by Lindy Zart
Even without having a mother, growing up I rarely was responsible for meals. The people I stayed with made sure I had food, and they were around when I was home. I always thought things were better for kids who lived with their real parents. I now see I was lucky, even if I never had a place to call home. Sometimes real parents aren’t always the best ones.
“Of course. You tell me when you want to make it and I’ll be here.”
The kitchen is white and spacious with long card tables and foldup chairs taking up the middle of it. A row of cupboards line a wall, and there is a sink, refrigerator, oven, and microwave. It smells like coffee in here. I set down the pan and grab paper plates and plastic forks.
“Yes.” Lavender’s fist shoots up and she grabs a plate and fork, her eyes on the food.
“Have you see—” I begin.
She starts talking before I stop. “He’s in the conference room, or whatever it’s called, talking to a group of kids about depression and stuff. I didn’t tell him,” she adds, mischief sparkling in her eyes.
I exhale. “Okay. Remember what to do?”
Lavender digs her fork into the casserole and hefts a heaping forkful of it into her mouth, talking around it in a way that is oddly similar to me. “Yeah. Give him a plate of tater tot casserole, and the note.”
“Yes.” I wipe hair from my eyes and look around the room, my stomach dipping and spinning with the thought of seeing Blake up close after going without talking to him for so long.
I produce the paper from the inside of my coat and put in on the nearest table. “Okay.” I meet Lavender’s eyes. “I’m going now.”
“Good luck,” she says, laughing as she shovels another round of food into her mouth.
16
Blake
“As you’ve figured out by now, I’m not the greatest speaker,” I tell the small group at the end of the twenty-minute session where they each told me something about themselves, and I told them something about me. A few laugh, but most remain silent. I tightly grip the papers between my hands. “To make this easier on all of us, I typed up what I wanted to say. What I wanted you to know. Read it; don’t read it. Throw it away if you must. Whatever.”
I hand out the words it took me three days to produce, my hands shaking with the need to crumple them up and throw them in the trash. I bared my soul on these pages, and I didn’t do it lightly. “Just know that if you want, it’s here for you to read.”
The walls of this compact room could use a fresh coat of paint and brighter light bulbs, and it smells faintly of cigarettes, courtesy of Jacob Neeman’s leather trench coat he never takes off, even when he’s playing sports. In the past, I would have been craving a cigarette right along with him, as I can tell he is. He’s fidgeting, and constantly looking at the clock above the door.
“All right,” I say once the papers are all handed out, surprised that each of the seven teenagers took one. “How about we go grab a snack now?” They’re gone before I’ve finished talking, and I grin to myself as I follow them out. Food is always an acceptable offering.
Lavender stands in wait, a plate of something that smells like onions, hamburger, fried potatoes, and cheese in her hands. It’s like war on the senses. “This is for you.”
“Good afternoon. It’s great to see you here too. And hey, did you know we’re supposed to get some more snow tonight?”
She shrugs her bony shoulders. “Whatever.” Lavender offers the plate. “Take it.”
I gingerly eye the mound of food as I take the plate. “What is it?”
“Tater tot casserole,” Lavender says with exuberance.
My eyes fly to hers and I freeze. “What did you say?”
Rolling her eyes, Lavender takes a folded piece of paper from her pocket. “Better get those ears checked out soon.” And she shoves the paper at me before skipping down the hall toward the kitchen.
Plate in one hand and paper in the other, I stare at my hands. The pounding of my heart tells me it can’t be a coincidence. The dampness of my palms tells me if it is, I might cry. Setting down the plate on a chair near a water fountain, I unfold the paper. The paper reads in large block letters:
IF YOU EVER WANT TO SEE YOUR SHIRT AGAIN, COME OUTSIDE.
The confusion turns to hope, and then fear, and then I look toward the door. I’ve been missing an Imagine Dragons shirt since Opal left. I knew she probably took it, but honestly, I liked the idea of her wearing it. It can’t be her, but damn, I want it to be. The paper falls from my hand as I jog toward the exit, not seeing anyone around me, not hearing anything.
