Sweet Dandelion Page 4

  “Neither can I, bro.”

  “Well, until one of us caves, want to get pizza?”

  My stomach rumbles. “Yeah, pizza would be good.”

  “Let me shower real quick and we can go.”

  He disappears down the hall to his room.

  Closing my laptop, I roll out of bed and brush my hair. It only helps my appearance a minimal amount. Grabbing one of the few lipsticks I own, I fill in my lips with the nude color. Looking in the mirror it’s impossible not to see how much I’ve aged in the last nine months. True, I don’t have wrinkles, or sagging skin, or discoloration. But it’s in the eyes, and I think that’s the worst part of all. I’m afraid the haunted look in them will never go away and is a permanent thing I’m going to have to get used to.

  It doesn’t take Sage long to shower and change. He ushers me out of the condo building and down the street. The pizza place is the smallest I’ve ever seen. There are only three tables, all high-top with only two seats. The maybe ten feet of standing space is crowded with people either waiting to order or pickup.

  “Grab that table,” Sage directs me to the table in the corner where a couple is leaving, “I’ll order.”

  I push my way through the people, holding my breath as I do, not because anyone smells but because I hate the suffocating feeling of their bodies pressed against mine.

  I finally make it to the table and sit down. There are crumbs and red pepper flakes dotting the table. I brush them onto the floor, watching them drift away. It’s ten minutes before Sage places the order and joins me. The receipt with our order number is clasped in his hand.

  We sit across from each other, but we’re worlds apart with no idea how to breach the distance. We try in little ways. Small, everyday questions. Nothing too deep. Tiptoeing around the trauma we’ve both endured. Sage might not have been in the building that day, but he’s had to shoulder the burden of many things because of it and it couldn’t have been easy.

  “I got you the white pizza.”

  “It’s my favorite.” I look at my bare nails. I haven’t painted them yet. I should do that tonight. “What’d you get?”

  I squint at the menu hanging above the register.

  “Meat lovers.”

  “Of course.” I roll my eyes playfully. “What is it with guys and having to have meat on or with everything? Is it the caveman in you?”

  “Probably.” He picks up the shaker containing the powdered cheese and shakes it around, furrowing his brows as he stares at a chunk that’s clumped together. “Want to do something this weekend? You haven’t done much since we’ve been here and that’s partly my fault. I should’ve shown you the city more, taken you exploring or some shit. Fuck,” he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, “I’m the worst brother ever.”

  I was only well enough to leave the hospital in May. It’s almost September, which meant he spent six months away from his home, working remotely, so he could be with me in the hospital. Once I moved here with him, seeing the city was the last thing on my mind and I definitely wouldn’t have expected him to take more time off to show me around.

  “No, you’re not, Sage.”

  He blows out a breath.

  “You’ve done a lot more than most siblings ever would. You stayed by my side in the hospital—my God Sage you moved into my room and slept on the couch for months so I wouldn’t be alone, I don’t think you could’ve gotten away with it if the nurses hadn’t had a major crush on you.” He chuckles, ducking his head. He can deny it all he wants, but flirting with the nurses was practically his part-time job while he was there. “You moved me in with you. You’ve bought me clothes, school supplies, a new computer. You’ve never made me feel alone and that means more than you’ll ever know.”

  My brother looks like he might cry. I reach across the table and place my hand on his.

  He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.

  When our order is called he slips off the chair silently and returns with two fresh pizzas in boxes.

  “Want to head back to the condo?” I ask him. “We could put a movie on.”

  “No.” He shakes his head, looking out the window at the passing cars and pedestrians, all of them oblivious to the simple horrors that can shatter our lives in minutes. Seconds. “Let’s stay out for a while.”

  “Okay.” I open my box of white pizza, inhaling the heavenly scent. It’s my favorite food and I swear I could live off of it. Honestly, the food pyramid is a triangle, so is pizza, therefore all you need for a balanced diet is pizza.

