Awakening Foster Kelly

by Cara Rosalie Olsen

  I looked over and stared, then turned my eyes back to the road. “Do you mean—”

  “Yeah. Everything out of his mouth was a truth.”

  I laughed. “That is amazing. All those years. How many games you must have played.”

  “He was a good man,” Dominic said, subdued. “A very good man. I loved him a lot. I think you would have liked him, too.”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  A comfortable silence passed as we drove under several cones of orange light.

  “So we must live somewhat close,” Dominic said conversationally. “I was only a few miles from my house, too.”

  “Really?” I lowered the blinker to make a left turn. “I live in Seaside Estates,” I said automatically, hoping this didn’t sound as though I was bragging. When he didn’t answer, I peeked over. “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Think I’ll just rest my eyes for bit.” He had reclined the seat and folded his arms behind his head.

  “But I need you to give me directions,” I said. “I don’t know where I’m going.”

  “My assistance won’t be necessary.” He opened one eye and smiled. “Just head toward home.”

  “But . . . yours or mine?”

  “Either.” Dominic yawned. “It doesn’t make much difference. They’re the same. Green,” he announced.

  “Green?”

  He raised an arm and pointed. “The light—it turned green.”

  “Oh!” I stepped on the accelerator. Hattie moaned at me. I could just barely make out the sound of Dominic chuckling.

  “Always nice to meet a new neighbor.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  My chin hurt.

  I rubbed it all the way into the bathroom, and turning the water very hot, I stepped into the shower. Thirty minutes later I felt like a bag of steamed broccoli, but my chin didn’t hurt nearly as much.

  A stealthy figure, with beautiful shiny black hair squeezed through the bathroom door. “What did you bring me, Rhoda?” I took the burden from her muzzle and shook it loose. “These ones? Where did you even find them?”

  They were a hand-me-down from Emily—a birthday gift from her aunt Charlotte. Emily didn’t like them—said they were ‘too hipster’ for her and gave them to me, with the price-tag still attached. I thought I could probably feed a village if I sold them; and that’s just what I had intended on doing; until I forgot about them.

  “No, Rhoda. I can’t wear these.” In reply, she nudged the jeans further into my lap. “You can pick out my entire outfit if you like—just not these jeans, okay?”

  To this, she plopped her rump noisily to the floor, offering me the driest of canine derision.

  “I am sorry,” I told her. Rhoda got up and left me, clearly insulted, but by the time I emerged she had pulled a pair of beige trousers onto the floor, along with a green shirt the color of moss.“Excellent choice, Rhoda!”

  While trying something “new” with my hair, I broke three plastic headbands. I went about attaching a large clip, and not liking that, I pulled each side up using two different sets of barrettes. I found an odd accessory in my drawer—it looked like a hoop with teeth. My hair did not like this either and broke it into several pieces, which took me several minutes to clean up.

  I was trying another clip, when I suddenly dropped it like it burned me and took a step backward. “What are you doing?” I stared at my reflection. I had worn my hair the same way, every day, since I was old enough to style it myself. So what was this?

  But I knew exactly what it was. I was trying something “new.”

  This was not good.

  I could not allow myself to believe something had happened yesterday. I wanted to, though, and that was the problem. Since waking, a concerted effort had gone into keeping my delusions at bay, keeping them from where I could reach and obsess on them. But now I had no place left to shove the things I didn’t want to deal with, and those thoughts were coming to collect—with interest. This ruse, this trying to convince myself the feelings I had for Dominic were strictly platonic, was starting to crack all along the paper thin surface. Platonic feelings didn’t occupy and invade every kind of thought, conscious, subconscious, and unconscious. Platonic feelings didn’t make you blush when the putative face suddenly came to mind, unprovoked. Platonic feelings didn’t result in the murder of innocent hair baubles and wearing shirts that accentuated the eyes. Lastly, platonic feelings didn’t make you want to take everything you knew, could make sense of, and valued . . . and toss it gleefully out a four story window. That was something else, entirely.

