Shopping. It was always shopping that drove Joshua to a mindnumbing state of boredom. The drull of walking around shops and picking out this and that just to fill the cupboards, getting distracted any buying things he knew theyâd never need, but they were on sale so they just had to be picked up. Peyton was one of the few things that made shopping both a lot more interesting, and a lot my challenging. She was a little whirlwind, she loved running through the aisles and looking trying to fill up her Dadâs cart with anything and everything she wanted without him figuring out. Most times, Josh would see it and put it back, but sometimes, things slipped through.
He was at the till when it happened, his phone rang and his attention slipped, an apologetic smile was offered to the cashier, he kept piling everything in his cart on the little conveyor belt, all while trying to maintain a conversation with one of his staff. It was too much multitasking, and he didnât even notice. Not at first.
Joshua had already paid for his shopping and his card was in the reader when it suddenly struck him. That panic, that fear. That overwhelming and overpowering sensation that sheâd slipped him and gone anywhere. She couldâve been taken for all he knew. Stolen away never to be seen again, and it was all his fault. All because he was too busy doing other things and not paying attention to his daughter. He all but tore the shop apart looking for herâand when it was clear she wasnât inside, he made for the streets, bewildered and panicked.
âHave you seen a little girl, blonde, about three years old?â Joshua didnât so much as ask passers by as much as heâd demanded in a mad panic, rushing through the street. She had to have been somewhere, she couldnât have got far. Heâd never forgive himself. Finally, he stuck his head into the Floristâs. It was one of the last shops on the street, one of the last places he could check. ââHey, hey! Have you seen a little blonde girl, about three years old?â The Irishman pleaded, not sparing more than a glance inside.
Finally aligned with the apparent dilemma she now faced with the Code Adam swaying cheerfully in her sundress, Marisol fell into a steady rhythm of in- and ex-hales. The child was just that: a mere child. Whatâs the worst that could happen? ---she was in a floral shop, after all. ---where there were floral sheers. And floral wires, and electrical outlets, and, and... All among other sharp and pointy objects. âStop it.â She was in charge; she needed to be in charge. Marisol shook the weight of worst-case scenarios off her shoulders then, stopping her imagination from developing any further Final Destination-type daydreams.
Bending into a squat to maintain eye-level with the girl, she figured the least she could do was try to learn more about her while, hopefully, someone was scuttling about looking for her. The girl seemed sweet---the kind of child someone was sure to be missing very deeply right about now. âWhy hello there, Little Miss,â Marisol began, admiring the same sunflowers that the youngling had taken an obvious liking to. The girl giggled at the mention as Marisol addressed her.
âMiss-ss---s Peyân!â the girl declared confidently, pointing a thumb toward her own chest. Confusion riddled Marisolâs face for a brief second, though she caught on thereafter quickly. âYour name is...P-Peyton.â Marisol explained, though most if not only to herself, âIâm Marisol.â âMariso!â Close enough. Marisol actually found it rather endearing, the way the toddler said her name without the last consonant and was eager to adopt it.
âPeyton-- Whereâs your mommy?â To this, Peyton simply offered a simple shrug of the shoulders before running around Marisol to the next row of freshly-trimmed flowers. âTHORNS.â It seemed her imagination would not rest. Marisol followed in pursuit of Peyton, though a playful chase then ensued. Meanwhile Peyton was having every bit of fun, Marisol was trailing behind in desperation of catching another still sight of her.
Each time she thought she almost had her, a giggle would rebound the walls of the room as her little feet scuttled her away again. As abruptly as she kept losing sight of her, Marisol drew to a dead stop as she caught sound of the door swinging inward. Having almost run straight into the door as it tossed open, Marisol let out a relieving sigh when she realized it had just missed her by a near inch.
The frenzied man in question didnât seem to pay mind to it and blurted out what sounded like music to her ears. Not that Marisol wasnât fond of kids. She loved them, in fact, but truthfully more-so when they were attached to someone else. Fact of the matter was: Marisol was the least experienced when it came to handling children. She didnât even have the luxury of being much a child herself growing up. âPeyton?â she beckoned, spinning around in hopes that Peyton would be peering around one of the pails to ease the worries of the distraught stranger.
