The Girl of Your Dreams

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The wind blew through Michael’s hair as the city lights streaked past him. With one hand on the wheel of his black convertible and the other draped over the shoulder of his seat, Michael smiled at the woman beside him.

It was a clear night. The milkdrop stars hung overhead, and the crescent moon grinned at the couple as they sped down the deserted streets of the city. Buildings materialized on the horizon as they drew near, manifesting from empty air right before his eyes.

He didn’t question anything.

The world was what it was.

“How’d you enjoy dinner?” Michael turned the car onto a street adorned with bright, neon billboards, unsure of exactly where they were going. Home? To the bar? Michael didn’t know. They were simply driving. 

“Oh, it was just lovely.” Becca melted in her seat to drive home the point. Then, she tossed her arm out the window and allowed it to hang, her fingers drumming against the metal exterior of the car. “It’s such a nice afternoon. Isn’t it, hun?”

Michael furrowed his brow. With a chuckle, he asked, “Afternoon?”

Becca looked at him as if he was crazy, her manicured eyebrows raised and the blue-green of her eyes boring in his. “Yes, afternoon.” She giggled, turning her finger to the sky.

When Michael looked up, the stars had gone away, and it was afternoon. The air now had an orange tint, and the faint scent of autumn leaves whisked through the air. The buildings had crossfaded into a forest of brown and auburn trees. 

Michael didn’t question this either.

Before, it was night. Now, it was afternoon.

It just made sense.

With the sun glowing overhead, Becca rotated in her seat, pulling her legs into a criss-crossed position as she faced Michael. “Have I told you I love you recently?”

Michael smiled. “I love you t—”

The alarm clock buzzed.

Michael slammed his fist down on the alarm clock as though it was the source of all his problems. With pins and needles in his fingers, Michael wiped sleep from his eyes and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He sat there for a while, back hunched like a warped piece of wood, as he waited to feel Becca’s fingers run through the back of his hair.

After a few minutes, he gave up waiting.

On the drive to work, Michael struggled to keep his eyes open. He knew he had to stay awake on the road, but there was a strange part of him that wished he’d doze off. As he waited for the light to turn green, he thought of Becca’s eyes—the swirling greens and blues, the way they resembled deep fields of emerald grass with ponds and streams winding through them. Just then, a ray of morning sunlight sliced through his window, reminding him of the glimmer that appeared in Becca’s eyes whenever she was excited.

Why couldn’t he think of anything else?

The light turned green.

That night, as he nursed a glass of whiskey, Michael wondered where things with Becca had gone wrong. Things were perfect between them a year ago. He had given her the American Dream—the ring, the home with the white picket fence, even the dog, for God’s sake!

He wished they could be together again. He wished that he didn’t need to wake up each morning, feeling for her on the other side of the bed, only to find wrinkled sheets. Groggy, Michael opened his laptop and stared at the blinking search bar.

How can I get her back? he searched. It was a broad question, but the internet seemed to thrive on those.

He scrolled through the top results, many of which were sites explaining how he was supposed to “make her jealous” and “show her what she lost.” None of that helped him. Becca hadn’t reached out in months, and she’d deleted any signs that they were ever together from social media. In her mind, he was dead.

In his, she was the reason to keep going.

Michael scrolled to the next page of results. There, a link caught his eye:

Want the girl of your dreams?

Praying it wouldn’t redirect him to a shady, dark web page, Michael clicked on the link. It led him to a screen of smiling couples, along with a short paragraph titled THE GIRL OF YOUR DREAMS IS WITHIN YOUR GRASP. He read through it, his heart fluttering with excitement. After he finished it, he thought to himself, I can see her again?

Below the paragraph was a button to book an appointment.

Before he could think any further, Michael clicked it.

The company’s building was simple. It was short, nearly windowless, and made of a smooth concrete that almost looked metallic. With a new suit on, Michael went inside and was directed to an exam room by the receptionist. There, sweat began to bead on his forehead, threatening to cascade down his face at any moment. 

As he waited, seconds turned into minutes. Minutes turned into hours. Or was he just nervous? Michael couldn’t tell.

What he did know was that when the doctor—perhaps in his mid-fifties and sporting a silver combover—walked in the room, the pit in his stomach would grow to the size of a baseball.

“I’m Doctor P,” the man said warmly. “I’ll be walking you through the procedure today. But first we have some formalities to talk through…” The doctor unsheathed a notepad from his large lab coat pocket and turned it to a clean page. He asked Michael his name, age, height, and weight, then pulled up a stool adjacent to Michael and sat down. “Now, the important part… Are you absolutely certain that you want to do this?” 

Michael nodded. “I just want to be with her again.”

“Right, but—” The doctor took a breath, wrestling with an idea, then raised his eyebrows and smiled. “It’s a year-long coma. During that time, we’ll keep your vitals steady and provide you with stimulus that ensures she stays in your dreams… if that’s what you still want.”

“Sounds good.”

“Can I give you a piece of advice, though? Off the record?”

Michael chuckled. “You’re the one recording.”

Doctor P. smiled. “Right. Of course. I just… I feel obligated to ask: have you tried meeting someone new?”

“I don’t want someone new. I want her,” Michael answered. Who was the doctor to tell him what to do? Didn’t the man want to make money?

