto the platform as well.

“Sacred Heart?” he’d asked, pointing in the direction of Clara’s academy.

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean we need to be friends, now does it?” she had replied, annoyed.  But, of course, Oliver didn’t give up, and eventually Clara was happy for that. They had ridden the Northern Line together every day. Oliver continued to make small talk until Clara finally gave in, and the two became close friends.

When the time came, Clara applied to as many universities as she possibly could, and Oliver did the same. They both ended up getting accepted at the University of Copenhagen. Clara made up her mind at the last minute, choosing between Copenhagen and Vienna.  Oliver’s choice was between Copenhagen and London, but as soon as Clara made up her mind, he made up his.

****

Clara drained the last bit of wine in her glass and set it on the coffee table at her feet. Sinking back into the couch, she started to devise a plan. She was certain that she had to meet Oliver now or forever hold her peace.  So, at 11:37PM, she ran out of her house, called for a taxi, and sped to the Nyhave, anxious the whole time.  But when she got close, the taxi stopped; the streets were too crowded.  She pulled out her cell phone and punched in Oliver’s number, but the server was too busy and the call wouldn’t go through.  The clock was closely ticking toward midnight, looming in florescent red on the dash at 11:49PM.  She quickly paid the driver, thanked him for his service and jumped out of the cab, still blocks away from the pub.  

Clara started to run, the clock ticking as each foot thudded against the cobblestone. It had to be below freezing, but between the adrenaline and the alcohol, Clara barely noticed.  She navigated through crowds of people holding bottles of champagne, wearing festive pointy hats. Drunken shouts of ‘Happy New Year’ echoed between friends.  Clara felt as if she were suffocating, pushing her way through hordes of party-goers.  A man tried to stop her, throwing his arm over her shoulder as he sang to her in rum-scented, slurred Danish. She pushed his arm off and wriggled out of the group of people she had been drug into, her heart beating faster than she thought possible.   

 Everyone was excited to ring in the New Year, which would happen in just minutes, but Clara was dreading it.  What if she didn’t make it to the pub? Oliver was going to leave before she could make it there, and he would never know that she felt the same way! She continued to run, and without knowing it, her house key fell out of her pocket, landing with a plink in the snow.  She continued to run, her cheeks flushing from a mixture of exertion and cold air.  

She heard the clock strike twelve and her heart dropped.  That was it, it was over. She stopped, leaned over with her hands on her knees, and started to cry.  After a few moments, she stood up, tears streaming down her face.  She had to at least check. As she walked the last few feet up the street towards the pub, she hoped and prayed that Oliver would still be there.  At last she could see the pub, an arch of golden balloons surrounding the entrance.  The walkway in front of the pub was packed. Clara watched as couple kissed and friends hugged, while loud, sappy music spilled out of the pub.  Then suddenly, she saw him.  Oliver was leaving the pub, walking down the front steps, and as he turned on the street in her direction, he lifted his head and saw her tear-stained face. A smile grew on his face as he erupted in laughter.

“You’re still here!” she exclaimed as they met in the middle, right under a festive balloon arch.

“Well it’s not as if I was going to turn into a pumpkin at midnight, you know,” he said, wiping a tear from her face with his thumb.

“Right, of course not,” Clara responded, lifting her solemn face to reveal a smile. With that Oliver started to laugh again, picking Clara up and to spin her around. And as the first snow of the New Year started to fall, Oliver and Clara started the newest chapter of their lives, sealing the moment with a kiss.

****

Early the next morning, a group of travelers found themselves walking along the Nyhave, broken champagne bottles and streamers littering the snowy path beneath their boot laden feet. 

“Skipperkroen,” one said to the other, trying to pronounce the golden sign across the façade of the Danish bar, where an arch of balloons in coordinating golden hues framed the doorway.

“Must have been quite the party,” her friend responded.

“I’d say so,” she replied, noticing something gleaming in the snow. She bent down and retrieved a red house key, tied with a blue ribbon.  “It’s going to be pretty hard to get home without this,” she said, studying the key before retrieving her travel journal from the bag slung over her shoulder.

“I bet the owner doesn’t even remember where she was last night when she lost it,” her friend laughed.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure…” she responded with a smile, tucking the key away for safe keeping between two blank pages.