'Across the Balcony' by Payton Tilley

Across the Balcony 

A flash fiction contemporary romance

To those who love the feel of a book between their hands amidst the real world. May we all find people who make us excited to live our own story. May we all find a listening ear with a soul that seeks to understand our own.

 

Elise reached for the ringing phone, hesitant to close the pages between her hands. She knew Mr. Darcy’s confession to be on the next page. 

Grandfather’s voice hummed through her phone. “Are you able to open the shop tomorrow, darling?”

“Of course, Grandad,” she answered, rising from her lounge chair to lean against the balcony.

“Don’t forget the sale sign must be hung in the window.”

“Got it.”

He continued, “The front rug may need vacuuming, too. Oh, the new books need to be stocked and put into the inventory, dear.”

As Grandad’s list rattled, Elise let her eyes drift from her fourth-floor apartment down to the man across the alley on his second-floor balcony. The man she ignorantly looked forward to talking to every evening. Edward.

If she squinted against the sun, she could have sworn he held the same copy of C.S. Lewis from the last few evenings. Elise’s mouth tilted up as he reclined further in his wheelchair, lost in literature’s daze. He tilted his head closer to the book, and his hair caught the sun like a candle of auburn.

She had told herself to stop noticing.

“Elise, love?”

She pushed off the iron rail. “Of course, I will take care of it.”

“I know you will,” he said, and Elise imagined his thin-lipped smile under the bushy mustache he insisted made him look Italian, while being the most London Londoner ever. “I will be in after my appointment.”

“Appointment or date with Ms. Marianne?” A tease slid into her voice.

“Maybe both, dear. Also, her grandson is still single and–”

“I think I am fine with my fictional men,” she interrupted. 

“You cannot have a family with them.”

Elise swung her neck inside to look at the oak bookshelves filling half the studio. “Maybe not, but I’ll take my chances.” Books were contained and controllable. The characters found real love that lasted. The real world did not guarantee her that.

His unintelligible grumbling started, making her nibble her lips into a smile. 

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

After hanging up, she snatched her book and went to the railing to catch the last bit of sunlight cresting the taller buildings.

“What chapter are you on tonight, neighbor?”

Something within her sparked at his voice calling up. Their usual routine beginning for the night.

“Thirty-four.” Elise lifted her voice and leaned over the railing. “You?”

Edward’s glasses were pulled from his own face, his stubble revealing a jawline Regency men would have envied.

“Only one further than last night, I’m afraid.” His voice dipped in mock annoyance. 

Elise closed her book, not caring to return to it. “How is Holmes? Did he do better with the trainer today?” She glanced around for the new puppy.

His head shook as he inched his wheelchair closer to the edge of the balcony below. “He is still unsure of the old lady.”

“I don’t blame him. Strangers are an awful sort.” 

“Agreed, wholeheartedly, Elise.” He rarely used her name, and it settled softly in her stomach. “I don’t think he would consider us strangers. Would you happen to have any dog training experience?” 

“None whatsoever. Cats only for me growing up,” she said, thinking back to years ago running around at Grandad’s. “My grandfather hated dogs. Yet,” Elise laughed and crossed her arms, her heels pushing off the ground, “when Mr. Fluffy killed our most beloved miniature rose bush, he decided he hated cats, too.”

Edward’s smile grew below, and Elise thought she could detect a dimple but couldn’t be sure from the distance. 

“Well, at least he appreciated flowers, I suppose. Man of taste.” 

“It was too bad they were my Grandad’s favorite flowers.”

“You didn’t stand up for him?” One brow arched. 

Elise shook her head. “Not when they were my favorites, too.”

Edward shut his book, not breaking their contact as people walked below. “So Austen, rose tea, blueberry jam, and roses are some of the favorites,” he said and lifted a finger. “Miniature roses, that is.”

Her knees loosened just as the smile on her face stilled. He remembered her past stories and conversations?  

She had been told she was an open book, but no one had taken care to annotate her pages. Even as a joke, or for a friend . . . like this was.  Heat rose to her neck, while a slow smile formed without permission. 

“Yes, well . . .  your memory is quite good.” Should she mention she remembered that he liked to cook pasta and hated honey in his tea? 

“Well, I don’t know enough.” A tight laugh followed as he continued, “Enough to . . . well . . .”

Elise rushed to help cover his sudden pause. “Enough to fully say I am not a stranger?” Her chest tightened at the thought of what his nerves could mean, but she managed to keep her voice light. 

“I would not say that. You’re not a stranger to me, Elise.” Edward’s gaze soaked her, and she realized she wanted to know the color of those eyes.

Elise leaned back, a foolish unease stirring. “Quite right. I will let you get back to Holmes and your book. Enjoy your evening, Edward.” 

His voice did not follow right away, but as she grabbed her book and slipped inside the safety of her home, her ears caught a faint, “Good night, Elise.”

__________

The next day,  Elise smiled through every request, and every ring of their old register dinging in their small bookstore in the heart of Piccadilly. They were blessed to be busy, but she longed to have a moment to her own thoughts. Gripping the ladder, she pulled herself up to place the last used books back in their place.