It’s cold out, and dreary, but I don’t notice it. I just see her. Her back is to me, but I’d know that form anywhere. Deceptively petite and slim, hiding curves and delectableness. And the hair—the crazy hair I’ve missed choking on as I wake up. Her honey eyes; I need to see her honey eyes. My footsteps quicken, all of me paused with altering forms of dread and elation, even though I’m moving fast, and yet I’m not fast enough.
She turns, and my footsteps falter. I study her dancing eyes and mischievous grin, and damn if it doesn’t feel like happiness explodes in my chest. My eyes are reacquainted with that which they covet. Opal’s outfit is strange—a hot pink winter coat with a red shirt peeking out the bottom and brown leggings with purple snow boots, and her hair is wild about her face. She looks like Opal should. She looks amazing. I want to grab her, and profess all kinds of things I never thought I’d say out loud, let alone feel.
“It’s about time you decided to show up,” I say roughly. What a dumb ass first thing to say after being apart for months. Too late now, a voice tells me. Opal doesn’t seem to mind.
Her head tilts. “Were you waiting for me?”
Always. “Yes.”
“I borrowed your shirt,” she says, fingering the hem of the red shirt visible around her jacket.
I take an uneven breath, willing my nerves to act natural. “You stole my shirt.”
“I didn’t steal it; I borrowed it,” she scoffs, and in the next instant, she propels herself at me.
“How did you—” I get out before Opal’s lips claim mine.
It’s like instant, painful arousal at the feel of her, and the scent of coconuts invades my senses, just as Opal invades me. Her mouth is hot, demanding. She tastes like desire and cinnamon. I squeeze her butt cheeks and she jerks, her fingers tightening around my hair. I can’t breathe, and I don’t care. I want to never stop kissing her, until breathing is irrelevant. She bites my lower lip and I nip at her neck with my teeth, pushing against her until her back is flush with the truck. Throbbing with longing for her. Her scent, her body, her warmth, her smiles.
She pulls back to purr, “I want to cover you in syrup and eat you up.”
I start to laugh, but Opal cuts me off once more with her mouth.
Grabbing my hair, she yanks my head back and I grunt, staring at her through half-lidded eyes. What I see in hers breaks me, but in the best of ways. I open my mouth, but words fail me. Too much—it’s all too much. I love her, I think with absolute clarity. I take a shuddering breath, and as if she knows, her eyes shatter with emotion, and it’s all for me. Opal bites the side of my neck, and I wince at the sting. It’s savage, and volatile, and it makes my head swim.
I want to be inside her, and lost, and found, all within the lies and truths of Opal Allen.
“Wait.” She shoves me away like she wasn’t just attacking me. “Is there…I mean, are you…” Fear puckers her mouth, and she pushes trembling fingers through her hair, training her eyes down.
“No,” I answer, knowing what she’s asking. “There’s no one.”
Her shoulders drop with relief.
“Well,” I backtrack. “There is someone, I guess.”
Opal’s eyes narrow and she crosses her arms, anger bleaching her skin of color. “Really? Who?”
&nbs
p; “Baxter,” I tell her, trying not to smile.
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Baxter? As in a guy Baxter?”
“As in a cat.”
Confusion slides across her face, and then comprehension. “You made that devil cat a pet?”
“I really think you both need to give each other another chance. I feel like your first encounter was a simple misunderstanding.”
She rolls her eyes. “Psssh. Or a simple failed murder attempt.”
“He’s mostly outside, and it’s more like he made me a pet instead of the other way around.”
Opal’s eyes suddenly darken, and her features go slack. “Oh. I get it.” She nods, smiling crookedly. “He adopted you, like Piper adopted me.”