  This—whatever it was—was definitely not platonic.

  There was no point in denying I was completely out of my element here. I was both sightless and terrified. My experience with relationships began and ended with fictional characters in books and a second-hand proximity. I had only a limited perspective of what my parents shared, and scarcely more—due to seeing them regularly in their natural and unfiltered state—what Jake and Maddie shared. Other than those two relationships, I didn’t know the first thing about what caring for someone in that way was supposed to feel like or resemble. If this was it, though, I would need to find a way to undo it. If I thought losing Jake and Emily after high school was difficult, I could only imagine what kind of emotional turmoil awaited me after the conclusion of an unrequited relationship.

  Over the next thirty minutes I set about justifying every one of Dominic’s gestures. And by the time I was nearly ready for school, I was in much better control of the situation.

  Rhoda leapt off the bed when the doorbell rang from downstairs, barking the whole way down.

  “Foster,” came my mother’s voice through the intercom, “Door’s for you, baby.”

  I jogged across my room, tripping on a book lying on the floor. “Okay. Please tell her I’ll be right down.”

  I packed up my school supplies and grabbed a cardigan from the closet, and was just about to leave my room when I remembered my poppy. I set everything down on my bed and went out onto my balcony to see if it needed water. It didn’t, however . . . that’s strange. Yesterday, I had left the topsoil in the same condition it had been all week: a crumbly brown, bare, flat surface. But now—and it really was barely visible—there was the tiniest fleck of green, poking out from beneath the surface. I didn’t think it possible for something to grow in one night.

  I shut the balcony door and claimed my things, marveling at the mystery of nature. Halfway down the stairs, I halted, wondering if I had just exited through some sort of worm hole.

  The person petting Rhoda at the foot of the stairs was not Emily. One, because Emily didn’t own light gray jeans or a royal blue t-shirt. And two, because—it was not Emily.

  “Dominic,” I whispered, mostly in answer to myself. “Hi.”

  The easy smile on his face faltered as he straightened up. “Hi,” he said.

  “Rhoda, come.” I hadn’t noticed my mom, standing off to the side. “Foster, should I make your breakfast to-go?”

  “Yes, please,” I replied, then forced my eyes open and shut three times. Normal people blink, I reminded myself.

  “And how about you, Dominic? Can I get you some breakfast?”

  “Oh. No, thank you, Mrs. Kelly,” he said. “I appreciate the offer.”

  “Of course.” I observed that my mother’s face showed nothing other than courtesy. Still I could see her smiling; it was there in the back of her mouth. The two of them left, only one looking over her shoulder at me. Sorry, Rhoda.

  I hadn’t moved. I was still clutching the banister. I forced my muscles to relax, so I could walk. It wasn’t easy. I descended the staircase like something formerly accustomed to more than just two legs.

  Dominic smiled at me. “Hi,” he said. “I don’t think I said that yet, have I?” The guilty smirk took my already lumpy insides and turned them to liquid goo. Chuckling to himself, he added, “You’re probably surprised to see me.”

  “A little bit,” I
admitted.

  He glanced down, a twitch on his lips. “Both my aunt and uncle needed their cars this morning. They were asleep when I came home and were gone before I got up this morning, leaving me without a ride to school.”

  “Oh!” Of course it was that simple. “I can take you.”

  “I was hoping you would say that,” he replied. “Plus, I was kind of hoping you might let me listen to the rest of your song?”

  “My song?”

  “For the Senior Piece. I figured, if we’re going to be working on it in class today, it might be a good idea for me to be somewhat familiar with it, don’t you think?”

  No. No. No. NO.

  “Well . . .” I glanced down, noticing my hands worrying the tassels on my scarf. “I guess . . . that would be all right,” I agreed, wondering if anyone had ever successfully been able to say no to him. I doubted it.

  “Great.”

  “Will you excuse me for just a moment?” I asked, already retreating.

  “Sure.” He smiled lopsidedly. “I’ll be here.”