The doorbell's persistent cry sounded.

“One moment,” she called over her shoulder.

“Take your time.” 

The deep sophistication of the voice would have been recognized by her anywhere in London. Elise's eyes latched onto the spine in front of her, her vision spinning. 

She shoved the last book away and stepped down, quaking. He was here. In her world outside of their books and balconies.

Her foot stretched for the last rung of the ladder but met only air. Crying out, Elise fell to the ground in a flurry of sweater and skirt. Nothing seemed broken, just badly bruised.

Her composure? Brutally murdered. 

More so when she lifted her head and saw him coming around the corner. 

“My goodness, are you hurt?” 

Her ears had been right. 

His hair was slightly darker than the auburn she had seen from afar, while his brows were more pronounced. But those glasses . . . they highlighted eyes nearly the blue of the sky. 

Edward wheeled further into the room.

“Are you alright?”

“Unscathed, thankfully.” Finding her voice, she flung crimson hair from her face. “You just startled me.”

“My presence is scary?” He kept assessing her, amusement flickering on his mouth. “I had hoped for a better reaction.”

“No, you just surprised me," she corrected.

Relief washed over his features, causing Elise to hesitate and make note of the gentle yet sharp lines of his profile. Why did the way his whole face and body relax into his chair make her envy any book he'd ever held?

“It's something else to see you,” he added and faltered, gesturing away from his brown sweater. “Closer, not looking up at the balcony like Juliet and Romeo. You know . . . in person.” 

Had he compared them to Shakespeare? 

Romantic.

But they only shared balconies and books. She could not hope for more.

“I have wondered where you worked. I’ve looked a little,” he admitted as his eyes softened. “I should have guessed here.”

“You only had to ask, and I would have told you.” She couldn’t believe he was so close . . . and so real. “I asked enough of you.” 

“I suppose I wanted a mystery, in a way. A woman who told me what she read and kept me company.”

Elise pulled on the ends of her sleeves.

His eyebrows lifted as he realized he had blocked her in the back room. Edward tugged his wheelchair out of her path. His arms moved smoothly, and Elise noted the way they filled out his sweater in a very satisfying way before she forced her sight elsewhere.

She bit her lip and turned to him. The soft glow from the low chandelier hanging in the small space reminded her this was real. “What can I help you with?”

“I wanted to give you this,” he answered, reaching into his satchel and producing a book between them. It’s old binding highlighted the title in the low light.

“Sense and Sensibility?” Elise breathed it out reverently.

 A soft smile played on his lips.  “I know your love for Austen. This was my great grandmother's copy.”

“I shouldn’t-”

“Please.”

“I can’t.”

“You must.”

Elise sighed and covered her smiling mouth. “If you insist.” She flipped through the pages but froze at a flash of color. Curiosity burned through her fingers as she flipped back and saw a flower. 

A miniature rose was pressed between the pages. 

Her eyes went back to where Edward sat, watching her in a way she could not describe. She looked back to the book. Her lungs constricted as if they did not want her to breathe past this moment. Elise pressed past her paralyzed tongue. “Edward . . . I don’t know what to say. Did you put this here?”

His lips lowered into a downturned smile. “Yes. Whenever I found you, I wanted to have that inside,” he paused, “but I had to find you for more than that.”

Elise pulled the book to her quivering chest. The sudden heat in the room pulsated on every inch of her skin. 

“Is that so?”

Edward nodded. “I wondered . . . if you would like to have dinner with me one night?” His eyes crinkled as he lifted a hand to the back of his neck. 

Her hand gripped the antique book. Heavens, yes.

“Or tea, even coffee,” he rushed on, not looking away, “or not, if you –”

She nodded, a lightness filling her head. “I’d love to. To tea, coffee, dinner . . ..whatever.”

His face and hands stilled before his lips spread into the largest smile she had seen. 

The door swung open, taking her attention from the man in front of her.

Grandad waltzed in and stared at them. His eyes flew back and forth. “So you’ve met?”

“What’s this?” Ms. Marianne pushed inside but froze when she saw Edward. Exclaiming, she ran over to him and began smothering him with kisses. He allowed it with a laugh, but gave Elise a wide-eyed plea. 

Wait.

Edward was the man they wanted to set her up with. 

Elise turned to Grandad, but he was already watching her with a smug smile on his face like he won an argument.

“Edward was the man you wanted to set me up with?” 

“Mhmm,” he grunted before waving his hands in the air. “And I was right, love. Still only want your fictional men?” 

Glancing down to the book, she smiled to herself. No, she did not want a Mr. Darcy; she wanted the man who made her feel like it was time to live her own story.

Thank you for reading this flash fiction piece. I hope Elise and Edward made you forget the world for a moment and gave you a reason to smile. Remember, our lives are the greatest stories we can share. Please share this with a friend if you enjoyed reading it.

Wishing you all a lovely Valentine's Day.