  I take a bite of the ooey-goodness stifling a moan.

  “This might be the best pizza I’ve ever had.”

  Across from me Sage grins as he dusts more cheese on his and then a thick coating of red pepper flakes. “It’s my favorite.”

  “This could be dangerous,” I warn him around a mouthful. “This place is only down the street and I could live off of this.”

  “It has spinach on it. It’s practically a salad.” He winks and I laugh.

  It feels nice for at least a moment to feel happy. That’s the thing about trauma, fear, grief—all of it—you don’t feel those emotions fully twenty-four-seven. There are brief moments of reprieve, and when you have them you learn to cherish them.

  Sitting in this hole in the wall shop, eating pizza with my brother, is one of the simplest things in the world but I know this memory will stay with me forever, because in the darkest time of my life this is a bright spot.

  Chapter Eight

  It’s the last day of my first week of senior year and it’s dragging.

  More than usual anyway.

  But at least I’ve survived the first five days even if they’ve tried my patience from the sheer monotony of it all. Honestly, the whole day could be condensed into a few hours, yet they subject us to nearly seven hours of this. Is that even humane?

  “I don’t know why you won’t eat in the cafeteria. There’s plenty of room at the table I normally sit at with my friends.”

  “Then go sit with them,” I say, letting go of the library door. He catches it, following behind me to the table that’s become mine this week. I’m thankful none of the librarians mind me, or us, eating in here since we clean up.

  “Nah, I’m cool here with you, but if you’re afraid of not having anywhere to sit that’s not true.”

  I know Ansel would gladly pull me into his friend group. Even Sasha, who I’ve gotten to know more in our shared classes, would probably let me sit with her.

  “I prefer the quiet and solitude.” I give him a pointed look as I set my sandwich, the chicken salad, on the table before removing my backpack. I drape the straps over the chair and sit down.

  Ansel fumbles with his messenger bag, pulling out his lunch and sketchpad before he finally sits down as well.

  “I can be quiet, Meadows. You won’t know I’m here.”

  He opens his sketchpad to a page with a barely started drawing and unpacks his lunch. He sets everything out in a neat row. Today he has an apple, protein bar, and yogurt. His drink is a blue Kool-Aid, one of those in the plastic bottles with a twisty top. He sets out his pencils and picks one up.

  “What are you working on now?” I nod my head at the pad.

  He flicks a piece of hair from his eyes and looks up at me. “Shh, this is quiet and solitude time.”

  “Touché,” I laugh lightly, unwrapping the saran wrap from my sandwich.

  Ansel works on his sketch, taking bites of his lunch in between. I eat, but don’t have anything else to occupy me. I’ve never been much of a reader, but looking around at the shelves I wonder if maybe I should start. Homework and browsing the internet can only take up so much of my time now that I can’t run.

  Ansel looks at me between strands of his hair. “I was kidding, you know. We can talk.”

  I follow a grain in the wood of the table with my fingernail. “I have no idea what we’d talk about. We don’t even really know each other.”

  I’m n
ot being mean, but I don’t know Ansel well enough yet to easily carry on a conversation and I loathe small talk.

  He lays the pencil down and it starts to roll away. He catches it before it can fall. Scooting the sketchpad to the side, he crosses his arms on the table leaning closer to me.

  “If you want to get to know each other it’s best to ask questions.”

  I frown. “I don’t like questions.”

  He presses his lips together, fighting a grin. “Oh, Dandelion Meadows, how you amuse me.”

  “Dani,” I correct automatically, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear.

  “Dani,” he mimics.

  We finish our lunch and I clean up the trash while he folds his sketchpad and sticks it in his messenger bag. I return to the table to grab my backpack, but Ansel stops me. He grabs my arm and before I can ask him what he’s doing he scribbles ten numbers on the inside of my forearm in black Sharpie.

  He looks up at me with ghost-blue eyes. “If you decide you like questions.”

