The Unconventional (A Short Story) (4 page)

I’m not an alcoholic.

Just as I begin to feel this odd lump
of emotion forming in my throat, a swell of cold air drifts over
me. It seems a little early to have customers, but hell, I’ll take
them just the same. Maybe I’ll tell them about the plan to revamp
the place. Fresher ingredients, a homemade recipe, piping hot. The
words churn in my head while I walk past the cash register and into
the dining area.

I don’t expect to find the restaurant
empty, but it is.

The booths are bare, there’s no
chatter among a group of friends, there’s no arguing between a
couple, and there’s no sloppy kissing between the late-night
hook-up. It is the same as I left it a few minutes ago, but I can
still feel the draft. The door was open. I walk to the front to
double check the door when I see a kid standing on the sidewalk. He
looks around Sam’s age, maybe a little older. Suddenly, he turns
like he’s going to walk down the sidewalk, but he doesn’t. There’s
something stopping him.

I watch him through the glass,
studying his profile.

His hands are shoved in his pockets,
and he’s wearing one of those big wool hats with strings. A long
fog of white streams from his mouth. His shoes are planted in the
snowy sidewalk, but his knees are bouncing with small movements. It
looks like he’s talking to himself, but I can’t be sure. Either
way, I figure this kid is the one who opened the door. I’m about to
go talk to him when he turns his head and our eyes meet.

I don’t know the kid, but there’s a
vague look of recognition in his eyes like he knows me.

Then the look turns to panic, and I
think for a second that he’s going to run. Like he just heisted
something from the register and is in a hot bed of hell. I open the
door and step out onto the sidewalk while he stands frozen in
place. His knees have stopped bouncing and his gloved hands are out
of his pockets.

“
Hey, man. Can I help you?”
I shove my hands into my jeans as a car passes on the
street.

“
No, I – ” he stutters. He
looks back at me with that damn look of recognition again, like I
should know him because he clearly knows me, but like I said
before, I don’t know him. He’s just a bit taller than me with a
bigger frame. I was right about guessing he was around Sam’s age. I
don’t put him past twenty. He’s got a real smooth complexion with a
glazing of almost olive color skin and deep innocent
eyes.

“
Did you need something? Did
you open the door?” I ask, huddling my body inward to conserve the
heat. Another car’s headlights flash as it nears and passes
us.

“
No. I mean yes,” he says.
There’s something in his eyes that tells me this kid needs help or
something. He’s standing here for a reason, but I don’t know why.
There’s something about his eyes.

“
Which is it?” I
ask.

“
Yes, I opened the door,” he
says, nodding his head as if he’s trying to break himself out of
the stupor he’s put himself into. I study his eyes, trying to
assess if he’s drunk or high. I don’t think he’s either.

“
It’s colder than hell out
here. Why don’t you come inside? I can make you some pizza. It
ain’t that bad.”

“
This is your place?” he
asks. “You’re Archie Briggs?”

“
I’m Archie Briggs, and this
is Archie’s Pizza,” I confirm, nodding toward the sign. “Although
that sign doesn’t really say so. Missing some letters. I’m getting
it fixed in the next few days.”

He’s nodding and reaching out his hand
to me when I see another flash of lights out of the corner of my
eye. But this light isn’t like the other cars that have passed us
in the last minute since we’ve been standing here. The light is
bright white, shining right on this kid. And I suddenly realize
that the car is going to pummel into this kid. The car’s front
tires are almost to the curb.

I yell “WATCH OUT!” and then I lunge
toward the kid, trying to push him out of the way. But I’m moving
in slow motion, my arms and legs heavy as lead as I reach out
toward him.

They say that the world is moved
along, not only by the mighty shoves of its heroes, but also by the
aggregate of tiny pushes of each honest worker. It isn’t the mighty
shove that gives him a chance because God knows, I don’t get to him
as fast as I want to. It’s the tiny push from an honest place that
gives him a chance.

I’m not a hero.

