Sweet Romance10 min read
He Missed My Flight, Broke His Bike, Then Bought Me a Pink Helmet
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My phone buzzes the moment I step out of the airport.
"Brigitte? You there?" my mother texts.
I check my watch. "One ten," I whisper. My luggage wheels click on the pavement. The sky is clear. The ginkgo leaves are falling and I try not to think too hard about him.
"Where is Gordon?" I type, then delete it and type: "Gordon, you better have a good excuse."
No reply.
I change the contact name in my phone. "Little Rascal" becomes "Stinky Unreliable Fish."
"Remember," I tell myself, "I am not a child who cries if someone is late."
I wait ten minutes. I wait twenty. People pass by. I open the message from my coach and smile at its tiny heart emoji. I open a message from Annabelle that just says, "Welcome home!!" with three sparkling faces.
My suitcase feels heavier. I force a small laugh and then I hear a shout.
"Crash! Are you okay?"
A motorbike has hit a small car. People rush. I duck behind a pole. Then I see him.
Gordon Felix is on the ground, helmet cracked, one shoe off, his white T-shirt splashed with red. He looks like he was in a fight with the road. He holds something in both hands and will not let it go.
A blogger takes out her phone. "This guy is so cute—" she says.
"Don't," Gordon snaps, suddenly awake and sharp. "Do you dare post that? Try and see what happens."
She runs away.
"It hurts," he whispers, and then he reaches for a phone on the grass. He tries to call, then passes out.
An ambulance siren shrieks. I run forward, but the paramedics work fast. They put him on a stretcher. He grabs my name tag in my bag because his hand will not let go of a small red box inside it—my favorite peach puffs, all smashed and scattered on the ground.
Tears come hot and fast.
"Brigitte!" my mother calls when I finally arrive home. "Your neighbor's son is late! Did he pick you up?"
I force a smile. "He says he's on the way."
We sit down to eat. The table is full, but I cannot taste anything. My phone rings. I answer.
"Where are you?" I ask.
"Pulled into a team game," he says, voice rough with pain. "I'll make it up."
"No," I say quietly. "I want a one hundred-word apology."
"Yes yes, a hundred words," he answers. "I—wait, nurse."
He is at the hospital. He is stubborn. He is in pain. He is still my Gordon.
After dinner, my mother and our neighbor Amira Durand fuss over me like I'm a queen.
"Is that boy a nuisance?" Amira says, smiling in the way that makes her look like a big warm sun.
"He's my neighbor," I say, but my heart twists when I think he maybe chose a game over me.
"Promise me," I add, the trick inside my words. "Promise me you'll write the apology."
"I promise," he says. "One hundred words."
Hours later, he calls again, voice thin. "I had to help a friend. I told him to be careful. I—" he winces.
"One hundred words," I remind him.
"I'll do it," he says. "I'll do anything."
That night I sleep three hours. The next morning, I find him at the school clinic, sitting in a chair like a king who lost his throne.
"You're here," I say.
"Yeah." He winces. "I fell into a mess. My leg hurts."
"You said you had a team game."
"I did. Then I helped someone." He smiles like he is proud, and for a second, all the heat in my anger melts.
A nurse blushes and tells him she likes him. "You're cute," she says.
"I have someone I like," he says with a laugh. "So he can pick someone else."
I walk out, heart sharp. He must not know. He must not know how I waited at the airport.
I discover gifts I left for friends in my room are already given out—Annabelle posts a picture of a tiny cat figurine I sent her. Leonardo Newton posts a picture of the tea set I sent him and writes, "Does she like me?" He uses a bragging voice, and I roll my eyes.
Gordon finds the post.
"Who gave you a tea set?" he asks.
"Some guy I met," I say, trying to be casual.
"Don't talk to him," he snaps. "He is a bad guy."
"I'm not going to stop talking," I say. "I can make my own friends."
"Okay, okay," he settles. "But no more strange tea men."
I laugh and hang up. Later I find a photo on his social feed showing him surrounded by gifts I did not give. My chest gets tight.
"Stupid," I say aloud, and then I close my phone.
School begins. I walk into the hall and people crowd around me. Fans take pictures. A boy screams my name.
"Gordon!" someone whispers. "He is the school heartthrob."
Gordon walks in with his usual calm face, but I see his jaw set when he looks at me. He walks over and, like some show-off, hands me a small box of sushi.
"My breakfast," he says. "You left yours."
I raise my brows. "Do we know each other?" I ask, and everyone laughs.
He leans close, a low voice in my ear: "Next time you pretend not to know me, I'll tell that story about you wetting the bed when you were two."
