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The Ultimatum

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One late and very stormy night, Florence sat alone in her bedroom. She didn't mind the thunder rumbling outside or the loud trickles of rain against her window because she was warm and safe inside her own home. Her back was resting against the headboard of her bed as she immersed herself in a good novel and a cup of tea on her side table.

'No,' she repeated and continued sauntering on, pausing at intervals to muse over a bit of moss, or a tuft of blanched grass or a fungus spreading its bright orange among the heaps of brown foliage; and, ever and anon, her hand was lifted to her averted face.

'Catherine, why are you crying, love?' I asked, approaching and putting my arm over her shoulder. 'You mustn't cry because papa has a cold; be thankful it is nothing worse.'

Florence's thoughts wandered to the window as she heard a peculiar noise, like a thud or knock. Her curiosity getting the better of her, she bookmarked the page and placed it on her bed before getting up and walking over to the window. She drew the curtains back and looked out, her eyes squinting as she attempted to figure out what was making all that commotion and disrupting her peaceful time for reading. Raindrops clouded the view, but after a brief moment, she glimpsed someone she recognised outdoors. Billy Andrews, holding rocks in his palm, stood in her front yard. He was about to throw another one when he noticed Florence staring down at him, so he paused midway.

She rolled her eyes as she opened the window, amused at his foolishness. Outside, it was pouring heavily, and the ground was covered with puddles. He wasn't carrying an umbrella, so he was drenched from head to toe, but she could tell he didn't appear to mind because of the way he was staring up at her. Her eyes widened as he tossed the pebbles away and knelt on both knees in front of her, still staring as he lifted his hands and held his ears in apology.

"Can we start over?"

Florence bit her bottom lip as she considered her next move. She was aware that she needed to consider her options carefully, but she was befuddled at the time. She made up her decision and shut the window, blocking the view with her curtains once more. As she disappeared from view, Billy parted his lips because he was left alone once more. Florence walked out of her house with an umbrella a moment later and approached the boy without showing any emotion on her face.

"You came after all." Billy's words came out more like a statement than a question.

"Because despite everything you've done, I still care for you," she said, "Go home, Billy."

Billy took a step closer to her but Florence took one back. Noticing her hesitance, he didn't move any closer and remained a comfortable distance apart. "Give me another chance. I want to prove myself to you, Florence."

She scoffed. "What exactly are you trying to prove? That you can hurt me, mess with my feelings, and mock me at any and all hours of the day just because you think you can? Because you have the power, fame, and riches to do so? Well, news flash: You've already proven this to me numerous times. And what a brilliant job you've done indeed."

"No . . . I want to prove that I am capable of being a better man. A changed man. Because . . . Because I think I've fallen in love with you."

She almost scoffed, wanting to question his supposed love for her. What was all that at school when she'd asked him and all he did was insult her in return? Yet, he knew how upset he'd made her after that day but he didn't put his ego aside for even ten minutes to tell her that he didn't mean his words or that he was sorry. All he did was stare at her at every waking moment, be it across from the classroom, during lunch hour or when she was with her friends ⸺ no real emotions on his face. How could he have expected her to believe him? There was absolutely no way that he was being genuine.

She looked away. "Forgive me for saying, Billy Andrews, but I'm not sure I believe you anymore."

"Florence please⸺"

His voice, body language, and the way he stared at her as if he would break at any second if she didn't forgive him all screamed desperation. But she'd made up her mind, and there was nothing he could do to make the experience any less painful. He would have demonstrated this change for the better a long time ago if he actually wanted to. And not just with words; he could have demonstrated it through his actions. However, for the past two years, all Billy did was upset her, and despite the fact that he was fully aware of how he made her feel, he would not have considered the prospective repercussions he would later face.

Florence turned to walk away, but he caught her wrist and pulled her back. The proximity they shared at this time would have flustered her on any other day, but she didn't feel that way now. She refused to look him in the eyes, oblivious to the fact that the umbrella had slipped from her grip and they were both soaking under the heavy rain. He urged her to look at him by lifting her chin with his hand. Drops of rain fell from the tips of his hair, and his blue eyes were darker than they'd ever been, but he could care less about all that. This sight both startled and grieved her, and she was so distracted by it that she didn't notice until the last minute when he leaned in and their lips touched for a split second before she backed away immediately.

"Stop!" she yelled, her voice breaking. "Just stop! Stop playing with my emotions and making me believe in something I know isn't genuine. I can't go on like this; I'm not sure how much longer I can take it. Just ⸺ just go."

Picking up the umbrella, she pushed it into his grasp and scurried away inside her house.

***

With a shovel in hand, Gilbert Blythe dug a large hole around the foot of his house in the front yard of his property. In honour of his late father, who adored the essence of flowers, he planned to build a modest but hopefully vibrant garden housing many flowers and trees. Momentarily kneeling down, he cleared some of the dirt and formed little potholes for the seeds to fall into. He raised to his full height and resumed digging with ease. He only came to a halt when he heard a familiar voice calling his name.

Billy Andrews was the man in question. Gilbert realized that the last time he and the boy had a proper conversation was on the day of his father's funeral and on the day he punched him in the face, both more than a year ago. Despite the fact that it had been a long time since that incident, he still smiled from time to time as he remembered rightfully teaching the boy a lesson.

"Andrews." Gilbert inclined his head in greeting. He disregarded his attention from the shovel and added, "What brings you here today? I heard about your injury. Shouldn't you be resting?"

"Just so you know, I'm not here voluntarily," Billy sneered, and Gilbert sighed, preparing to resume shovelling. He had a sneaking suspicion that this boy would have nothing meaningful to say. "It's about Florence."

Gilbert's undivided attention had been grabbed by this comment and he plunged the shovel into the soil, staring at his friend-turned-enemy expectantly. "Alright, you have my attention."