Sweet Dandelion

by Micalea Smeltzer

  “Yeah, nice to meet you,” I finally find the words to speak back.

  There’s a moment of hesitation before Lachlan says, “Well, see you guys after break.”

  “Mhmm, bye Mr. Taylor,” Ansel replies.

  They seem to be oblivious to the way Lachlan and I hold eye contact for a beat too long. We’re tiptoeing a tightrope, waiting for it to snap any second.

  I don’t loop my arm through Ansel’s again as we finish our trek to the art shop.

  Once inside, Ansel looks like he won the lottery. His light blue eyes get big and round. With a mumbled, “I’ll catch up with you in a bit,” he disappears down one of the aisles, and I fear I might never see or hear from him again.

  I’m only half-joking.

  The store is huge, way bigger than I expected.

  There are rows upon rows of different pigments, pastels, and every possible thing under the sun you could possibly need to create something.

  I hear a cry of joy from somewhere in the store and something tells me the high-pitched noise is from Ansel.

  Fighting a smile, I pick up a tube of oil paint, balking at the cost. I know supplies are expensive, but damn, this must be for the professionals whereas I need the elementary school stuff.

  Moving to another aisle, I find shelf after shelf of sketchpads with different paper textures. There are pencils, charcoal, smudging sticks, erasers, and more.

  It’s safe to say this is definitely Ansel’s version of heaven.

  I find him eventually with his arms weighted down by supplies.

  “You’re not getting anything?” he questions and I shake my head in response. “Suit yourself.” He heads to checkout and after he pays several hundred dollars—I’m not kidding—we head back home.

  Ansel sets his stuff down by the door and I grab us each a grape Fanta from the fridge. Passing him one, I pop the top, smiling at the satisfying hiss of the bubbles.

  “Where’d your brother go?” he asks, looking around the empty apartment. My brother was here when he picked me up—it was one of those times Sage was an ass and made him come up here.

  “No idea,” I shrug, flopping on the couch, “he has the freedom to do whatever he wants now.”

  Ansel shakes his head and joins me, playfully pushing my legs off to make room. “He’s not going to murder me and chop me into pieces when he gets back and finds me here, is he?”

  “Possibly.” His eyes widen and I push his shoulder. “He’s not, I swear. He likes to give you a hard time but he’s coming around.”

  Maybe.

  Not really.

  But Ansel doesn’t need to know that.

  Ansel looks at me with narrowed eyes. “I want to believe you, but I don’t.” He gulps down some soda.

  “Are you going to go to college?”

  He rears back, my sudden question taking him by surprise. But after the conversation I had with my brother, I’ve been curious to talk to Ansel about it. Art is his passion, his life, what does he plan to do?

  He scratches the back of his head, giving me a sheepish look. “I haven’t thought about it much to be honest. I know I should. My parents want me to go, I applied, but…”

  “Yeah, that’s how I feel.”

  He seems relieved by that. “It sucks going against the norm and what people want from you, but art is my life. I want to create. I want to move people with something I make. I don’t want to be an art teacher, which is what my parents have pushed me toward.” He takes another sip of the soda, the liquid sloshing around in the can. “Expectations fucking suck.”

  “Yeah, they do,” I whisper in response. “We put enough pressure on ourselves as it is.”

  “Fuck, this conversation is making me sad. Put a movie on or something before I get depressed and build a fort.”

  “A fort?” I raise a brow.

  He laughs. “When I was a kid, any time I got sad or in trouble I made a fort. I don’t know why.”

  I give him a look. “Are we too old to build a fort?”

  He snorts. “You’re never too old to build a fort.”

  Two hours later, we’ve built a decent sized fort surrounding the TV, two large pizzas have been delivered, and we’ve polished off two more cans of soda each—it’s a problem, I know.

  “Your brother is going to lose his shit when he sees this,” Ansel remarks, looking above at all the blankets we’ve used over top of lamps and chairs to create our hideout.

  I laugh, genuinely laugh, and lean against my best friend’s side, resting my head on his shoulder. “I don’t care what he does, this is the most fun I’ve had in a while.”

  Ansel grins, letting his head touch mine. “Meadows, I don’t know what magic brought you into my life, but I’m fucking glad for it.”

  “Yeah, me too.” I reach for his hand, lacing our fingers together.

  I don’t mean it in a romantic way, and I know Ansel understands I don’t have those feelings for him now. He squeezes my hand and at the same time we both lie back on all the pillows we commandeered from other rooms in the apartment to pile on the floor. The coffee table is currently shoved in the middle of the kitchen floor.

  The movie we put on continues to play, one of the pizza box lids wide open, but neither of us makes a move to close it.

  “You know what’s crazy, Meadows?”

  “What?”

  “In a few short months, we’re about to be shoved from the nest straight into adulthood without a safety net to catch us. Hope we don’t die.”

  It’s his tacked on sentence that has me bursting into laughter. “I guess we better practice our flying techniques.”

  “How are your wings working right now?” He pinches my arm lightly with his opposite hand that’s not holding mine.

  Rolling my head toward him, I answer him honestly. “They weren’t working for a while, but they’re mending. Hopefully they’ll be strong enough to keep me in the air.”

  He’s quiet for a moment, and then he speaks softly. “Well, if they’re not, Meadows, I’ll have to carry you to where you want to go.”

  I smile to myself. Somehow, I know he will too.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Too soon it’s New Year’s Eve, with school starting only two days later. Why they’re sending us back only to attend Thursday and Friday is beyond me, but whatever.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to go?” Sage asks me for the thousandth time, coming out of the hall dressed in a nice pair of jeans and an emerald green sweater that makes his eyes more green than gold.