“I know you cared about her… All my patients say the same thing. But there’s a whole world of people out there. Maybe she just wasn’t right for you.”

“Will you do it or not?” Michael asked abruptly.

The Doctor hesitated, then gave a faint sigh. “I figured it was worth a shot. But if this is what you want… Sign here please.”

The Christmas tree stood tall beside Michael and Becca as they slow-danced around the living room. The smell of mashed potatoes and turkey lingered in the air, and rain quietly beat against the roof above them. Becca hummed along to the quiet music playing, her face resting against Michael’s shoulder. “I wish this could last forever,” she said, then smiled up at him. 

A week later, it was summer. Michael reclined in his chair as he watched Becca do laps in their pool with perfect form. “Look!” she called out, then disappeared under the water. A second later, her feet shot up in a handstand. Michael chuckled, prompting her to swim to the edge of the pool. There, she rested her elbows against the concrete and cocked her head at him. “Did I do it right, love?”

“Yes, yes, you did it right.”

Becca flashed a smile and rolled her eyes in an exaggerated way. 

Then, Michael was teaching her to play guitar. Sitting on the floor of their living room with Becca in front of him, Michael guided her fingers into place on the fretboard. Together, they played their favorite song, rocking back and forth like two great trees swaying in the wind. After a moment, Becca stopped playing. She tilted her head toward the ground, appearing deep in thought, before she craned her neck to look back at Michael. “Are you happy?” she asked. 

“Happy? Why wouldn’t I be happy?” The question seemed absurd. He was with her. That was all he needed. 

Becca gave a sympathetic smile and caressed Michael’s cheek. “Because this isn’t real.”

Another few months, and it was Thanksgiving. Michael sat at his parents’ table with Becca to his left, hands interlocked under the table. They said what they were thankful for, then ate their helpings of meat, potatoes, and vegetables while deep in conversation. Laughter filled the night, and by the end of it, Michael’s mom had declared that Becca was “just perfect” for him. He and Becca exchanged a smile, and if he hadn’t known her so well, he would have thought it genuine. But the creases around her eyes—the ones that appeared when she was so happy she could do little more than smile—weren’t there. She may have been smiling, but she wasn’t really smiling. The glimmer in her eyes had weakened too.

“What’s the matter, dear?” Michael inquired softly.

Becca stayed silent for a moment, and the world seemed to freeze. Michael’s parents sat unmoving and unblinking in their chairs, his mom with a wine glass held to her lips and his father caught just before a sneeze.

The glimmer in her eyes disappeared completely. Becca looked down and slowly shook her head. “I wouldn’t want this…”

“What are you talking about –?”

“You have to move on, Michael!” Tears welled up in her eyes. She released Michael’s hand. “Please.”

“No, no. I won’t.” Michael tried to take her hand again, but she flinched away. “Please. Just stay with me a little longer. Please.”

Then, they were at an amusement park. A movie. A park late at night, stargazing. With their backs against the grass and fingers intertwined, Michael and Becca studied the constellations. Just a little longer. I’m begging you, Michael thought. He just needed to be with her a little longer.

Then, they were playing board games. Driving through the countryside late at night. Watching Becca’s favorite movie. 

I can’t lose you, Michael always repeated to himself. She was his life. She was his—

Michael woke up.

As Michael stared up at the fluorescent lights on the ceiling, he tried desperately to hold onto the memories he’d made while asleep. But every time he tried to recall one, it got fainter and fainter. He started to panic; he couldn’t lose those memories. Then, it’d all have been for nothing.

After a few minutes, he could hardly remember anything at all. Desperate to see Becca’s face again, Michael powered on his phone to look at photos of them together. But as the screen lit up, his stomach dropped. He had accumulated hundreds of notifications over the past year, but only one stood out to him:

BECCA: I miss you… Can we talk?

It was from six months ago. She had texted him six months ago.

As soon as the doctor discharged him, Michael got in his car and raced to Becca’s house. While he drove, rain fell from the sky in heavy sheets and blanketed the window of his car. The rain nearly blinded him, but Michael still made it to her neighborhood in one piece and hastily parked in her driveway. His heart racing, Michael got out of his car and ran up to the front door. 

What would he say to her? How could he explain where he’d been for so long? Maybe he could tell her he was studying abroad. Yes, that could work. Oh, what did it matter? She wanted to see him! Michael was so excited he was shaking. What was the first thing a person was supposed to say in this situation? He settled on a simple “hi.”

But then, he heard laughter from inside.

Michael walked up to the nearest window, the rain drenching him, and allowed his curiosity to get the better of him. Through the slits in the blinds, he could make out two figures in her living room. He noticed a Christmas tree too, so he assumed it was December, but then he turned his attention back to the people.

They were moving around—pacing, perhaps. Or were they dancing? Michael couldn’t tell. It wasn’t until the rain softened for a moment that he could just barely make out the sound of music. Drawing closer to the window, Michael squinted to make out more of the scene.

Then, it all clicked.

It was a man and a woman. A man and Becca. They were dancing. With hands interlocked, they swayed around the room, and every few seconds, the man twirled Becca in a circle. As the music swelled, Becca gave a smile so wide it could be seen from Jupiter. She wrapped her arms around the man and held him. 

And even with the rain streaking the window, Michael could see the glimmer in her eyes. 

The glimmer that told him he was too late.

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Want more from J.B. Ryder?

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