I shove my hands in my coat pockets. “Yeah. I guess.” I take a deep breath and finally let the building questions leave my lips. “Where have you been? How did you know I would be here? Is everything okay? With Paisley, and you? What…what does this mean?”
Chest compressing and expanding with each ragged breath I take, I go still and stare into Opal’s molasses eyes, waiting. My pulse shouts at her to say everything I want to hear. I press my lips together, keeping my thoughts unspoken.
“Funniest thing,” Opal says quietly. “I live right there.” She points to a brick apartment building across the street.
Frowning, I look from the building to her, not understanding.
She lifts her hands. “I swear I’m not stalking you. Much.”
I blink.
“Paisley is more than okay. I know you know that Jonesy and all that mess is taken care of. And me—I’m finally okay,” Opal says in a rush, clasping her fingers together and releasing them. “I’ve been here for weeks. I work at an art supply store two blocks away, and…I wanted to make sure I could take care of myself before—before I tried to contact you,” she says. Her eyes shine like they stole all the stars from the sky and are holding them hostage in the honey-colored irises. “And I am.”
“You live here,” I state slowly. “In Bismarck.”
Opal nods.
“Why?” I ask faintly.
She turns her head to the side. “Because this is the closest place to a home I’ve ever had, and being near you makes it even more so.” Opal looks at me. “You’re my home, Blake.”
Blood flows to my head and I blink against a wave of dizziness. I hang my head as unnamed emotions fill me, swim through my veins, and destroy every last bit of shield I’ve ever built around myself. She just told me I’m her home, and hell yes, I’m going to be her home. But I have to ask—I have to be sure…
I look up and lock eyes with Opal. “You’re not leaving?”
Smiling faintly, she shakes her head.
“Like, ever?”
“Never ever,” Opal says softly.
Elation charges through me, turning my insides into spiraling, wonderful mayhem. I don’t know how to explain what I feel, so I take a more accessible path. I tell her what I want, like she did with me her last night at my house.
“I want to be with you. I want to take you out on dates.” I shift my eyes down and back to Opal. She doesn’t appear to be breathing. I swallow, my palms damp. “I want to dance with you to slow songs, but more than that, I want to dance with you to fast ones, and cook beside you, and do absolutely nothing at all, but with you. I want you to read a book out loud to me in your sexy voice—a nonfiction book about, I don’t know, the history of mushrooms.”
Using the backside of my hand, I caress her soft cheek. Her eyes turn to liquid gold, and I drop my hand when it begins to shake. I cover up the tremble by shoving my hands in the pockets of my jacket. “What do you think?”
“I want to be with you too,” she tells me without hesitation. “And all of that other stuff you mentioned, but…slowly. I’m finally being responsible, and weirdly enough, I like it. But yes, yes to all of it.”
She smiles.
And I believe her.
“The mushroom book reading is a priority,” I say, my insides smashed with love, and hope, and the promise of a future. I take her hand and squeeze, and she squeezes back.
“Definitely.” She looks at the community center. “Let’s go inside. I told Lavender I’d shoot hoops with her if she delivered the food and note to you.”
I start to walk, and then pause. “You know Lavender?” My forehead crumples. “You shoot hoops?”
Opal shrugs and drops my hand, swinging her arms as she moves away from me. Not liking that, I hurry to close the space between us. “I’ll tell you all about it inside.”
Lavender waits for us in the gym, grinning broadly when we appear. She bumps her shoulder to Opal’s, and Opal laughs. I look between her and Opal, seeing a duo of mayhem, and also an unlikely friendship. And I think it’s awesome. Lavender’s taller than Opal, but when she hands off the ball to Opal, it doesn’t matter. Opal is fast and efficient, and all I can do is watch in shock as she rules the court.
“She’s good, isn’t she?” Lavender calls as she steals the ball from Opal. She makes a shot and throws the ball back to Opal. “Better than you, for sure.”
Opal laughs and swipes sweaty hair from her forehead as she jogs over to me.
“Don’t be mean,” I say with mock sternness.