My face burns. "Then I will tell everyone you drank my baby milk powder," I hiss.
He grins, that crooked little grin I have loved since we were small. He is a rascal. He is me in another form.
"From now on," I say to myself, "we are enemies."
Annabelle takes my arm and says, "Don't be mean. He is fun."
He walks off but keeps glancing back. I see him text Isaac Ivanov, his friend, with a mess of angry emojis. That evening he sneezes as if his leg is sore and then takes a sugar candy I see him hide in his pocket. He is ridiculous.
"You're so small-minded," I tell myself. But I watch his social feed and a small cold sliver goes through me. He joked about my tea gift. He joked about Leonardo. I feel jealous and silly.
A week later, someone pushes me into the path of a moving board. Gordon is there like a shadow. He catches me and saves me. We fall into the grass and our noses almost touch. I breathe him in, and the world narrows to his face.
"I am handsome," he says, ridiculous and straight-faced.
"Shut up," I whisper. "Be serious."
He wipes a leaf off my hair and mumbles, "I am not letting anyone hurt you."
I want to cry. My hand finds his and grips it without saying anything. He grins, and for a second I forget all my small rules about being proud.
"Don't tell anyone," he says, and I nod like a traitor.
There are days when he is tender in the small ways—he feeds me food from his plate when he brings breakfast, he puts a pink helmet on my head once when we ride his bike, he buys me a small jar of peach candy because I once said I liked them.
"These were smashed in the crash," he says once, and I stare at the little stashed box. "I tried to save one for you."
"Why?" I ask.
"Because you like them," he says. He is naive and direct. It makes me forget to be mad.
But life gives him trouble. One afternoon he gets into a fight at the river. Rumors flood our class chat. I see a message: "Gordon was hurt badly. Brain injury, they say."
My heart drops. I run to the river. There are boys on the ground with blood and tears. I scream his name. From behind a stone, he stands and looks at me, bruised and bloody, very much alive.
"Brigitte," he says, voice small. He is oddly proud about the fight. He lets a small smile slip when he sees me crying.
"Don't scare me like that," I snap, but I can't stop the tears.
He lets me tend him. He pretends not to be in pain but I see the way he flinches when I press on his arm.
"Stop crying," he says, wiping my tears clumsily. "You're making my wounds worse."
"I was scared," I say.
"If you are my shield," he says, "then you must not cry for me."
"Am I your shield?" I ask.
"You are mine," he says.
We do not say the words straight. Words are sharp and he is a boy who hides things behind jokes. But sometimes we are almost honest.
One evening, while we are walking home, someone else tries to flirt with me. Gordon goes quiet. His face becomes hard.
"Do you like him?" he asks later, in a voice that is both cold and very close.
"No," I say. "Why would I?"
"I don't like them looking at you," he admits, very small.
"You don't own me," I reply.
"No," he says, very quick. "I only ask—remember when we were small and I saved your life in the stream and you stuck flowers on me? I'm just saying—"
He stops and tries to smile and fails. My heart starts an odd drum. I am not sure what to answer.
"Stop acting like a child," I say.
"Stop pretending you won't melt when I look at you," he says.
We both laugh at the same time and it is sincere.
Days pass. I watch him on the forums attack anyone who insults me. He is fierce, arguing online with people who call me fake. He is my defender and my worry.
"Why do you do that?" I ask once. "You don't like the internet."
"Because they say things," he answers simply. "I won't watch them hurt you."
"You are loud," I tell him. "You are loud and mean sometimes."
He kisses my forehead and it is soft and warm. "I like loud," he says. "If it keeps you safe."
The small quarrels happen. He forgets to pick me up from the airport. He hides his injury. He spends more time playing games than calling me. I pout. He buys red peach puffs and schedules a night where we do nothing but eat and play a terrible game of teams where he promises to let me win.
"One hundred words," I remind him once as a joke.
"Sorry is four letters," he says. He frowns, then takes my hand. "I am sorry. I meant to pick you up. I saved a friend. My fault."
"Keep to the words," I say.
He writes a short note on his phone: "I took a risk and it went wrong. I came back for the peach puffs. I will not let you down again."
"One hundred," I tease.
He smiles ridiculous and writes again. The next day he shows up at school with a tiny paper in his pocket.
"Here," he says, handing me the note. "One hundred words."
I open it. "I am sorry for standing you up. I am sorry I made you cry. I am sorry I broke your peach puffs. I want to be better, Brigitte. I like you. More than a friend. I will try harder. Please forgive me."
It's not exactly one hundred words, but his face makes up for the count.
"You're forgiven," I say, and I mean it.
