Wherever the Dandelion Falls

by Lily R. Mason

  Faye wriggled through a sheepish giggle at my compliment. "I was thinking of going to Ben and Jerry's on Haight tomorrow and talking to the employees there. It's near my house. I'd love you to come with me. "

  "Sounds like a plan," I said, knowing I didn't have to work until the evening.

  "Afterwards you can meet Schrodinger," she offered.

  "Okay," I said, eager to get a glimpse into Faye's world. "I'll meet you there at..."

  "Three," Faye said.

  "Three," I agreed.

  And with that I headed home, happy to have had a painless, thought-provoking afternoon with my new friend.

  The next afternoon, Faye and I met at Ben & Jerry's and she set up an interview with one of the employees there. I was proud of how she asked for what she wanted, seeming to brace herself against the possibility of a rejection, not wanting to be deterred or disheartened. Seeing her forced confidence gave me more faith in her journalism skills.

  Afterwards, we went to her house. Schrodinger met us at the door and instantly circled Faye's legs, meowing and head-butting her as he rubbed against her ankles with serpentine grace. She bent down and scratched between his ears, speaking in light baby-talk as she said, It's okay, baby, mama's home now.

  I settled down on Faye's chair and Schrodinger sauntered up to me. He purred as he pressed his side into my leg, adorning me with cat hair in hopes of getting a treat. Wanting to win his favor, I asked Faye where the treats were and she pointed to a jar on her desk. I fed him a few pieces out of my palm, and he immediately settled beside me, leaning against my foot as he vibrated.

  "Oh, he likes you," Faye said with playful smile. "He doesn't do the foot lean and purr for just anyone."

  I looked down at her sweet little cat and scratched his ears, at which he arched them back, squinted, and purred louder. "I know a few things about rubbing up on people in my birthday suit and purring to get what I want, Schrodinger."

  Faye giggled and settled onto her hastily made bed. Then she perked up. "Oh, I keep meaning to show you!" she said. "The article." She leapt off the bed and leaned over me to open her laptop. As she did, I smelled a subtle jasmine perfume. She smelled summery and warm. I could have taken a nap in the way she smelled.

  Faye clicked through a few folders until she found the document she wanted me to read.

  "Here you go," she said, giving me a strained, nervous expression. "I hope it's okay."

  She settled back on the bed as I turned toward the screen and read.

  Bare Opinion: Sex, Clothing, Power, and Money

  Violet, an alias, is charming, humorous, and well-educated. Fresh-faced and perky, she doesn't look a day over twenty-one. At twenty-five, she's already self-employed and an independent contractor with an established San Francisco business. She's paid off all her student loans and has plans to buy her first car in the coming months. She's fit, funny, and has good friends.

  She's also a stripper and prostitute, and wouldn't have it any other way.

  Encouraged by Faye's introduction, I read on.

  Violet sits down with me and orders a hot chocolate, giggling that coffee makes her too jumpy. She offers to buy my drink and chats about the menu and the weather. She's a pleasant, sociable girl, so it's easy to see why customers are loyal to her.

  Though she seems an anomaly, Violet insists that her coworkers are just like her; normal, smart, hardworking people who work in a misunderstood and stigmatized industry. Her only complaints fall under "labor issues," such as shifts being difficult to swap and not receiving the benefits of a salaried position. Barring those things, Violet is content with her career. She even volunteers to show me why during a tour of her workplace...

  As I read on, I became more and more fond of Faye. The article was written with journalistic propriety, yet positive and open-minded. Since it had been assigned as an opinion piece, it was not without a touch of Faye's personal experience of our interview and tour. She had written something beautiful and provocative in a way unrelated to nudity.

  "It's perfect," I said.

  She gave me a relieved smile.

  "Did your professor like it?" I asked, hoping she had received more than my humble praise for her commitment to the topic.

  Faye gave a hesitant shrug. "She didn't hate it. But I think she was looking for a rant or a condemnation. I'm pretty sure she gave it to me because she thought I couldn't handle it."

  "You showed her, huh?" I said, grinning conspiratorially.

