The Only Exception

Never had Sunday seen so many flowers collected in one place. At Henry's funeral, there had been plenty of flowers, and some people had sent bouquets to the house with small cards that held generic condolences. Once when they were teenagers Amber had invited Sunday to her cousin's wedding, and there had also been many flowers inside the church there. But they had been spread out, not like the lovely concentrated collection that was overcrowding her bedroom.

The first evening that Alex had been gone Sunday had been laying on the couch in the living room when the doorbell rang. As Grandma Ann was engaged with her crocheting, Sunday had paused Hercules and rushed to the door to see who their late visitor was. She was rewarded with a dozen gleaming silver roses.

Though Sunday had an idea who they were from, the card confirmed her suspicions. It read, "Six more days, eh?" And despite the fact that Sunday couldn't stand the word eh, she loved that it felt like Alex was counting down the days until he was back in California. She was also continuously amazed that he not only remembered her favorite flower and the unique color she preferred but also that he was calling and ordering them from across the country.

Around the same time on the second evening of Alex's absence there was another delivery of one dozen glittering silver flowers. Sunday had excitedly called him to say thank you after the vase was teetering on her dresser next to the first dozen but had been slightly disheartened when she was sent to voicemail. Nevertheless, she left a happy message and finished by reminding him that she loved him and missed him.

The time difference made getting in touch for the two pure hell. When Sunday usually called, it was around eight o'clock at night, and Alex was either finishing up in the studio or getting ready to go out with his east coast friends. And once he entered a club or bar, the combination of music, alcohol and people made it nearly impossible to remember the ringing phone in his pocket.

He called her back every morning before he went into the studio, which was around nine. Sunday was never awake at six o'clock in the morning, the corresponding time in California, so Alex would return her voicemail. Usually it was an extremely long message in which he apologized for missing her call, told her what he was doing and managed to squeak in a quick "I love you!" before her voicemail cut off his call.

They continued on for that like four days. It wasn't the same as having Alex there with her, but the separation wasn't nearly as hard as Sunday thought it would be. Jack was still in town, and she spent most of her time between him and Amber; her two friends seemed to have reached an accord to be cordial to each other, and one evening Sunday went out to dinner with the both of them. It resulted in a wonderful night, and it was the subject of Sunday's next voicemail to Alex.

On the fifth day, however, things changed. There were no flowers, and though Sunday called regardless of her lack of floral arrangement, she did not wake up to find a voicemail awaiting her.

The sixth evening was different as well. She was getting ready to go to dinner with her parents—both of them, which she was quite ecstatic about—when the doorbell ring. Grinning in anticipation, Sunday had abandoned her curling iron and rushed downstairs to get the door. When she opened it and revealed the delivery man, he had two vases. "Two dozen silver roses for a Miss Sunday Phillips," he announced.

Grandma Ann had wandered into the hall when she heard Sunday running down the stairs, so she helped Sunday carry the flowers upstairs. "He certainly appears to miss you," she commented as she read the card on one of the older bouquets.

Sunday grinned as she plucked her newest note from the sea of silver. However, this card made her wrinkle her nose in confusion. Printed in the blocky letters was, "I'm sorry." Sunday had no idea what in the world Alex had to be sorry for, but nonetheless, she chewed on the message as her grandmother left her alone so that she could continue getting ready for dinner.

She dialed Alex's cell phone number as soon as she was ready, praying that perhaps there would be a break in their routine and he would answer his phone. He didn't though, which Sunday had expected. She smiled absentmindedly as his voicemail came on.

"Hey, this is Alex."

"And Jack!"

"Jack, get the fuck out of here. This is just Alex. Leave me a message, and I'll—"

"Suck your—"

"Jack, fuck off! Just leave me a fucking message, and I'll call you back."

After the beep, Sunday curtailed her giggling before she began rambling. "Your message today totally confused me. But I love the flowers, as always, so thank you very much. You don't have anything to be sorry for though; I understand that All Time Low means a lot of traveling. Besides, you'll be home in two days, and I can't wait. I'm about to go out to dinner with my mom and dad, so I've gotta go, but I think they're getting back together, so I'm so excited. Talk to you later. I love you!"

As soon as she hung up her phone, Mrs. Phillips knocked on her bedroom door. "Sunday Alice, if you're not ready in two minutes, I'm leaving without you," she called through the wood.

"I'm ready!" Sunday insisted as she forced her feet into a pair of pale blue flats. She fastened Alex's silver star necklace around her neck (the only time she ever took it off was when she showered) before emerged from her room, a nervous and excited feeling brewing in her stomach.

They were going to dinner at a place called Pomodoro. It was an Italian restaurant that Sunday had been to many times before and had many fond memories at. For her eighth birthday she had come to the restaurant with her parents and Henry; the choice of the eatery stemmed from Sunday's current fascination with its name, which she spent several weeks yelling in a forced Italian accent. It was also the place where Sunday had gone to dinner with Amber and a bunch of people after they graduated. She had been uncomfortable most of the dinner as she hadn't known anyone save Amber, but by dessert, it almost felt like she had friends.