We keep pushing at each other. He teases. I ignore. He buys another helmet—this time bright pink with little ears, and writes my name in a small sticker on the side.
"What is this?" I laugh.
"For you," he says.
I wear it and it fits like his hand over my head. The pink makes me giggle and he pretends to be proud.
"Promise no more late flights," I say.
"Promise," he says.
But then there are other complications. A tall, quiet boy named Isaac Ivanov stands close to me one day and speaks in a soft voice about my skating. He is steady and calm. I appreciate his calmness because sometimes Gordon is too loud.
"Do you like him?" Gordon asks later, watching me arrange my skates.
"No," I say quickly. "He is kind."
"I have to scare him away," Gordon mutters.
"You are not a beast," I tell him.
"Maybe I am a wolf," he says with a small smile. "But a wolf who only wants to guard his favorite tree."
I roll my eyes. He kisses the top of my head.
We meet problems. Teachers shout at me once for a silly drawing by a friend. I get found guilty for something I did not do and I stand by the door while the class watches. Gordon leaves his class to stand beside me and I feel a curious happiness.
"Why are you standing here?" the teacher says.
"Because it's hard for her," he says. "She is brave."
My chest breaks in a gentle way.
"When you are brave," I say later, "you become soft."
"Soft is fine," he answers. "I will be the one who is rough."
The semester moves on with small victories. I skate in the school festival and he watches from the front row, jaw clenched. Afterward, he buys me the worst homemade peach puffs in the world and grins like a child.
"You tried," I tell him.
"I tried," he says, and we eat them together until we both laugh.
We have a big fight when he tells a friend, Leonardo, to stop flirting with me. Words are sharp and messy. He gets angry. I tell him to leave me alone. He storms out, but then a rumor spreads that he was badly hurt again. I run to find him and when I see him, bloody and tired, I hug him so tight he cannot breathe.
"Don't do that again," I tell him.
"I will try not to," he says. "For you."
When I leave for a two-month training camp, I cry on the plane. He is supposed to meet me at the airport when I return. He is not there. My heart goes cold and then hot. I text him names like "Stinky unfaithful fish" and "one who breaks promises." He calls from the hospital that he was in a crash trying to save a friend. He apologizes a million times. He says: "Peach puffs. I kept one."
I forgive him. I always have, because he holds my past and my small silly heart.
At the end of the year we both stand on the school steps. He is bruised and messy from an older fight with boys who were jealous and big. I carry a small box of perfect peach puffs saved from a shop across the road.
"Do you still like them?" I ask.
"Only if they are with you," he says.
I lean my head on his shoulder. He puts his arm around me. We watch leaves fall.
"I like you," he says suddenly and very small.
"I like you too," I answer.
He smiles like he has won the whole world.
We are sixteen and messy and loud and tender. He is a rascal and a coward and a hero all at once. I keep a small diary where I count one hundred tiny things he has done to make me smile. Some entries include: "He bought a pink helmet," "He burned the peach puffs once," and "He shouted online at a troll who said mean things about me."
One day, on a late school night, I find him at the skating rink. He limps slightly but he stands as tall as always.
"I signed for a position in class one," he says like it is a victory. "Because my aunt said I should try."
"You did?" I ask.
"For you." He shrugs. "My leg is better."
"Good," I murmur. "I am proud."
He picks up the smashed red box I keep in my bag—the one from the accident—and places it gently between us.
"Keep this," he says. "To remind me of that day I tried to be brave."
I smile. The box is dented, but inside it is a small note he wrote long ago: "I like you. I will keep trying."
I kiss his cheek, soft and quick, and he presses his forehead to mine.
"Will you marry me?" he whispers with a grin that makes him look ridiculous and real.
"Not now," I say.
"Later?"
"Later."
We hold hands and walk home. The pink helmet rests on my bag like a small promise.
At night I write my one hundred words of apology for the first time and tuck them into his school bag.
"I told you to write one hundred," I tease the next morning.
"I wrote a hundred and two," he says, proud. "Extra words for extra care."
The wind moves the ginkgo leaves. I look at him and think how strange life is. I think of peach puffs and broken helmets and bruised knees. I think of all the times he failed and all the times he saved me.
"Stay with me," I say, though I do not need to say it. He squeezes my hand.
"I am staying," he answers. "I am not going anywhere."
When we grow older, there will be real choices to make. For now I am sixteen and he is mine in small ways: in notes, in late-night messages, in the pink helmet with my name on it.
The ending is small: a perfect night, a small box of peach puffs, the sound of our city outside the window, and his breath against my neck.
"Promise?" I ask.
"Promise," he says.
I close my eyes and keep that promise like a song.
The End
— Thank you for reading —