Blue Rose (A Flowering Novel)

by Daltry, Sarah

  “So do you,” I say, because he actually does. He’s older now, the muscles all seeming to belong on his body in a way that they never did. He used to be big, but it was always the kind of awkward size where it felt like he’d woken up one day in his body and he had no idea how to use it.

  “So…” he says.

  Two years is a long time, and neither of us knows what to say. There is so much I want to say and yet, there seems to be nothing worth saying. Not here, in this depressing bus station. Dave’s smile is so hopeful, so happy, and I feel both confused and excited as he holds me at arm’s length and looks at me. I want to tell him everything, but then, I just want to start over and pretend none of it ever happened. Instead, I stay silent, until he leans down and picks up his bag.

  “Do you… I mean, I’d like to spend time with you,” I tell him.

  “Let’s go somewhere. To talk,” he suggests.

  I don’t want to bring him to my house. Owen’s been spending a lot more time at the house and there is a whole Christmas theme going on right now there. It’s weird how easily Owen has slipped into my life, and although I still don’t know a lot about him or about his past, I trust him and, while I may never admit it to anyone, I actually like having him around. Still, I don’t want to talk to Dave with Owen and my mom; I want to handle the pieces of my life in isolation from one another. Someday I will be ready to bring them all together, but it’s a slow road to walk.

  “We can go to the beach,” I suggest, which probably sounds crazy since it’s winter, but it’s important to us and he knows immediately what I mean. He smiles shyly and waits for me to lead him to my car. I don’t have a blanket or anything, but when we get to the beach, it doesn’t matter. It’s freezing, but Dave takes off his coat and wraps it around my shoulders. We walk down to the rocks and sit. I feel like whatever I say is going to be the most important thing I’ve ever said and it terrifies me. I don’t get a chance to say anything, though, before he leans over and pulls my face to his, kissing me tentatively. The question implicit in it melts almost immediately, though, and I open up to him. I know he knows it’s different, that it’s an opening up I never gave him in the nearly year that we were actually together. For some reason, the kiss feels like it’s exactly what was meant to happen, even if we took the longest route possible to get here.

  “I know I promised that I would move on, that you didn’t need to wait, but Alana, I still love you. Probably more than I ever did back then,” he says after the kiss.

  “I don’t think I really knew what that meant before,” I admit. “The last few years… they’ve been bad. I’ve done things that…”

  He takes my hand. “I don’t need to know. I don’t want to know. It’s the past. It’s all over. You were the first, you know, and you’ve always been the only one.”

  “There’s been no one? In two years?” I ask.

  “Well, physically, yes. Things for me have been… different. Especially at first. I wanted to pretend that I didn’t still feel those things and then, you never wrote back and, well, I wanted to remove you from everything I thought of when I came home. I tried to forget you, but I didn’t. I only tried. Don’t hate me. It was just sex. You’re still more than that. You’ve always been more than that.”

  I laugh, more out of surprise and the irony of it all. “I’ll never understand why you always thought so. Because as soon as you were gone, that’s all I was, Dave.”

  “Well, it’s not all you are to me, and what happened already happened. Who you were yesterday has no bearing on today. Or tomorrow.”

  “When the hell did you get so wise?” I ask.

  He looks down. “It’s a defense mechanism. Sometimes, it’s easier to think positively and think about the good things that could happen than to focus on the shit that already has. I’m different, too, Alana. There are things that I never want you to know about me. I just want to be the guy I should have been for you in the first place.”

  “I don’t want to talk about the mistakes we’ve made,” I say. “Maybe you should just kiss me again.” And he does. And for the first time ever, I feel and experience nothing but him. My friend, my former boyfriend, the guy who always loved me when I couldn’t love him back, suddenly becomes something completely massive in my life and it’s the only thing I want to think about.

  34

  When I was with Dave, it was never totally a relationship and he knew it. Except for one night. We still dated and we had sex, but he loved me and I used him to cover my pain, my loss of Jack, and my own fear of being empty for the rest of my life. But there was one night, one moment that forever comes to mind when I remember him, and the strangest part of it is that the night was a mistake. It all turned out wrong, but it was the most significant part of our relationship.

  I’d always hated Valentine’s Day. My history with it was obviously fucked up. Since my father and Jerry, the entire concept of relationships, of healthy, normal relationships where people were in love and happy and sober and stable, was just foreign. Even when I was with Jack, we couldn’t do Valentine’s Day. It was just so sappy and fake, something for people who came from lives far different from our own. For me, though, there was another reason, and no one knew about it. And I would never tell anyone.

  It was a stupid tradition. The holiday and the way that it was brought into school, as if it was a holiday little kids had any reason to celebrate anyway. But every year, we got paper bags that we hung in the classroom with our names on them, and we each bought valentines to give to our classmates. We didn’t have a lot of money, so my mom bought those little folding ones, but I always had my valentines filled out and ready. My classmates had whatever was the hottest trend each year – SpongeBob, Lizzie McGuire, the Disney movie of the year. Meanwhile, mine were usually a generic dog or a frog or something. I couldn’t even buy the right valentines.