“What about you? How is everything? Did you talk to your dad?” Opal wonders as she dribbles the basketball from hand to hand, purposely keeping her tone light and her gaze on Lavender as she greets her friend Clarence.
Fixated on her hand movements, I reply absently, “Yeah.” I look up. “How’d you learn to handle a ball like that?”
Opal presses her lips together, and I know she’s fighting to not ask more about what happened with my dad.
“It’s over,” I say with finality, drawing her gaze to mine. “I’ve moved on. Whatever he is or isn’t has to do with him, not me. And whatever I choose to be is entirely on me.”
Dropping the basketball, Opal cups my face with her rough hands. With shining eyes and a sweet smile upturning her lips, she goes on her tiptoes to kiss my forehead, my nose, and finally, my lips. I’m surprised at first, and then I’m flooded with rawness, like my chest has been ripped open and my heart is on display, pumping away for Opal Allen.
“At one of the homes I was at, there was a kid who played basketball whenever he could. He showed me some things,” Opal says in that way of hers that doesn’t call attention to the things that hurt.
I feel my expression darken. “What kinds of things?”
She laughs and passes the ball to me. “Basketball things. He plays professionally now.”
Truth.
“I saw the first issue of your comic series,” I say an hour later as we leave the community center. The temperature has dropped more, and I can see the air as it leaves my mouth when I talk.
Opal freezes. “Oh. Yeah. I know. If you’re not against it, I’d like your permission to keep producing them, since, well, we’re kind of the stars of the show.”
“I’m not against it, and yeah, whatever you need me to do, I’ll do it. I enjoyed it, even though you made me out to look like the bad guy.”
“You like to be perceived as the bad guy,” she says knowingly.
“It’s all about image, right?” I toss my truck keys in the air and catch them. “How do you know I saw it?”
“Thor told me you emailed him.”
I grin. “Good. I was hoping he would.”
Opal’s mouth drops open. “You told him to not tell me you’d emailed him.”
“I was confident he’d do the opposite.”
She stops beside my truck. “What was the point of that?”
I look down at the keys in my hand. “I just wanted you to know I was thinking of you, that I hadn’t forgotten. I wanted you to know that Jonesy and his friends were no longer a threat, and that you didn’t
have to keep running.”
“I was done running by then, Blake.” Opal leans up to kiss my cheek, purposely making a smacking noise.
My skin tingles in response.
She pulls away with a grin, and as her eyes sink into mine, her expression sobers. “I should…go.” She nods her head toward the apartment building. “I have to work tomorrow.”
“Right.” I nod, looking down at the pavement. “I have to get up early too.” Even though I can see her again tomorrow, it doesn’t seem right to let her go already. I want to sleep beside her, and hold her all night. I want to do other things too, but even if we don’t, I at least want to hold her as she dreams.
She steps toward the street, and I take a step toward her, everything inside me telling me not to let her go this time, not yet.
“Maybe we could hang out for a while at my place, if you want,” Opal says hesitantly.
“Yes,” I answer immediately, relief cooling my overheated skin. “Let’s do that.”
Grinning broadly, Opal clasps my hand with hers and pulls me across the street. There are so many things to say, and do, but we have time, and we have each other. The streetlights and stoplights blink above us, leading a path to Opal’s. She’s doing good, and I’m doing good. I’m proud of both of us. It’s a new feeling, especially toward myself, but I like it.
She shows me around her apartment. The appliances are outdated and the rooms are microscopic, but she glows as she tells me the story behind each of the items inside it—a few of the tales I know aren’t true, and the sparkle in her eyes tells me she knows I know.
Once again, I see our surroundings in her eyes. It’s the best way to see the world, I decide. Opal sees the good in everything; she saw the good in me.
“I’m glad you’re going after your dreams,” she murmurs into my ear as we sway back and forth before the window in the living room. There’s no music, but so what? The beat of our hearts makes its own.