I do not own Austin and Ally. Based on some prompts you've sent in. Please review!
For every perfect love story, there's always some anecdote that ruins the picture. Something that shows that they are human, and that things will veer whatever way they please.
It may not be where his story starts. It is however, where this story starts.
"If I had a rose for every time I thought of you, I would be walking through my garden forever," he said, squatting down next to her.
The eggplant dropped to the ground.
She was supposed to keep a hold of that.
"You scared me," she breathed, picking the plant back up. It got set in the basket, gently, as if it hadn't already faced the wrath of full force gravity.
"Sorry." He sat on the grass, inspecting another eggplant. Her scissors snipped the stem.
As he studied the fruit, she spoke up. "Why roses?"
Man, those eggplants sure were slippery.
"It, I uh," he said. He couldn't outright tell her that it was a pickup line. Well, he could, but that would have required a long explanation about his feelings, and quite frankly, he didn't think the eggplants could survive it.
Neither could he, but he wasn't the one nose diving into the ground.
Not physically anyway.
"I'm more of a daisy person." She passed over one, scooting to the right. Her knees hit his.
He moved over for her. "What are you doing this afternoon?"
She pointed his scissors at the garden in front of her. There was an entire row yet to be clipped.
"Why, did you have something in mind?"
"I was wondering if you maybe wanted to," he swallowed, his pride, fear, and unfortunately, his gum, "go to the Bruno Mars concert with me. I know how much you love him."
There went the eggplant.
And his heart.
"Trish and I checked yesterday. Those tickets were sold out." She set the scissors down, removing her gloves.
"I got the last two." He took them out of his pocket, waving them around. He had waited in line for hours.
That look on her face, the one he only got to see for a few precious seconds, made it worth it. Those precious seconds of hugging that followed made it more worth it.
That late night kiss sealed the deal.
(the page breaks here)
The beautiful thing about a story is the ability to jump forward in time, skipping the mundane moments in favor of the excitement.
However, as any true story teller will discover, this is not always the case. Perhaps it is the moments we consider mundane that connect us. Those moments that without, there are cracks in the story. Inside jokes, hidden behind locked doors without the key. Untold explanations of referenced pieces of the past that mean nothing to the reader.
But he's no reader. These moments do mean something.
"That's not your locker," she said, opening her own.
"I switched. Now our lockers are right next to each other, and I don't have to run halfway across the school to see my beautiful girlfriend." He dialed the combination, hoping the prior owner hadn't screwed him over.
"You are too sweet." She leaned over and kissed his cheek.
Dang, now he passed the number.
Restarting, he focused on the lock. "Hey, this is just as much for my benefit as it is yours."
She shut her locker, swinging her backpack over her shoulder.
Double dang. He passed it again, and she didn't even have to kiss him this time. All she did was look at him with those big brown eyes of hers.
"Do you need help with that?" she asked, taking the slip of paper from his hand. He fingers lingered for a moment, as if saying hello to his.
"Thanks," he said as she opened his bare new locker.
Sticking a copy of his school schedule and a picture of the two of them on the door, he shut it.
"That was it?"
"What do you mean?"
"You opened you locker to put a picture up."
"And my schedule," he placated. It wasn't like he wasted her time for nothing. He was marking his territory. Since he wasn't a dog, who could solve the issue at the simple lift of a leg, that was his next best option.
That, and that option was prettier.
A whole lot prettier.
(the page breaks here)
An author could go on for pages, detailing every last detail, from the red boxers of the plumber trying to get the engagement ring out of the sink pipes in a proposal gone wrong, or the pearls rolling around the church floor when Trish's daughter yanked at her necklace, or the crumbs of the smashed Pop-tart he got from the hospital vending machine awaiting their own daughter.
All the same, the story could speed past it all. It could neglect to tell the reader about peanut butter disputes (because does one buy their child chunky or smooth?) and surprise kisses from behind.
In fact, it could skip right to the airport, nine years after that first eggplant fell.
Unlike the fruit, he still is victim to gravity around her.
"Ally!" he shouted. Her head whipped around, dropping the sign with his name on it.
Sure, people were trampling on her poster that she had spent so much time making, but he was in her arms, and she was in his.
After three months without him, she was not going to leave him for a measly piece of poster board.
"How was the tour?" she asked, as if she hadn't talked to him every night on the phone.
Her red lipstick stained his cheek. The paparazzi would eat it up.
That's not why she did it. She did it because she wanted to.
She really, really wanted to.
"I missed you way too much."
They hugged for an abnormally long period of time. He said they were making up for lost time.
It didn't matter what he called it, as long as he promised not to let go.
When relationships go long distance, even if it's only for a short time, one of two things will happen. Either love prevails, and you get a happy ending like this, or things falter, people cheat and hearts break.
Except this is not the end of the story.
(the page breaks here)
The greatest stories are never truly finished. You go back, searching for that one lost detail to find a hidden avenue, back in chapter three. You take it, and suddenly your future expands, continuing the journey into the great unknown.
Here, we go back to where the story originated, in the garden.
"If I had a garden I'd put your two lips and my two lips together," he says, handing her a glass of lemonade.
"You do have a garden," she deadpans. Then a smile cracks her serious demeanor.
"A vegetable garden." He brings his other hand out from behind his back. "Which is why I had to go to the flower shop to get this."
Her hand flutters to her heart.
There goes the tomato, into the dirt.
Gravity can really be a pain sometimes. Making fruits fall to the ground. Making fools fall in love.
Unlike the tomato, he doesn't think he made too big of a mess.
His story may not be perfect. He's not perfect. She's not perfect.
But they're perfectly perfect for each other, and that's what really matters. She doesn't need to pluck flower petals, letting them fall with tomato as she repeats, 'he loves me, he loves me not.' His fate is not determined by a flower. Nor is it determined by the whim of some stranger, holding the pen.
It's his story, and this is how he's telling it.
This is not where his story ends. This is where this story ends, with him picking tomato seeds off her knees.
"You didn't have to use a pickup line to give me a flower," she says, setting it aside.
It's not a pickup line if he follows through on it.
So he does.