  “Great!” I turned around, fighting the urge to smack myself on the forehead.

  I hadn’t stepped more than three feet into the kitchen when my mom whispered, “That young man is very cute, Fost. And polite, too.” She removed a silver butter knife from the drawer at her midsection, using one hand to brace the bagel half, and the other to spread the strawberry cream cheese.

  I walked over to her, thanked her for the bagel, and kissed her cheek. “He needed a ride to school.”

  My mother looked up at me and smiled. “Of course he did.”

  Dominic was looking down at his phone when I returned. Hearing my noisy footfall, he raised his head and slipped the phone into his back pocket.

  I paused, just briefly, then continued toward him, hoping the sudden weakness in my legs wouldn’t inhibit my ability to walk—and also hoping the riot in my chest wasn’t noticeable on my face.

  It was going to take some time getting used to Dominic Kassells’ smile—especially when it was aimed at me.

  He pivoted, reaching toward the table in the center of the foyer. “It’s probably cold by now, and some of it spilled on the way over,” he grumbled, “but this is for you. It’s an espresso.” He looked from me to the cup, and back to me expectantly. When I didn’t respond immediately, he frowned and shook his head. “You don’t like coffee,” he declared, muttering to himself, “I should have called to ask.”

  “No!” Seeing that he meant to set the cup back down, to prevent him from doing so, I reached for his arm. We froze in unison. I could feel the weight of his eyes resting heavily on me. His skin was warm and my thumb wanted to make tiny circles. I dropped my hand before I did something silly.

  Smiling, and averting his gaze, I opened my hands to receive the cup.

  “You don’t have to drink it,” he told me.

  “But then I won’t know if I like it.” I glanced up and feigned calm. Without removing his eyes from mine—it’s like being sucked through sapphires—Dominic angled the cup’s handle toward me. I took a very small sip. The texture was unctuous and smooth, but very strong. It was like swallowing molasses.

  Dominic quirked an eyebrow. “Yes? No? Tastes like dirt?

  I laughed. “I like it. It’s . . . incredibly strong, but delicious.” I lowered the cup. “Did you not bring one for yourself?”

  He seemed not to hear my question at all, but was very intent on my mouth, eyes shining with mirth. I could feel it, the foam cooling above my lip. We both went to wipe it away at the same time. His knuckles brushed against my chin, lingering there. I was trying not to breathe, awaiting his next move. He continued to stare down on me, and I became very warm, all over, to no credit of the espresso. The sound of my heartbeat drummed in my ears. His fingers moved toward my lips, and in a reflex I stiffened.

  Don’t . . . move!

  “You have foam.” His voice was thick. “On your lip.”

  I nodded. “Yes.” A voice from within did not like this answer at all and called me a rude name.

  “Can I?”

  “Please,” I told him.

  This was absurd. I knew that. I just couldn’t do anything to make it any less absurd. I wanted him to touch me. Badly. Almost as much I didn’t want him to. Because if he did, there seemed to be no going back from this. This willingness to touch and be touched, it would change things, set them on a different course. And where would it lead us?

  I also thought that if I did not feel his skin upon mine this very instant, then I would, right then and there, scream.

  Suddenly there was something separating us. A warm, wiggling body, worming through our legs. Oh, Rhoda. Impeccable timing, as always.

  ~

  Emily . . .

  Chapter Seventeen

  How could I have possibly forgotten about Emily? There were, I supposed, other things on my mind, but even so—not even a fleeting thought as to how she might react? My stomach dipped at the thought of having this conversation.

  Where would I even begin?

  Nowhere.

  Because things couldn’t end badly if you didn’t begin them. I would keep Emily and Dominic away from one another—forever. Difficult, yes. Impossible, no! I could do it. I could. Could I?

  I must have made a noise, because the next thing I was aware of was Dominic asking me if I was all right.

  “Yes!” I answered, much too brightly. I turned into a parking spot and shut the car off, debating whether or not I should, at the very least, give him a small warning in case he should see a beautiful, deceptively small blonde coming straight at him.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Dominic’s eyes were laser focused toward me. “Is it your head?”

