😉

The thing sent me a smart remark.

The most repulsive part was he called me Lollipop. The audacity! He wasn't the first to give a nickname somehow related to sugar. The implications of a Lollipop though. A sucker. A "sexy" action that certain men fantasize about a woman, eating - wait no, licking a Lollipop. There was innocence associated with the type of candy too, but I knew that man implied the "not-so-innocent" ideas.

I received the TrueMatch message around brunch time. The dark pink "TM" notification bubble popped up on my lock screen. I was able to read it in the bubble. The horrible, sexist comment looked out of place compared to the generic maple tree photo set as my wallpaper. The gold and scarlet leaves reminded me of when Mama and I spent time in the yard collecting nature's beauty. We kept the leaves in a special place – a book. Mama told small stories about specific leaves: maple, walnut, oak, and more. That photo revealed happy memories, instead, the frustrating comment that made me grind my teeth.

I pushed the lock button and ignored it.

It was easy, I continued my work. The dispatch department hadn't received any phone calls, scheduled appointments, or events like sports. There wasn't an urgency that fluctuated every second. I dedicated time to my online training that happened each quarter. I quietly processed and retained information to try and engage my mind, but my co-workers tried to make the training sessions fun. We suggested working together to complete it. One person recommended making the sessions into a game.

"Whoever completes all the slides and finishes the quiz first, they're the winner!"

However, it wasn't Sherman who suggested this idea, or any of my other colleagues.

It was me.

I needed motivation, especially when I knew the information. The medical material was hidden underneath my interrupting questions: what's for lunch, when will the next season of Sherlock come out, or what new baking books have been released? All questions that came from my own mind.

Sometimes my co-workers didn't want to compete. They implemented their own strategy. Therefore, I collected my record times in a small paperback book. The fast paced suspense kept me awake and attentive, always trying to break my previous records. My eyes glided towards the clock – I had fifteen minutes. Absorbing the questions and reading the multiple-choice answers, I tried to spend less than thirty seconds on each question. In the end, I had to slow down because I had to analyze certain questions more. The ones I was uncertain on the answers.

One time, I spoke about the training sessions to my boss. Caroline Simmons had a mini-tooth brush in her semi-circle purse. Her thin rectangular glasses barely covered her eyes, gray speckles pecked above the frame.

"Why do the quizzes have multiple choice? In real life, we don't get multiple choice. We have to memorize the process and know when to ask the right questions," I stated.

"It's a program, McKenzie," she shrugged. "I have no control over the quiz's organization."

I took the time to email the programmers, after I investigated what company created the sessions, and I never received a reply. I gave feedback. I hoped the company desired to improve.

Oh well.

I completed all my quizzes when my shift ended. Logging out of my computer, locking up my desk drawers, and sliding on my heavy coat, I zoomed out of there. I acknowledged Sherman, Lucas, and O'Brien while I walked down the hallway.

I needed to drive home, change, grab the daisies, and wait for Papa.

Running in my apartment complex, I walked through the glass archway doors and passed the lobby area with comfortable, square chairs and couches. I pulled my keys out from my coat pocket, that I purposefully used instead of my purse. A purse – no matter the size – was a black hole. A person could never find what they truly needed when the person was on a strict time schedule.

I opened and closed my apartment door. Right there in my living room, I started to unbuckle my belt and threw off my coat and navy uniform, which the pants took the longest to remove. In my bedroom, I grabbed the closest hanger in my tiny closet. Dottie meowed and rubbed her face on my bare legs. Whiskers tickled my skin. A long sleeved magenta dress fell off a hanger when I reached for an outfit.

That's the one.

I put the hanger back in the closet and picked up the fallen dress. My phone rang. Stretching over to pick it up, without looking at the ID, "Hi, I'm almost ready."

"For what?" a feminine voice asked.

I paused. Pulling my phone away from my ear, I looked at my screen and saw my best friend's name. "Lydia! Oh my gosh, how are you?"

I heard laughter. Her soothing alto tone. "I'm surviving. But you haven't answered my question." Light, teasing tone now.

"It's the anniversary."

On the other side of the phone, it was silent. "Sugar. I'm sorry."

"It's alright. We're driving out early."

"Let me know." Lydia fumbled with something. Her voice pulled away yelling, 'Tyler, I'm on a break. I'll give an answer in five minutes.' Then her voice came in clearer and full of volume. "If you need anything, I'll call later."

"Thank you, Lydia," I smiled.

"You're welcome."

I put my phone down on the counter as I threw the dress over my head and pulled it down my body. The dress's length reached my knees.

Darn, winter, I was going to be freezing!

My eyes glanced over to my drawers. Black leggings! I grabbed a pair of small flats that complimented my outfit, another pair of shoes fell out of the cubby.

Letting out a heavy sigh, I slowed down my pace as I walked into the living room space. Dottie trotted in front of me; her collar had a small bell that rang whenever she moved. I put the collar on Dottie because whenever I left the apartment she liked to sneak out of the front door. Dottie's paws were quiet, and the bell helped me hear her and knew where she was either in or out of the apartment.