  Faye's smile turned impish.

  "You should have covered more of the prostitution stuff. That would have made her head really explode."

  Faye giggled. "I wasn't sure if you wanted to talk about it. Since there are legal concerns, I didn't want to pry..."

  I gave her a lighthearted shrug. "I'm pretty sure you're not gonna rat me out now that the article is done. Is there anything you want to know?"

  "About prostitution?" Faye asked, hesitant.

  I nodded.

  Faye looked unsure, like I was asking her a trick question. "I mean... You only have one client, right?"

  "Yeah. It just kind of happened and I went with it."

  Faye wrinkled her brow. "What do you mean?"

  I let out a weary chuckle. "I thought we were on a date, and then we went back to his house and had sex and then he tossed a wad of bills at me."

  Faye's eyes went wide, as though she were imagining that happening to her and how she'd react. "Did you consider not taking the money?"

  "Of course," I scoffed. "I was offended. But then I realized that I'd just been paid five hundred dollars for something that I'd been willing to do for free, so why not?"

  “Five hundred?" Faye said, incredulous.

  I paused, giving her a sly smile. "I make much more than that now."

  Faye's eyes were still wide, but she settled back into the bed. "Shit, maybe I should become a prostitute."

  I laughed. "Honestly, I wouldn't recommend it to most people. The only reason I still do it is because I trust my client and he doesn't gross me out. I have no idea how escorts and call girls do it."

  "So it's good for you too?" Faye asked, an air of wonder crossing her face, as though it had never occurred to her that prostitutes could enjoy their work.

  "I wouldn't go that far, but it's not bad. I don't mind his company."

  Faye adjusted her legs beneath her, chewing on the information I'd given her. "So you wouldn't do it with anyone else?"

  "Don't think so. I wouldn't want more than one session a week anyway."

  Faye raised her eyebrows and looked down at the bed. "Once a week seems like a lot," she muttered. Then her eyes flickered up to me and she said, "To have sex, I mean. Nothing to do with being paid."

  I nodded, wondering what she meant when she'd said having sex once a week sounded like a lot. "You have sex less than once a week?" I asked.

  I didn't mean to shame her, though I realized my question sounded accusatory.

  Faye shrugged, trying not to let her guilt curl her shoulders. "I mean, if it were up to Isaiah, we'd do it every day..."

  I watched Faye retreat back into her guilt about her sex life. I didn't want her to go back there, so I said, "Everyone's got different ideas of how often they should be doing it. Do what's right for you."

  Faye nodded and leaned forward. "I mean, everyone loves an orgasm, right? But I'd rather take care of myself than go through the whole process and get all sweaty and deal with cleanup..."

  "Hey, cleanup is a hassle," I said, raising a hand in solidarity.

  Faye nodded, a contemplative look on her face. "I'm getting better about getting what I need though. I know you said you couldn't help me with sex stuff, but what you said the other day stuck with me. Yesterday he wanted to and I didn't, so we didn't."

  I lifted my hand to give her a high five.

  Faye smiled and sat up straighter to slap her hand with mine. "Do you want something to drink? I have juice and soda and a little vodka."

  "I
'll have whatever you're having."

  With that she rose and walked to her mini-fridge, taking out a bottle of Sprite and a small bottle of vodka. "So how'd you meet this guy?" she asked, seeming to feel more comfortable asking me personal questions now that she'd revealed something about her own personal life.

  "I can't say too much, but it was related to my Master's program."

  Faye paused and turned around, eying me. "Was it a professor?" she asked, not masking her criticism and concern.

  I shook my head and told a tiny white lie. "I wouldn't have taken the money if it had been someone who could impact whether or not I graduated." That part was true. Dr. Turner couldn't have failed me because he had just been a guest lecturer.

  Faye's shoulders relaxed and she finished pouring our drinks. "Good. I wouldn't want you to get into anything messy."

  I nodded as she handed me my drink. "My client and I have a pretty clear relationship when it comes to separating business and pleasure."

  "Well, Violet," Faye said, perching on the edge of her bed and holding up her glass to clink with mine, "I hope you have a long and healthy career with him, should you so choose."

