100 Yellow Doors

february 27th, 2021, 1:30 p.m.

"Is it okay to give a blind person candles?"

Silence.

"No, really. I just don't want him to burn himself—"

"I appreciate the concern, really," Iman started, grabbing the pack of candles from him and sticking them down into the icing one by one. "But Beck's blind, not stupid. He knows that fire is hot."

Fritz clicked his teeth, sweeping a strand of his hair back from his face. He had cut it recently—the midnight black strands that used to settle on his shoulders were tapered around his ears now, and he had yet to stop fussing with them. "That's not my point. My point is that he can't see the fire..."

Iman clicked on the lighter, admittedly delighting in seeing Fritz flinch. "Fritz, come on. You're the most flammable one here. You should be more concerned about yourself."

Fritz scoffed, but said nothing more as Iman dropped off the cake in his arms, shoving him in the direction of the dining room.

It was the first gathering she and Beck had hosted since buying their new house at the edge of DC—a location bordering urban and suburban, just like she'd always wanted. It was a little townhouse, just a bit over one thousand square feet, but it was more than enough for just the two of them. Iman savored every moment spent in that house—brushing her teeth as Beck washed his face, bumping into him as she headed to the kitchen and he headed to the front porch, coming home to find him with his feet up on the couch and his headphones in his ears.

Even so, there was that pocket of guilt inside her chest, as if she were not allowed to have this. Not without him.

In truth, Beck's 25th birthday party was a small affair, but the small size of the dining room made the gathering seem bigger than it truly was. There was Lemmy and Wendy, Beck's best friend Ronnie, Beck sitting at the head of the table with a bright smile on his face. A hush fell over the room as Iman flicked off the lights, Fritz walking with a practiced caution towards Beck, cake held at arm's length.

The obligatory "Happy Birthday" was sung, and Iman leaned close to Beck, whispering in his ear: "Make a wish."

He shook his head, turning briefly to press a kiss to her cheek. "But I don't need anything else."

Iman rolled her eyes, but nevertheless joined in with the cheers as Beck took in a big breath, and blew out the candles.

So the afternoon passed in a blur of bubbly laughter and excitement, slices of confetti cake passed around the table, along with tales of Beck's childhood. His short-lived basketball career, that time he won the spelling bee three years in a row, the time he cried in front of the whole class when his teacher rose her voice at him (that one as courtesy of Wendy, who Beck scolded for a good three minutes afterwards).

Iman chimed in with stories of her own, however carefully tiptoeing around any that involved the words vampire or time travel. Remember, she told everyone, they had taken that trip to Paris over the summer, right? She told them how, despite Beck's insistence that his French was at least up to par, he'd stood dumbfounded as a French woman tried to tell him he had toilet paper still on his shoe. That one made everyone laugh (Fritz the most), while it made Beck turn a positively radiant shade of red-brown. "She was talking fast," he defended. "I'm sure I would have understood if she wasn't talking so fast..."

When Iman's ears began to ring, however, she was forced to tune out of the merriment. For there was a familiar feeling rising in her stomach, one, albeit, she had not felt since the night of Julien's death.

Could it be—

It couldn't.

But it was.

She had thought she was ready; she'd been sure she was ready. Yet now the coming moments loomed in front of her like a cloud of impenetrable fog, and that feeling in her stomach gave rise to another: terror.

She stood from the table, and, not wanting to disturb Beck, yanked Fritz out of the dining room and towards the front porch.

"Iman," he said, and when she said nothing, still power walking towards the door, he said again: "Iman—Immy, wait a second. What's—"

Parking him beneath the awning and out of the sun. Slamming the front door shut. Hands on his shoulders. "Fritz. It's happening."

"It's—happening?"

"I'm going to travel, Fritz!" Iman said, the words all flowing out in a breathless rush. There were already tears in her eyes, though she could not say entirely why they were there. Was it her fear, her joy, or her sorrow? Or was it some strange, cacophonous medley of all three? "I never knew when it would happen again; I just knew that it would. And it is. Right now."

Fritz's face flashed with a violent realization, as if it was just now dawning on him what all of this meant. His blackish eyes going wide, he took both of her hands, swinging them in and out, in and out, before going painfully still. "Iman. You can't tell him. Okay?"

She scoffed. "I know that."

"No, I know you know. But no matter what, even if he figures it out—you don't tell him. You just treat it like normal. If time traveling can be normal. Jesus. I just—Iman?"

Fritz looked up then, just as a reluctant tear slipped down Iman's cheek. A quivering smile passing over his face, he lifted a hand, catching the tear on his thumb.

There were spots in Iman's vision. She didn't have much longer.

"What do you want me to tell him?"

Fritz's eyes fell towards the ground. "Just tell him...tell him I'm really grateful for him."

Iman dropped Fritz's hand. She was gone.