***

My world is black. I hear the ringing
now, just like I heard the night Death came to see me for the first
time. I expect to see Him again. I expect to see his outstretched
hand, his grim eyes, and his solemn mouth. But I don’t. All I see
is black, and all I hear is the ringing. The goddamn
ringing.

All I can think about is the kid. I
wonder if Death has already come to see him or if the kid is
somewhere in the middle. I don’t see him here, so I know he’s not
with me.

Suddenly, white light floods my eyes.
It intoxicates me as I feel myself being rolled down a hall. A mask
looms over my face, covering my mouth, and I savor the sweet taste
of pure oxygen in my lungs. There’s a bag swinging next to me,
rolling with my body. The wheels of the cart rattle. Footsteps
pound. Voices swirl around my head, yelling things I don’t
understand. I feel blinding pain now, screaming at me with no
restraint.

The rolling finally stops and there’s
ripping and jerking and prodding all over my body. There’s warmth
spilling from me in every direction, and I can feel myself getting
colder with every passing second.

I expect to see Death any moment, but
he doesn’t come. Not yet anyway.

Then my world turns black again. The
pain and ringing are gone, vanished as if never there in the first
place. Everything is gone except this black world and a single
voice. It’s soft and whispers like a beautiful melody.

“
He’s not going to make it
without a transplant. His heart is too weak,” she says. “He’s only
twenty.”

The kid. The kid’s not going to make
it. The voice pauses as if she’s listening to a response. “His name
is Archer Haen. He had this note in his pocket. It has Archie’s
Pizza’s address on

it. Archie Briggs is his dad. Yes, I
called his mother. Rosalyn Haen’s going to get here as soon as she
can.”

The words collide in my
head. Dad. Rosalyn Haen. Archer Haen. I never knew Rosalyn’s last
name. It was just Rosalyn. The realization floods over me, filling
me to the brim with both love and pain. I’m suddenly brought back
to the night with Rosalyn and her endless hazel eyes. All I can see
are those eyes. The kid on the sidewalk has those same eyes. The
kid whose name is Archer. The kid named after me. My
son
.

I see my son on a cart just like mine
in the room over with doctors and nurses swarming around him. He
needs help. Then I see Rosalyn with a phone up to her ear. Tears
well in her eyes until they’re full and then they fall in streams
down her beautiful, pained face. The phone slips from her hand and
bounces on the floor. Once, twice.

Then I see Death’s hand
outstretched toward me, but he’s not taking my hand. He holds it
there in front of my face, waiting. He’s giving me the
choice
.

There’s no hesitation. After all, the
choice is an easy one. This is my unconventional happily ever
after.

MY FINAL THOUGHTS BEFORE I
TAKE HIS HAND

In the few seconds before I die, I
realize I didn’t know shit about anything. My life has simply been
a series of events. Some happy, some sad, but almost all were
simply lived. There were a handful of moments, little glitches when
I was living. One was with Rosalyn. One was with Sloan. Another was
when I defied Death the first time. The last one was when I made a
choice for my son.

The rest of the time, I wasn’t alive.
There’s a distinction, I now know. A distinction that I want my son
to live and for you to understand.

Lesson to the Living:
There’s a difference between living and being alive.

About the Author

Raen Smith writes romance and suspense
novels with happily ever afters. She lives in a small corner of
Wisconsin with her husband and two sons, and loves to be contacted
by readers.

Connect me online:

http://raensmith.com/

http://facebook.com/RaenSmithAuthor

http://twitter.com/RaenSmith

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Acknowledgements

A special thank you to my husband,
Brandon, for being incredibly supportive and for pushing me to
pursue my dreams. I couldn’t have done this – or much else –
without you.

Another thank you goes to my two sons,
Cole and Holden, who make me laugh, cry, and above all, make me
realize that life is short, and we all grow up way too
fast.

A special thank you to Stephanie,
Reba, Chalyce, Heidi, and Jenny who provided sound advice and
feedback on first drafts. Thank you to my editor, Melissa
Westemeier, for whipping me into shape.

Last, thank you to all the readers!
Without you, I wouldn’t be able to pursue my dream.