  Encouraged by her support and openness, I tipped my glass into hers. "Riley," I said, raising my glass to my lips.

  Faye frowned as she took her first sip.

  "My real name is Riley," I clarified.

  "Oh!" Faye said, beaming. "I forgot you had another name." She shifted her glass into her left hand and extended her right to me. "Nice to meet you, Riley."

  Chapter 9: Revelation

  Being just friends with Faye felt like driving with my left foot, but I got used to it after a while. As long as I didn't ogle her too much or ask about her sex life, we had a great time. I saw her almost every day, and we texted whenever we weren't around each other.

  I still wondered how she felt about me, even though for the most part she made it clear she wanted nothing more than friendship. But every once in a while, I would catch her looking at me longer than friends do, or sneaking a peek at my ass as I bent over to put a DVD in, or flickering her eyes down to my cleavage when I wore low-cut shirts. I was always conscious of what I wore around her, trying to walk that fine line between not-trying-too-hard and looking hot. Her wandering eyes gave me hope that we could someday be something more.

  One evening I was about to open a bottle of Malbec for Faye, Justine, and I to share while we watched American Graffiti when Faye's phone buzzed and she leaned forward to pick it up off the coffee table.

  "Shit," she muttered.

  She examined the phone for a minute before sighing and looking at me with a guilty grimace. "I forgot I had plans tonight," she said.

  Heavy with disappointment, I gave her a muted pout.

  "I have to meet her," she said, apologetic. "But we can watch whenever your next night off is, I promise."

  I had the sinking suspicion that she was ditching me to go hook up with someone. Maybe it was one of those girls from the club. I hadn't asked her if she'd gotten any numbers because I didn't want to know.

  "I'll make it up to you, I promise," she said, picking up her purse.

  There was an awkward silence as she walked over to the door. I kept my eyes on the intro screen for the American Graffiti DVD and uttered a disinterested goodbye.

  I heard the door close behind me and let out what I thought was an undetectable sigh.

  Justine rocked out of her seat and picked up the bottle of wine. She stooped over the coffee table and poured two generous glasses, handing one to me.

  "So," she said, an air of self-satisfaction weaving through her words. "How is being friends working out for you?"

  "Fine," I muttered.

  "Yeah, you seem totally fine," Justine said sarcastically, taking a sip.

  I took a sip of my wine and hugged my free arm to my stomach as I slouched deeper into the couch. "I think she's meeting up with a girl she met at the club the other night."

  Justine softened. "Was she hot?"

  I shrugged, trying to pretend I didn't care. I felt my shoulders rise closer to my ears. The other girl had been hot. I felt like chopped liver in comparison.

  Justine dropped any semblance of challenge or mockery. "Oh, Riley," she said softly. "I'm sorry." She studied me for a minute longer as I tried to inhale the contents of my wine glass. "Wow, you really like her," she remarked.

  "I don't want to talk about it," I said, not trusting myself to hold back from talking about how much I adored Faye.

  "Okay. Do you still want to watch the movie?" she asked, speaking as though I were sick or injured.

  I shrugged, taking another sip of wine.

  Justine got up from her chair and came over to the couch, snuggling up to me aggressively as she pulled a blanket over us.

  "If I were into girls, you'd be at the top of my list," she said. "You're a ten."

  I let out a lackluster laugh and took another sip of my wine.

  Twenty minutes into the movie, my phone buzzed on the coffee table. Figuring it must be Faye, I ignored it. I didn't want to deal with my feelings about her after when she'd ditched me for some more attractive ass. My phone buzzed a few more times throughout the movie, but I didn't pick it up. Justine said nothing, patting me on the knee a few times and adjusting her head on my arm.

  When the movie was over, I picked up my phone and glanced at my messages. There were more than I thought: five messages from Faye, all sent in the last two hours.

  Sorry about that. I forgot I was supposed to pick my cousin up at the airport tonight.

  You totally could have come, I'm such a spaz.

  Riley?

  Are you mad at me?

  I'm really sorry...