However, Pomodoro felt different that night. The friendly, welcoming atmosphere that Sunday had come to love was missing. As they sat in the restaurant, Sunday ignored the waiter who was explaining what their featured wine and soups were; instead, her eyes scanned the large room. Her first prediction was that maybe they had changed the color on the walls from a warm shade to a cool shade. It was wrong; Pomodoro was the same color it had always been.

She picked apart every aspect of the restaurant. Nothing was new though. There were the same plates, silverware, carpets, light fixtures... Nothing had changed at all. It was the same Pomodoro, which forced Sunday to look elsewhere.

Their table was rectangular in shape, and usually, the seat next to Sunday was left unoccupied. Sunday preferred to sit on a side of her own, because when Henry was alive, he would have sat next to her. She didn't like feeling like people were trying to take Henry's place. The difference was that tonight her mother sat next to her, not beside her father.

Suddenly, Sunday knew that they hadn't taken her out to dinner in celebration of her father's return to their house. He wasn't coming back. Ever. Panic flooded Sunday, causing her hands to begin sweating and her breathing to increase slightly. She needed out of the warm restaurant; she needed to be alone.

"You okay, Sun?" her dad asked as she tried to discreetly slide her chair backwards on the floor. She wanted to be able to slip away without them noticing, but it didn't seem like that was an option.

"It's kind of warm in here," Sunday explained, "I think I'm just going to step outside."

"One minute, Sunday," her mother countered as she grabbed Sunday's hand and stopped her from rising. "Your father and I have something to tell you."

Though she sat back down in her chair, Sunday opened her mouth to speak before either of her parents could. "I already know," she told them.

For the first time in her life, Sunday wished that she couldn't figure out what was going on. It was then that she realized that her Aspergers left her blissfully ignorant—sure, she couldn't figure out what she was supposed to be feeling half the time, but she didn't want to feel right now. The pure loss that was spreading through her veins didn't make her feel normal; it hurt like hell.

Why wasn't it doing it now, she wondered? Why wasn't she being left happily in the dark?

"Maybe we should talk about it?" her mother suggested.

Sunday looked down, focusing on her sweaty hands. Her long, curly hair fell forward and formed a curtain between Sunday and the rest of the world. She was glad for it, she needed it. Behind the curtain she was able to find the ability to detach from it all.

When she looked up, her expression was blank and almost unreadable. "Are you getting divorced, or is it just a separation?" she inquired. She sounded only half interested, though in truth she was praying that it was the latter.

"Our lawyers are drawing the papers up for a divorce," her mother admitted, not looking at either Sunday or her soon to be ex-husband.

"There's a bit more, Sun," her father added, sounding cautious.

"What?" Sunday asked, looking back and forth between their anxious faces.

Before she spoke, her mother took a long drink from her glass of red wine. Alex had once mentioned liking red wine; Sunday resisted the urge to reach for her mother's glass and take a long gulp. "Your father's bought a house in Malibu," Mrs. Phillips announced. "It's a wonderful place, Sun, and I'm sure you're going to love it."

Though she tried to suppress it, Sunday could feel her hands start to shake and beads of sweat formed on her brow. "It's not on the beach," her father explained, "but it's got a pool in the backyard, and it's like five minutes away from the ocean. Your room's really great too, and the walls are all white so you can paint whatever you want on them."

She slowly rose from her seat. "I'm not leaving Huntington Beach," she insisted.

Mrs. Phillips glanced around the restaurant, blushing when she noticed a few turned heads. "Sunday, sit down," she ordered as she took up her wine glass again.

Sunday shook her head. "Um, no," she countered. "I have to... go."

Though she prayed that her parents wouldn't follow her, Sunday knew that it wasn't likely. They caught up with her at the front door of the restaurant. "Where do you think you're going, Sunday?" Nadia demanded. "Alex is in New York, Amber's at school right now—"

"I'll go see Henry and Lola," Sunday declared instantly, the plan seeming wonderful in her head.

Both of her parents fell silent and exchanged nervous glances. "Sunday, please don't do this, sweetheart," her father beseeched her.

Sunday had a bad habit. When the world got too real, too scary, she regressed. She regressed into the confines of her mind to a time where whenever she didn't know what to do, she would go to Henry. A time when she could go to Henry.

She hadn't done it since meeting Alex, which was why Nadia and Greg were so shocked by Sunday's plan. But as they watched her hail a taxi and request that she be returned to the beach house, their worry eased, though only slightly. At least she wasn't spitting off Lola's address; Lola had been Henry's girlfriend and much like a sister to Sunday.

The taxi ride was sobering for Sunday. For a few minutes, she had thought up scenario after scenario. Henry would have told her that she didn't have to go live with their dad if she didn't want to; he would understand how hard not being able to see Alex whenever she wanted would be. Lola would make her favorite peppermint tea and drop a comforting arm around Sunday's shoulders while in case she got a little too emotional.