  In sixth grade, I had no friends. Everyone hated me because I had boobs and I was a slut. It wasn’t until that summer that I really became a slut, but I didn’t have anyone who liked me. By sixth grade, we were too fucking old to be doing valentines anyway. Not that the teacher understood that. We were still in middle school and she wanted to do something special for our last year. So we were told to make our paper bags and then bring in our valentines during the week. We’d open the valentines on Friday.

  My bag was beautiful. I loved to draw and I even got permission to bring it home to work on it. Although we didn’t have a lot of supplies at home, I made it completely me. Every inch was covered, with flowers and hearts and a drawing of a bird. The bird wasn’t related to Valentine’s Day, but it made me happy. I loved the idea of escape, of flying, of freedom. I didn’t even know why I loved that idea yet, and by the time I did, I guess I just didn’t think there was anywhere to escape to anymore. I was so proud of the bag and I brought it in, hanging it up and filling all my classmates’ bags as I did with the valentines my mom had bought. This year, they were monkeys. I always hated monkeys after that.

  During the week, my classmates cheated and checked to see if their bags were filling up, but I didn’t. I wanted to see it all at once, to enjoy it like I was supposed to. Maybe I knew, but I felt like it would ruin the bag if I opened it early, and I liked being proud of something. On Friday, though, we each opened our bags. Everyone else had twenty or more valentines and they passed them around, laughing at the messages, reading them aloud, the girls trying to see if there was implied flirtation in the messages from the boys they liked. But my bag was empty. Except for one card. I opened it and it was a simple message. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Alana. Bee happy.” There was a bee on it with heart-shaped antennae. The card was from our teacher.

  No one noticed that I had no cards, and no one said anything about the cards that I’d given them. Instead, I just waited through the last hour of school, eating the cupcake that the teacher had brought, and then I went home and threw my stupid bird bag in the trash. It was a meaningless holiday anyway.

  S
o when Dave wanted to take me out for Valentine’s Day, I was wary. We never went on real dates and my experiences had taught me that usually having expectations let me down. However, he insisted and I was feeling lost anyway, since Jack was in the hospital still. The plan was to go into the city for dinner at some fancy restaurant by the water and then go for a walk or something. But it had snowed really badly the day before, and the roads sucked. So we decided to take the train. There were only two trains that would get us into the city in time for our reservations. One was first thing in the morning and the other was at 2:00. We chose the afternoon train and we should have arrived at 3:30. Of course, we didn’t.

  Because of the weather, the tracks weren’t cleared properly and the train ended up getting stuck halfway. We sat there for over two and a half hours, and then, by the time they got the go ahead, we ended up making it into the city a little after 6:30, thirty minutes late for our reservations, and we weren’t even on the right side of the city.

  “What now?” Dave asked, as we stood in the middle of North Station, both miserable, cold, and already exhausted.

  I shrugged. “Let’s just take the subway somewhere, I guess. Do you still want to eat?”

  “Yeah, but everything will be crowded or booked now.”

  I looked at the list of stations. “Wanna go to the MFA? I’ve never been there. I like art.”

  He shook his head. “Yeah, whatever.” I knew that he was mad at himself because he felt like he’d let me down, but the truth was that I actually preferred the art museum to the restaurant anyway. I just didn’t want to make him feel bad for not thinking of it first.

  The MFA is expensive, and we ended up spending most of our dinner money on getting into the museum. It was past seven when we got there and it would only be open for a few more hours, but the last train home was at 10:30 anyway, so it’s not like we could have stayed in the city much longer as it was.

  “Are you hungry?” Dave asked after we were inside. “We can go to the cafeteria.”

  Like everything else, the cafeteria was expensive, so our Valentine’s Day, which was actually around our anniversary as well, consisted of a couple hours at the art museum after a shared dinner of a hamburger. But I got to see my first painting by a famous artist in person, and Dave sat with me for thirty minutes while I marveled at Dance at Bougival.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said.

  “So are you.”

  I laughed. “Don’t be cheesy,” I told him, although mostly because I hated that he still cared about me. He still respected me, after what I had done to him. He still loved me, even though he knew I would never return the feelings. But that night, I felt like Dave had given me something that no one in the world would ever understand. He made life and the world and the things that mattered to me real. For most people, a Renoir painting might just be another experience in a vast collection of experiences, but for me, it was a glimpse into a life that people like me would never live. And I felt free, temporarily. I had given up on college, on love, on my future. But I would always have Renoir, and the only person who was linked to that memory was the boy who loved me unconditionally, no matter how much I refused to change.

  35

  Dave tells me that he wants to do something special for New Year’s Eve. “Last time we planned ‘something special,’ it was kind of a disaster,” he says.

  “It was a perfect disaster,” I tell him. We’ve spent every free minute together since he got back, even though his parents keep telling him to spend more time at home. He hates being around his father, because when he’s not drunk, Dave feels guilty for hating him so much, but those times are rare. He has every right to hate him, but somehow, he’s still not that guy.