Dottie climbed the chair and jumped on the dining table. My laptop laid on there, multiple papers scattered on the surface, and in a glass vase there was a bundle of daisies. Plastic protected and secured the daisies from separating from each other. The stems were immersed in water.

I collected and dried off the stems. The thin oval white petals were soft, delicate to touch.

Mama would've loved these. I was glad I purchased these and not the spray-painted ones. I saw half the collection covered in sapphire spray paint on the flower's leaves as I shopped earlier. The glitter dazzled, but I knew that Mama would have tilted her head and said, "What is that?"

I chuckled recalling Mama's behavior. I sat down in the chair and touched the daisies petals. Shortly after, Papa picked me up and we started our journey.

"How do you deal with this traffic?" Papa asked, his hands gripping the steering wheel. He drove the speed limit on I-71 north heading out of city limits. "More specifically, how do you deal with people?"

I sat in Papa's 1980s Chevy truck with an engine that purred. Above the tires, the truck's frame was painted rustic and white around the edges. The seats had been replaced with new charcoal leather, more comfortable than the original material. I wore my heavy coat and held my purse on my lap. The daisies sat on the console and in between Papa and me near the drink holders.

"Very carefully," I answered. "And with a lot of patience."

"Jeez."

Papa's eyes focused ahead and would check his side mirrors occasionally. He stayed in the right lane, keeping away from the semi-trucks and fast cars. The afternoon sunshine brightened the whole scenery. I squinted. The contrast between early morning darkness and afternoon sun was too powerful. For the most part, winter came with gloomy, cloudy days. Today was a rare exception and an example of the weird Ohio weather.

I yawned. My hand tried to cover the loud noise, but my tiredness was shown.

Papa chuckled.

"Did you have a late night?"

Yes, I created fake accounts to passively annoy a boy.

"Yeah, I binge watched a new series," I replied.

Half true.

"Binge watch?"

"When you continue watching a show all night and into the early morning," I explained.

"Then I guess I 'binge read.'"

Papa read. He was a picky reader at that. His library consisted of auto mechanic manuals, bird dictionary, memory puzzles, sci-fi-fantasy novels like Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury, and cereal boxes. Mama gave him a Nook for Christmas four years ago; he went crazy on downloading free books.

"Definitely. What are you reading right now?"

"Rereading Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers."

"Excellent!" I propped up my elbow against the door, "What part are you on?"

Papa turned down the volume of the rock station playing "Jukebox Hero" by Foreigner. Then he told me what part he read. His left hand rested on his thigh and his right hand held the steering wheel. His shoulders leaned back against the leather seat. His left hand waved when he tried to think of a word.

"Theoden and his people – Rohan – travel to Helm's Deep. But my favorite part in this book is." Papa paused and his nostrils flared. He brought up his hand to his mouth. "When they believed they have no hope. Gandalf and Eomer army arrived and destroyed the Orcs."

I gently smiled. I reached over and rubbed my hand on his forearm.

"That's a fantastic part," Papa said, trying not to cry. His voice got a little rough.

"Agree."

Then a comfortable silence fell between us. No words were spoken. The music played another song, "Immigrant Song," by Led Zeppelin and the engine stayed humming a low noise.

My head bobbed to the beat.

Papa drummed his fingers on the wheel.

I leaned my head against the window. Out of habit, I grabbed my smart phone and unlocked the screen.

The "TM" notification bubble was still there.

The thing's comment.

I sighed.

What should I do?

I couldn't leave the notification there. The small number one would stay positioned in the upper right corner of the app. Something was there – I knew what it was but the idea of that number lingering made me flinch.

I had to open the app, but that didn't mean I had to reply back.

I clicked open the app and discovered a private message from thing. I received a few hearts and thumbs up from other suitors, but I wasn't concerned about those. Those reactions basically acknowledged who came across my wall. Nothing more; they didn't reach out to me. Right now, I dismissed those responses. Pressing on private messages, I clicked on him. Rereading the message.

The whole message taunted me. My thumbs hovered over my keyboard.

Why did he freakin' wink! He was doing this to tick me off.

I rolled my eyes.

Clicking the lock button, I glanced outside the window. The city and suburban house developments and company buildings disappeared. Flat, dead grass and open fields greeted me. I saw the sign that said "Williamstown," Exit 31.

We were almost there. Where I grew up. Home.

Papa turned his signal on and took the exit.

I stared down at my phone. I didn't have to look to know where I was located. Turning right, we went on Lovins Drive and continued for ten miles. Then we arrived in town. Next we would turn left down a small gravel road. The wheels spun the dust up into the air.

Spinning the phone in my left hand, I started to bite my index finger.

He saw my comments. Was it that easy for him to know that it was me? Maybe he was bluffing. He had to be. I was sure I was not the only woman he ticked off. He was a jerk – there are other women out there.