  The bell rings and he winks, flashing me a cocky grin before he disappears leaving me standing in the library stunned and confused.

  I don’t bother meeting Mr. Taylor at his office, instead heading straight for the conference room. When I enter the school’s main office one of the secretaries stops me.

  “Oh, no, sweetie. Mr. Taylor got all moved into his new office. You won’t be meeting in here anymore.”

  “Where—”

  “Dani.” At the sound of Mr. Taylor’s warm voice I turn around. His body leans halfway into the main office and he flashes the secretary a winning smile. “Thanks, Glenda, I’ve got her.” He motions for me to join him, his arm flexing as he does. Considering he works at a high school all day five days a week I wonder when he has time to workout.

  I follow him out of the room, confused as to what’s going on.

  “She said you have a new office?”

  He nods, looking over at me as we walk side by side away from the main office, then past what was his. “Yeah, I asked to be moved.”

  “Why?” I can’t fathom why he would possibly want to move his office. That seems silly. Even though the place was sparsely decorated it was still his.

  He shrugs, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. The watch on his left wrist reflects in the light. “Needed a change.”

  We turn down a hall I’ve never been to before. There are a few doors we pass, most marked as a storage or supply closet. We pass a community room the school uses to rent out before making another turn and stopping in front of the final door.

  “This place is way out of the way,” I comment as he stuffs his hand in his pocket, pulling out his key. “I don’t understand why you had to move all the way over here.”

  He looks over at me, sliding the key into the lock. “That room was a little small. Kind of dark. I thought something different would be good and Mr. Gordon agreed.”

  He opens the door, motioning for me to go inside first.

  My breath catches and I nearly burst into tears taken off guard like I am.

  His body heat presses behind me since I’m blocking his entry into the room.

  But I can’t move. I’m frozen.

  My right hand drifts up to my mouth, my fingers shaking.

  “Dani?” He’s concerned, worried he’s done something wrong or perhaps even triggered something.

  If he’s triggered anything it’s gratitude.

  It’s only my fifth day of school, our fifth time meeting, and he’s gone out of his way to accommodate me already. This is the last thing I would expect him to do. He owes me nothing but he’s given me everything.

  I stare out the window. At the sunlight. At the freedom he’s unknowingly handed to me. The blinds are open, bathing the room in a warm yellow hue. There are boxes of books and things sitting around, he’s not fully moved in, but his desk is here and instead of the chairs there’s a comfy looking loveseat.

  I turn around and surprise us both by wrapping my arms around his middle and hugging him. I bury my face in his hard chest, damming back my tears, but they come anyway. I hate crying, but as they come I embrace them. I’m sure I’m ruining his shirt, but he doesn’t tell me to stop or push me away. A moment passes before he hesitantly wraps his arms around me and hugs me back.

  Human touch—such a seemingly normal thing, but absolutely vital to our survival.

  He doesn’t rush me, just lets me embrace my emotions.

  I finally let him go, embarrassed, wiping my tear-stained eyes on the backs of my hands. Black smears them from the little bit of mascara I put on this morning and his shirt … yep, I ruined it.

  “I’m a mess.” I laugh, trying to lighten the heavy cloud that’s settled. “I’m sorry about your shirt.”

  He looks down at it and then at me. “It’s only a shirt.”

  I take a step away from him so he can enter his office. He passes me a tissue from a box I didn’t notice on his desk and bends down, rummaging through a duffel bag. I sniffle, drying the last of my tears. I feel ridiculous, losing my cool over something so simple, but I wasn’t prepared for his kind gesture.

  I mean, he asked the principal to give him a new office because he knew how much it would mean to me to not feel singled out by having to go to the conference room. I throw the tissue away in a small wastebasket by the door and squeak when I turn around to find his bare, muscled back right in front of me.

  He turns at the sound, slipping the black cotton shirt down over his abs.

  I swallow thickly, wishing the racing in my heart wasn’t because I find my counselor attractive.