  However, despite all the time we’ve been together and our history, our relationship feels brand new. We’re both more nervous and shy than we were in high school and, other than the kiss on the beach, we have barely touched each other. It’s been nice, actually; I don’t feel any obligation to be anything else and, over the last week or so, I have started to feel like the adult I used to imagine being. I know it’s not one of those overnight fixes, but he’s grown up so much. He’s darker in a lot of ways, but also a lot kinder. Which is impressive, because even when Dave was drunk, even when he was angry or in a fight, he was always kind under it all. Not that anyone other than me or Jack really noticed.

  “Well, I don’t want this one to be a disaster. I want it to be memorable, but for the right reasons. I’m not home for long and I want to leave knowing that I tried, that maybe…” He trails off, but I think I know what he wants to say.

  “I know it’s been weird,” I say. “I know that I wasn’t ready and that I wasn’t in this before. But a lot of time has passed. I want you to come back, and I want you to come back for me. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “What about school?” I’d told him that I was interested in finally going to school again, but school can be home. Anything can be home.

  “When you come home, I’ll be there. Wherever there is. I really want this. I want this. I want us, fully and completely,” I tell him.

  He blushes and looks at his phone. “Anyway, tomorrow, we need to leave at eleven. And tell your mom that you won’t be back until the next night. This is a big deal.”

  “Damn. Does the army pay you well?” I’m teasing, but also, I’m not exactly used to being treated like this.

  “There haven’t been a lot of things to spend money on. But this… Anyway, bring an overnight bag and a change of clothes.”

  So I spend the day packing after he goes home for dinner. I don’t know where we’re going and I end up packing all kinds of clothes, from dressy to sexy to casual, but the hardest part is deciding whether I bring lingerie. I don’t know where this is headed, and neither of us is pure and innocent. But lately it’s been like being a schoolgirl and I don’t know how to be with him. I know how to fuck and I know how to have dirty, nasty sex in dirty, nasty places, but I haven’t been in love in a very long time. I don’t even know if that’s what I feel. All I know is that I feel… happy. I haven’t even needed my meds, and my sessions with Melinda have been productive. She told me that I seem to be getting better, and I said it was Dave, but she said it’s more than that. She told me that I’m starting to exist, to breathe, to grow – and it felt really awesome to hear it. Like the future isn’t just more of the same, like maybe my story can be rewritten, or at least that the end chapters can be hopeful.

  In the end, I decide to go out and buy new underwear and a pretty nightgown. It’s the funniest thing, standing in the store and buying a nightgown like I’m this innocent bride losing her virginity. But I kind of like the feeling.

  Dave is early to pick me up, but I was packed and ready by dawn.

  “So, where are we going?” I ask once we’re on the highway.

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “Give me a hint.”

  He smiles and turns on the radio, which has his iPod plugged into it. The song playing isn’t familiar, but it’s nice and I listen to the lyrics as I stare out the window. I don’t really know what it has to do with anything, but after a few more random songs, I start to see a theme.

  “We’re going to New York?” I ask him.

  “We are.”

  “On New Year’s Eve?” I can feel the panic attack starting. The idea of New York City on New Year’s Eve alone is enough to make me want to suck down my entire bottle of Xanax. All those people, all of them so close and touching, being trapped… I open the window and try to catch my breath, but I can feel my heart rate speeding up.

  Dave reaches out a hand and brushes it against my thigh. My reaction confuses me. I’m anxious yet relieved, angry yet turned on, and sad yet comforted. All in one touch. “Trust me?” he asks.

  I nod. “Okay. I trust you.”

  36

  Right before Prom, there was a stretch of ridiculously warm weather. Dave hadn’t mentioned sex, and I was still trying to make sense of the co
ncept of it. With Jack, I had been so comfortable, but I generally still hated it. I hated what it did to people and I hated that I still wanted to do it anyway. I knew that I didn’t love Dave, but I was attracted to him nonetheless. I was interested in him, although he wasn’t asking, and I felt guilty for being willing to sleep with him when I knew I didn’t mean it. It just made me feel like more of a whore.

  So when he invited me to come over one afternoon, I was anxious. It was warm and I was wearing shorts and a tank top. My experiences told me that if I dressed like a slut, I was treated like a slut. I was only wearing it because I was warm and I didn’t have a lot of other clothes. I almost said no and went home, all because of what I was wearing, but my mom had been out of town for work and I felt lonely when I was there alone. I decided to go to Dave’s house, but I was worried. I trusted him; that wasn’t the issue. I just didn’t trust myself.

  His parents were at work. I knew his mom was a nurse, but I had no idea what his dad did. I really didn’t know much about his dad, except that his father made him angry and Dave got his alcohol from his dad. I’d only met him in passing once or twice, since no one was ever home when we were there.

  “Do you want something to drink?” Dave asked.

  “Sure. Beer?”

  “Oh, I meant, like, soda,” he said. “But yeah. Okay. Beer.” He left and came back a few minutes later with two beers.

  “Did you not want beer?” I asked him.

  “No, it’s fine. It’s just… well, my dad is running low. But I’ll just tell him I took it. It’s not a big deal.”