But as Sunday opened the door of her house, prepared to call her brother and his girlfriend, she realized that she couldn't. This time it didn't take a trip out to Lola's abandoned apartment. Perhaps it was an improvement, she reasoned, that she was able to realize on her own without proof that they were gone.

Or maybe not. Maybe she was just as crazy as she'd ever been.

"Sunday, darling, is that you? Your mother called and said you might be on your way home," Ann said as she walked into the hall. "Ah, there you are, darling. Why don't you come into the kitchen? I made some tea, and we can talk about everything."

"No." Sunday shook her head, a new plan of action forming in her mind. "Grandma... I want you to take me back to England with you."

Ann raised a graying eyebrow. "To London, Sunday?"

Sunday nodded. "I can't be here anymore," she explained. "I just... I can't do it. I'm tired of being alone."

"Oh, sweetheart," Ann said, pulling Sunday into a hug, "I think you just miss Alex, dear. But he'll be home in a day or so."

"I'll talk to Alex," she countered, "I just can't do this. I ruined my parents, and I can't stay to see the damage that I've done." She pulled away from her grandmother and started up the stairs to her bedroom so that she could pack. While Ann was a very proper lady with a high respect for mannerisms and etiquette, she was not heartless and could never deny Sunday the escape that she seemed to think she was in need of.

While Alex was in New York, Sunday had taken Amber to the mall with her to finish her winter shopping. Everything that she had bought was still sitting in their bags, tags remaining and all. As Sunday had plans of getting out of Huntington Beach as soon as possible, she began dumping her new things into her suitcase haphazardly without stopping to see whether she'd need them or to remove the tags and stickers.

As she was packing, she realized that she should probably discuss her plan with Alex. She was very doubtful that he'd be able to convince her to stay in California, but she didn't want him to come home to find her simply gone. She dropped the phone onto her bed as she packed, the ringing loud due to speakerphone. And though she hadn't been expecting it at all, after a few seconds a voice said, "Hey babe!"

She dropped the shoes that she had been tossing into her suitcase and jumped for her phone. "Alex?" she asked, just to make sure.

"No, it's Ashton Kutcher," he countered. "Duh, it's Alex."

"You have no idea how glad I am to talk to you," Sunday murmured, tears stinging in her eyes. She had been anticipating explaining her plans to leave for London to a voicemail, not a living, breathing Alex that could and probably would debate the idea. "Things are so..." She searched for the right word. "Everything's pretty fucked up," she finally sighed.

The background noise behind Alex disappeared, and Sunday guessed that he had left the room he was previously in. "What's wrong, Sun?"

"I'm leaving, Alex," she declared without preamble. "I can't explain why right now, but I have to. I'm going to stay with my grandma in London. I can't stay here."

Immediately, he countered, "Sun, calm down. I'll be home in two days, and we can figure it out then, okay?"

She shook her head, feeling ridiculous when she remembered he couldn't see her. "No," she insisted, her voice sounding more tearful than she would have liked.

"Sunday, please."

"Alex, I can't do this," she contended. "My parents are getting divorced, and my mom wants to send me to Malibu with my dad, and I... I forgot that Henry wasn't here, and it was the scariest thing because I haven't done that in such a long time."

He was silent, and during that moment, Sunday softly reiterated the gravity of the situation: "I have to leave tonight."

There was another moment of muteness, and Sunday was about to ask for confirmation that he was still on the phone when he broke the silence. "Okay," Alex said, "There's a flight out of La Guardia in half an hour that comes in at SFO. I'll fly out, Amber or Jack can take you to the airport in San Francisco, and we can fly to Baltimore and spend Christmas at my parents' house. I know it's not a fix for the whole thing, but we'll figure it out together."

Sunday stopped packing and gripped the phone tightly. "But what about the producers and the album? You're supposed to be there for two more days," she pointed out.

"We're just about done anyway," Alex explained, "I was just supposed to hang around for a few promotional things, but I'll have Matt reschedule them."

"I'm inconveniencing you," she sighed.

She heard Alex hail a cab. "No, you're not," he retorted, "It's actually easier this way. I wanted you to come to Baltimore with me for Christmas anyway, and now I don't have to do any packing or unpacking or trying to convince you to come with me. It's working out perfectly, actually."

Before Sunday could agree or disagree, Alex added, "I just texted Jack, and he said he'll drive you out to SFO at midnight. My flight comes in at two, and then we'll fly out to Baltimore at three-thirty."

Although she still felt as though she was being the biggest pain in the world, Sunday had to relent. She felt like everything was going to be okay as long as she was with Alex. "Fine," she smiled. "I'll see you in a few hours."

"I love you, Sun," Alex said, grinning triumphantly before he disconnected and ordered his cab driver to haul ass to La Guardia.