Chapter 2
Chloe Beale
Your favorite memory of your childhood starts off bad.
You wake up with sweat running from your hairline down to your chest. Your screaming at the top of your lungs. The shrill sound slices through the quiet. You can’t remember what’s frightened you this much and you don’t get a chance to try and recall it. Because your mother’s there now, her arms encircle you, drawing you into her chest. Your dad’s standing behind her, looking at you with so much fatherly concern, tears start falling down your cheeks.
“What’s wrong, baby girl?” Your mom asks, rubbing your back in soothing circles.
“What happened, sweetheart?” Your dad asks, in his serious but kind deputy voice.
You can’t answer. You can’t do anything but squeeze your mother tighter. Your tiny self trying to absorb some of your mom’s calmness.
“Nothing’s here, Chlo’. You’re safe.” Your dad says. You want to believe him but your mind just won’t let you.
After you’ve stopped crying, your mom tries to move but you refuse to let her let you go. It’s midnight, and your eight years old, and your mom shouldn’t be carrying you anywhere anymore but she does anyway. She picks you up off the bed, brings you to the living room, and then hands you over to your dad. You cling to him.
Music starts to filter in the room. It’s the song your mother always sings to herself when she’s doing the laundry or making dinner or grocery shopping. Sometimes, your dad plays it on his guitar. Your too distraught to remember the name of it. Your dad sways you slowly back and forth and you know you’re safe. Your mother sings and rubs your back and you know you're loved. Your heart slows to its regular pace and your father whispers that he won’t let anyone hurt you, ever. You believe him.
Eventually, he sets you down on the couch and you start to drift off. The last thing you see before you fall asleep is your parents, slow dancing in the middle of your living room, dressed in their pajamas.
At thirteen you recount this memory to your parents over dinner one night.
“I’m surprised you still remember that.” Your dad tells you. He finished work over an hour ago but he’s still dressed in his sheriff's uniform. You and your mom like to joke that he’d wear that thing to bed if he could. Your dad’s proud of his promotion. He’d tell the world about it if he could.
You think of the years of sun-soaked memories, of chilly winters, of happy Christmas’s. All your memories with your family are good ones but for some reason, none of them top the memory of that night. You tell your parents that between bites of your mom’s homemade mac and cheese.
Your mother smiles at you. Her honey-blonde hair doesn’t have a strand of gray in it. Her blue eyes are still as blue as they were eight years ago. Maybe as blue as they’ve been her entire life. “I remember that night. Your scream nearly gave us heart attacks.”
You laugh, “I was scared!”
“You never did tell us why.” Your dad says.
“I don’t remember.” You say. “But that’s not why I brought it up. You played a song that night. I don’t really remember it and I haven’t heard it since.”
Big cheesy grins spread across your parent’s lips at the same time. You smile too because you think it’s cute.
“Tiny Dancer by Elton John.” Your mother says, her voice dripping with nostalgia. “I fell in love with your father to that song.”
“You never told me that!” You complain. You absolutely love love. You love hearing stories of your grandparents and aunts and uncles falling in love. You can’t believe you’ve never thought to ask your parents how they fell in love. “Tell me the story.”
Your dad laughs, “well, okay. As you know I grew up on the other side of town. My family wasn’t nearly as well off as your mothers were. I had to play at bars and coffee shops every night, just to raise enough money for me to stay in college.”
"One night,” your mother says taking over. “My friends and I decided to go to a bar. They don’t card on the south side, not that you're allowed to go drinking anytime soon.” You shake your head, wanting your mom to continue. “When we entered, the first person I saw was your father. He was sitting on a stool on top of the stage with his guitar in his lap. The bar was crowded with all sorts of men but I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Then he started to play Tiny Dancer and in that very second I knew that I’d marry him.”
“But how’d you know?”
“I just did. He was so honest in the way he played. My heart stopped when he started singing. I just knew. And hey, I was right, wasn’t I?” She smiles at your dad all warm and love-soaked.
“What about you, dad? When did you know?”
“After I finished my shift for the night. You mother had bought me a drink, and we talked for a long time. Then I offered to walk her home. About half-way through it started to pour. I wanted so badly to wait it out but your mother refused. She wanted to walk in the rain. So, we did. She was laughing and dancing, and eventually, I was too. We were drenched but it wasn’t nearly as miserable as I thought it’d be. I smiled the whole way back to my house. Then the next day we were both sick and miserable, but it didn't matter because we were both still smiling. That was it. That’s how I knew your mother was the one for me.”
You grin, you can’t wait to find someone that’ll make you smile the way your parents smile at each other.
At sixteen, Beca Mitchell kicks the mayor's son in the balls, plays the piano for you like she was born to do so, and then leaves you breathless in your basement without so much as a glance backward.
Maybe it’s too soon to tell but you think you’ve found that person.