Page 85 of The Prospect

“I mean, he’s been so gung-ho on making this your best birthday ever that he even made you a?—”

“Green?” The sound of my voice almost immediately draws his eyes into mine as I catch myself saying his name.

“Yeah?” I notice the way he gulps in response.

I gesture toward the box that rests by his feet. “Care to give Hart a run for his money?”

TWENTY-FIVE

G R E E N

12 YEARS AGO - Age 12

“You do realizethat it’s been three years since we met Greenie, and still,” she emphasizes the word with a raise of her brows, “you haven’t followed through on your promise. So, let me ask you again. When are you going to draw me a picture?”

My feet can’t help but kick a rock along the pavement as we walk side by side. It’s a subconscious habit, always needing to have something by my feet, almost as much as the word “soon,” has been my go-to response whenever Hazel repeatedly asks me the same question.

I haven’t forgotten the promise I made and it’s evident that she hasn’t either, but like always, my hope is that my single-worded response will appease her until she inevitably asks again.

She shoots me a daggering frown. “You’ve been saying ‘soon’ for far too long. You do realize I’m not getting any younger, right?”

You wouldn’t think the starry-eyed, pigtailed girl to my right is only ten years old. Visually, yes, but when she opens her mouth, it’s like a philanthropist comes out.

Whatever a philanthropist is, exactly.

The point is, nothing gets past this girl. She can debate like she’s a politician. Persuade me like she’s a lawyer and force me to fold with a single bat of her eyelashes.

I’m doomed, I can’t help but think to myself. There’s no real way out of this, yet I try anyway.

“Why would you even want me to try and draw you something anyway?” I decide that changing the subject is a much easier and more effective than a response itself. “I’m not an artist like you, Haze. Besides, I can’t draw.”

“Yes, you can, Green.” Hazel forces us both to stop in place as she stubbornly folds her arms across her chest. “You are your own type of artist.”

“So stick figures are considered art nowadays?” I laugh.

She nudges me as we continue to walk. “Stop.” She shakes her head unamused, though there's a lingering smile on her lips. “You’re selling yourself short.”

I roll my eyes in protest—Hazel always sees the best in me, no matter what. “Even if I wasn’t,” I admit, “and I was the best artist of all time, the truth is…I still wouldn’t know what to draw for you, Hazel. I lack creativity in that department.”

My comment compels Hazel to look up in thought, and now, with a pencil in her hand, she taps it along her cheek, leaving me to watch the gears of her mind turn until, all at once, her eyes light up.

“I’ve got it,” her face inflates, along with the apples of her rosy cheeks. “The best day of your life,” she tells me as if it’s as simple as ever. “That’s what I want you to draw.”

“The best day of my life?”

“Mhm.” She nods, awfully proud of herself. “I mean, you do remember yours, right, Greenie?”

“Yeah.” My eyes shyly divert right back down toward the rock at my feet, leaving the heat to rise to my cheeks asan image pops into my mind. “I remember it like it was yesterday...”

PRESENT DAY

“I—uh…” I stutter as all eyes fall on me.

I’m no stranger to attention and as a footballer, stage fright is a virtually non-existent fear you can possess. But in this moment, as I shakily reach for the present by my feet, I’ve never been more scared.

“Sure.” I’m reluctant with my words but follow through on Hazel’s request as I grasp the gift in my hands and hastily place it into hers.

I laid awake staring at the ceiling night after night, thinking to myself, what in the world do you get for the one person whose presence has always been a present?

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