  “Sorry about that.” He grabs the chair from behind his desk, pulling it around in front of it. Waving his hand, he indicates the loveseat to my left. “Have a seat.”

  “Oh, yeah, right.” I shake my head. I’m flustered from this whole situation.

  “What’s on your arm?” he asks, leaning forward and wrapping his hand around my wrist, turning my arm over so the black numbers glare up at him. He raises a brow, giving me a half-smile. He releases my arm and sits back.

  “A phone number,” I answer, even though he already knows that.

  “Making friends?”

  “Making … something,” I finish with a small shrug. His brow arches again and I explain, “I don’t know what Ansel is.”

  “A boy?”

  “Well, I know that, but I don’t know what I want him to be.” His brows rise farther up his forehead. “Not like that,” I protest, blushing. “I just…” I look out the window, allowing myself a moment to take a deep breath and regroup. Mr. Taylor waits patiently, not trying to force any words from me. “I don’t know if I want … friends.”

  He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Why wouldn’t you want friends, Dani?”

  I close my eyes.

  I hear the laughter cut off by shouts, then screaming, then the horror of the minutes that followed.

  I open my eyes, staring into the cool blue-green ocean of his. “Because it hurts too much.”

  Chapter Nine

  The shower water cascades over my arm, but the black numbers don’t smear. I rub vigorously at them with a washcloth. They fade, but don’t disappear. My arm starts to turn red and I let the cloth drop onto the shower floor with a plop.

  Tilting my head up, I let the water pelt my face.

  It pings against my skin and I shove my fingers through my wet hair.

  Opening my mouth, I scream.

  I scream because I have to do something. I have to let out the emotions inside me in some way. If I don’t they’re going to suffocate me, snuff out my life from the inside out.

  I don’t want to be broken, but I don’t know how to be whole. How can I embrace new people into my life when I’m a shattered vase with shards threatening to stab anyone who tries to get close?

  Climbing out of the shower I dry my body, clip my hair up, and dress in a pair of cotton pajama bottoms with bananas and one of Sage’s old college shi
rts I swiped years ago. The number on my arm is now a muddy gray color. I stare at it unblinking.

  After I told Mr. Taylor I didn’t want friends because it hurts too much, he said to me, “Sometimes we have to hurt to be reminded that the best things in life bring us joy and pain.”

  I don’t really understand what that means, but maybe it’ll make sense one day.

  I swipe my phone from the counter and put Ansel’s number into it before I change my mind.

  Just because I saved his number doesn’t mean I have to text him.

  I’m sitting at the kitchen counter painting my nails Chop Sticking To My Story orange when Sage finally gets home. My eyes flick to the clock on the microwave, flashing in blue the fact he’s late.

  He drops his work bag by the door, unbuttons the collar of his shirt, and swipes a beer from the fridge.

  Turning around, he rests his elbows on the lower counter, taking a swig of the amber liquid. He runs the fingers of his left hand roughly through his hair, mussing it, before exhaling a weighted sigh.

  “Please tell me your day at school was better than mine.”

  I press my lips together.

  “Fuck,” he groans, gulping down more.

  “It wasn’t too bad.” I have to give my brother some hope. If there’s anything in this world we all deserve it’s hope.

  He lets out a gruff, disbelieving grunt.

  “Why don’t you quit?”

  “We have to have money, D.” Turning around, he opens the fridge and begins to rummage through the meager contents.

  The stool squeaks on the tile floor as I scoot forward. “You have money from the house, the life insurance—”

  His shoulders stiffen, drawing up until his neck disappears.

  “I’m not touching that fucking money unless I have to.”

  “Sage—”

  He whips around, smacking his hand against the black granite counter. “I shouldn’t even have that money. I’ll use that money to take care of you, Dani. But I won’t touch that fucking money to live off of because I hate my job. That’s blood money that sits in an account because our mom was murdered.” I wince, but he keeps going. I let him, because clearly this is weighing on him. “Her death won’t be my gain.”