  In my head, I was chiding myself for not doing a better job concealing my expression. In this way the question took me by surprise. “My . . . head?”

  “I thought maybe your head might still be hurting you. From the fall—yesterday,” he elaborated. “I had meant to ask how you were feeling as soon as I saw you, but I—well. I thought you would be the one who answered the door, so when it was your mother, I hadn’t anticipated speaking to a parent and so . . . why that is, I don’t know. Of course your mother might answer the door, or your father—they would live there too, right? But then she was just standing there, rightfully wanting to know who I was, and . . .” He paused, closed his eyes, and sighed, turning to me with a look of self-exasperation. “I do this,” he began, reluctantly, “babble, I mean, when I’m nervous.”

  I balked. The idea was so preposterous that I laughed.

  He raised his eyes, smirking. “That’s not very nice.”

  “I’m not laughing at you, I promise.”

  “No?” The smile faded and a sudden impatience crowded upon his face. “Will you answer me honestly, if I ask you something somewhat personal?”

  It seemed a silly question to ask, after a night he’d spent discovering nearly every fear, worry, and secret I had. It was different here, though, in the morning sunlight. I think we both knew that.

  “I’ll do my best,” I told him.

  “That’s honest.” He hesitated for another moment. “This morning . . . when you came downstairs and saw it was me and not your friend . . .” I nodded encouragingly even though my stomach was a riot of exploding popcorn kernels. “Did you—were you upset that I came to see you?”

  I exhaled, unclenching the fist on my knee. For all the buildup, this wasn’t the question I’d been expecting. This I could answer without thinking about it. “No . . . not at all.”

  His mouth twitched, just a slight curving of the lips. “You were shocked, though,” he told me, pinching his bottom lip in his fingers. “Obviously you expected someone else.” As I had last night, I fought the feeling of being led to answer. Not acknowledging what had plainly expounded on my face the moment I saw him, would be futile and pointless; Dominic didn’t need verbal confirmation. Yet still, he did seem to be asking for it, circuit
ously.

  “Surprised, yes,” I replied, making a small alteration to his choice of wording. “But you were a nice surprise.” Heat washed over my cheeks.

  “Was I?” A slow smile began to unfurl from the tightly pursed lips. He clamped it almost immediately, though, his thick dark brows hung low and foreboding. “Foster.” If the finite tone of voice hadn’t already intimidated me, the way he stared into me, rather than at me, would have been enough to send a ripple of nerves up my spine, like mousetraps snapping shut. The intensity in his eyes was palpable, but when he spoke, his voice was more gentle—tender even—than I thought it would be. “I want you to know that what you said last night meant a great deal to me. I know that wasn’t easy to do and I can imagine I’m probably the last person on earth you would have wanted to share such private and personal feelings with, but I—well, I’m glad it was me, if I’m being completely honest,” he admitted with a shrug, eyes glinting with the slightest bit of pride. He glanced down, swallowed, and then looked back at me. “I asked you a question last night, which you answered without even thinking about it.” The corner of his mouth pulled up, but it wasn’t a smile of joy, but one of sadness. “I wanted to give you a chance to think about it, to think about being friends with me. And now that you have, I wanted to assure you that if you’ve changed your mind . . . decided that you would rather not”—he stopped abruptly, a stubbornness in two small lines between his eyebrows—“you’re shaking your head, why?”

  In truth, I hadn’t realized I was. From the moment I had woken, a hundred what-ifs and whys had circled endlessly in my mind; a carousel I could neither depart from nor stop. This was different. I might still have more questions than I did answers, but this was one I could give with confidence. “My answer,” I said hearing the conviction in my voice, “it’s the same. It won’t change.”

  The unhindered smirk caused my heart to constrict in response. “You’re absolutely sure?” I nodded, very shy all of a sudden—shy and abundantly nervous. I quickly reminded myself we had just established we were friends, and friends didn’t need to be nervous around one another.