  As I read the text messages, relief coursed through me. I sent a quick, Hey, don't worry about it :) back and got ready for bed, lulled to sleep with the reassurance that she wasn't getting laid.

  Around one in the morning, I was in the middle of a good dream when my phone buzzed on the desk by my head. Startled, I grabbed it and squinted at the screen. It was Faye. I slid the call open. The line was quiet.

  "Hello?"

  It was quiet for five long seconds and I was about say hello? again when I heard a sniffle. My heart picked up.

  "Hi," she said, soft and squeaky.

  She was crying.

  "Hi," I cooed.

  "Can you come-" she hiccuped. "Can you - Do you want to hang out?"

  Sensing she was asking for help, I said, "Of course." I slid my legs off the bed and stepped into shoes, pulling on a sweatshirt. I didn't think twice about leaving my warm bed in the middle of the night.

  When I got to Faye's apartment, I realized as soon as she walked up the stairs ahead of me that she'd been drinking. She steadied herself against the wall and her blinks were longer than usual.

  "You okay?" I asked as we reached her door and her shoulder bumped into the jamb.

  "Yeah," she assured me. "I just... came back from... a thing." She opened the door and walked inside, stepping over a pile of clothes.

  I looked around and saw a bottle of vodka on the counter.

  "Was 'the thing' drinking alone in your room?" I asked, pointing to the bottle.

  "No," she growled, reaching for the bottle and slinging it under the sink. "I was... using that to clean earlier."

  I gave her a dubious expression. "Cleaning with vodka?"

  She looked around the room, seeming confused before her face twisted with sadness. "I just really miss my cat!" she whimpered.

  She was really drunk. The drunkest I'd ever seen her.

  "You have a cat?" I asked, confused. Was she talking about her childhood cat that still lived with her parents?

  "No!" she blubbered. "He died! He got sick last year and I — tonight I was looking through stuff and found one of his toys..."

  At that Faye started heaving and sobbing and I rushed over to her, wrapping her up.

  "It's okay," I hushed.

  Faye pushed
away from me, stumbling over to her desk. She rifled through some papers, not finding what she was looking for. Then she looked up, walked over to me, speedy and determined, and cupped my face.

  Before I knew it, her lips her on mine and she was trying to drink me in. She was humming into my mouth, hungry, trying to get closer by holding my head firm in her sloppy hands.

  As soon as I could, I pushed away, eyebrows arched in surprise. Everything about her felt off-kilter and unplanned.

  "I thought we were just friends," I said.

  "No," she mumbled, tipping forward to follow me. "No..."

  "We're not?" I asked, confused. I had no idea what was going through her loosened mind.

  “Just — you're so beautiful," she said, pleading as she placed another forceful kiss on my mouth.

  Her compliment slowed my reflexes, allowing her to kiss me for a few seconds. When I took another small step backward, trying not to jerk away too fast, she whimpered.

  "Let me kiss you... You're so beautiful.”

  "We should talk about this when you're sober, " I said, prying her hands off my head and clasping them in front of her heart.

  "No," Faye whined, pouting. "I don't like talking, I like kissing."

  She was so sad and flustered, I gave a little. "Okay, let's kiss when you're sober."

  At that, Faye's face twisted up and her eyes started to water. She turned away and folded her arms under her chest as she started shivering. "Why don't you like me?" she squeaked. "Why doesn't anybody like me?"

  She was so sad and chaotic, I felt bad for her. She wanted to connect with someone and the only way she knew how to do that was through sex or drinking or both.

  I took a step toward her. "I do like you," I said, putting my hand on her shoulder. "And I think you're beautiful too."

  "No," Faye whimpered. "You don't."

  "I do," I assured her. "You're the most beautiful girl I know."

  I paused and my heart raced, waiting for her to push me away. But she did nothing, so I added, "I'm just confused."

  At that, Faye's shoulders slumped and she turned back to me, keeping her eyes on the ground. "Me too," she sniffled. Then she looked up at me with a tearful, guilty expression. "And drunk." A tiny smile wavered over her face before it fell back into sadness.