I stopped spinning my phone. My screen lit up when I tilted it.

No notifications. No text messages. No phone calls.

I should block him. That would be the most logical thing to do.

I unlocked and opened the app. I went to his home page and then clicked on the "three dots" that meant more action. Four statements were brought down. The last one was "block this user." TrueMatch explained that it will silence the person, the person will not be able to message them, and they won't be able to send reactions.

I needed to send one more message, then I could block him. He would be furious!

I laughed. My fingers hesitated.

What should I say?

I groaned, trying to wrack my brain for something clever.

Goodbye jerkface? No, not good enough. Reputation, none? Oh wait!

I typed up my message: ❤️

Then I blocked him.

That would be the last of him.

I put my phone back into my coat pocket. Papa pulled up and parked on the dead grass. There was a small wooden sign, and written in calligraphy letters said: Williamstown Cemetery. Papa rubbed his hands over his face. His wrinkles sunk and his droopy eyes had dark purple shadows underneath them. He sighed as he stared ahead.

I reached out.

"When the time comes, be there," I remembered what Mama said, "He'll need you."

Before Mama lost her memories, her warm eyes used to make eye-contact and smiled up at me. Before I used to provide the longest, heartwarming hugs, so that I could place my head on Mama's shoulder.

Afterwards, Mama didn't smile or laugh. Her eyes squinted and asked, "Who are you?"

On good days, she told stories to me about "a granddaughter that had the most beautiful hair. It reminded her of weeping willow leaves – soft waves and curls."

One day, Mama told another story, "This Granddaughter who came to us because her mother – my daughter – dropped her off on my porch. Not a baby, a toddler that cried and wanted nothing more to be held. I always desired to hug my granddaughter but she screamed more for her mother. She kicked the rocks in the driveway and pounded her feet and hands – scratching them up. I had to stop her. The blood – she didn't know how to handle her emotions. Do you know what I told her? ... You don't? I'll tell you ... I reached out to her and said, 'I'll be your mother. You hear, my darlin'? You don't have to choose me. But you'll always be my granddaughter.' She stopped pounding the ground. She fell on her knees and wept. I reached for her - she pushed my hands away. But – that's okay – all I did was sit next to her. I cried silently. With her. She had no idea. I never told her because, well, that wasn't important."

I remembered that day. I had bruises for weeks because of my behavior. Those stories were about me. Mama couldn't remember.

I wanted to reach out and hug her like Mama desired to do on my first day.

Instead, I held onto the memories.

"Are you ready?" I asked, pulling back into reality.

Papa nodded. He opened his front door and I reached to pick up the daisies on the console.

The passenger door creaked as I opened it, then slammed it closed.

Together, Papa and I walked over towards the headstones. Our shoes stepped on the cold, crunchy grass. The sunshine warmed our faces as we headed north to Mama's grave. I glanced at all the different graves. Each person had their full name carved into a stone; a few were tall, dark marble that listed achievements, favorite lines, and sayings. A lot of graves had a horizontal headstone carved into dark, white, green, sapphire, or scarlet marble.

Then there was Mama's.

A simple, elegant black and white marble headstone.

Etched into the stone:

"Hello, Mama."

I leaned down and rubbed on the headstone.

"We brought you your favorite," I said.

I placed the flowers in front of the headstone.

"Remember on our first date, I came to your door, Pat? You said, 'where are the roses?' And I told you, the daisies were on sale," Papa said. He laughed. "You called me cheap."

He shook his head. "But then the next date, I brought roses and you said, 'I wanted daisies.'"

I chuckled. I heard this story before and treasured it.

"Let me tell you a story, Pat. Will you?" he asked, "Of course, you will. Even though you would have rolled your eyes at another story. But this one...this story is about what has been happening." He hesitated. "Without you."

I looked at him.

He swallowed and then focused a smile. "You know about Mr. Reynolds, our neighbor? He's having a great grandchild! I can't believe that. There's so much more than that. Believe me, Pat."

I stood next to Papa. I was thankful for the sunshine in this cold. I smiled down at my Mama.

I tried to open up, Mama. I hoped to find someone like how you found Papa.

I listened and laughed as Papa and I spoke to Mama.

Oh my gosh! Hello everyone! The setting is during 2017 and then goes into the new year, 2018.

I'm so thankful for all the support! Your comments and messages make me smile!! I love you guys!!! You are AMAZING!!! <3

What do you think about this chapter? This one was a lot more emotional than I planned it to be. Sugar and Papa lead me and they revealed more of their story. Also, you got to meet Mama for a little bit.

I enjoyedSugar's reaction to August's comment. Hahaha, we'll see what happens between them. I'm setting up two people who can't stand each other and yet they're fascinated by each other.

Oh my gosh! I wonder what Sugar's reaction would be when she learns that Oliver isn't Oliver but August.

Thank you so much!!!!

Talk to you soon! :D