  “I’m positive I don’t want to go hangout with your computer nerd buddies at a steak house for New Year’s Eve. I’ll be fine here. I’m watching The Hunger Games.” I motion to the TV where the movie plays. I read the book on the new reading device Lachlan got me and now I’m obsessed. I already told him it was a must-read.

  “Why didn’t you want to go out with your friends?” He adjusts the sleeves of his sweater.

  Sasha is back and both her and Ansel are going to the same party tonight, but I declined. After last time, I wasn’t interested.

  “Because I didn’t want to,” I retort playfully. “Seriously, go, be merry, have drinks, kiss a stranger. I’m fine.”

  “I might crash at my friend’s,” he warns. He mentioned earlier that they’d eat and go back to someone named Simon’s place. Honestly the information went in one ear and out the other because I was busy reading. Lachlan has created a monster.

  “Go,” I insist. “I’m fine. Have fun. Text me if you need to check on me, but seriously I’m good here.” I stand up and give him a hug. “You worry too much, Herb.”

  “Can you blame me?”

  “No,” I reply sadly, forcing a smile. “But you still have to live.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he agrees, money is on the counter if you want to order anything and leftovers are in the fridge.”

  “I know,” I laugh.

  He exhales a breath and starts looping his arms into his coat. “All right, I�
��m going. I love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  I watch him go, sincerely hoping he has a good time.

  Turning off the lights, I settle back down on the couch. Lying on my side, I prop my head up on a throw pillow. The glow from the Christmas tree and TV screen makes the condo seem cozier, though I miss the blanket fort Sage forced Ansel and I to promptly remove when he got home the other day.

  The second movie is around twenty minutes in when my phone vibrates from the coffee table.

  I dart my arm out from the warm confines of the blanket I’m burrowed in and cradle it close.

  Lachlan: Happy (almost) New Year.

  Me: Thanks, you too.

  I try not to smile to myself, realizing that for him to text me he must have been thinking about me.

  Me: Are you doing something special with your family?

  Lachlan: No, they left yesterday. I’m here by myself. It’s me and Zeppelin like always. Are you doing something fun with your brother?

  Me: He’s out with his friends. He probably won’t even come home tonight. He’s being a normal twenty-something guy for a night.

  Lachlan: So you’re on your own too?

  Me: Yuuup.

  Reply bubbles appear, then disappear. Shaking my head, I turn the screen off and return my attention to the movie. A few minutes pass before my phone buzzes again.

  Lachlan: You could come here if you wanted. Then neither one of us would be alone.

  I stare at his message in surprise.

  Lachlan: I know I said this couldn’t keep happening but I’m a fucking liar because I can’t stay away from you and selfishly I want to see you. I’m such an asshole, I know.

  Me: Are you sure? I’m fine here, really.

  Lachlan: Come. Please.

  I swallow thickly, wishing I didn’t want to go as bad as I do.

  But we both know I’m not going to say no.

  Me: I’ll come up in a bit.

  Diving off the couch I turn the TV off and run to my room, then the bathroom, back and forth I go because I look like a hag and need to make myself presentable. An hour later my hair is curled, my breath is minty fresh, and I even dressed up in a lacy black tank top, black jeans, and some heels. I’m worried it’s a bit too sexy, but I hope the jeans will keep it a little more subdued.

  Fluffing my curled hair I put some clear gloss on my lips and squirt some perfume on my wrists.

  “You’re being ridiculous,” I mutter to my reflection before switching the light off. Grabbing my phone, I head upstairs—this time taking the elevator due to my heels.

  When the doors slide open I step inside with a few other people and push the button for the floor above. If any of them think it’s strange, they don’t say a word.

  A minute later I’m walking down the hall and knocking on his door.

  My heart patters against the cage I’ve tried so hard to erect around it. The one that falls whenever Lachlan is near. It’s ridiculous how fickle a heart can be. It’s such a treacherous organ.

  It’s a moment before the door opens and when it does I’m so fucking glad I dressed up. His eyes sweep over me lazily, then again for good measure. He’s dressed more casually than I am, but since I see him dressed up every day at school this is welcome. The jeans hug his thick thighs like a second skin and his pale blue t-shirt is well worn, stretched across his broad chest.

  “You look beautiful,” he whispers, clearing his throat like he didn’t mean to give voice to the words.

  “Thank you.” My cheeks flush slightly. “You’re not so bad yourself. Gonna invite me in?”

  “Uh, yeah.” He steps aside.

  “Something smells amazing,” I hum, inhaling the heavenly scent emanating from his kitchen. “Where’s Zeppelin?”

  His bare feet pad into the kitchen and I follow, hopping up on the dark granite top. I swing my legs back and forth.

  “I have to put him in his crate when I cook. He won’t stay out when I’m in here and after a near miss with some boiling water I learned it was safest to put him away until the food is prepared. Hungry?”

  “Starving.” I wasn’t hungry at all before until I smelt the food. But now my stomach rumbles like a little monster lives there. “What is that?”

  “Spinach and cream sauce over pork chops. I also made potatoes and bread is warming.” He points around to various pots and dishes.

  “You made all this for yourself?”

  He gives a sad shrug. “I live alone, so when I make something I want leftovers for when I’m too tired to cook.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re sharing with me today, because it looks yummy.” I tap his jean-clad leg with the toe of my strappy heel.

  “It’s almost done if you want to sit down.” He points to the small dining table near his living area. Sage doesn’t have a table because … well, Sage is Sage and why bother when you have a couch and bar top counter.

  “I like it better here,” I admit, my voice raspier than I intend, but that’s what Lachlan does to me. He looks over his shoulder at me with a crooked smile.

  Something feels different in the air tonight between us.

  Thicker.

  Heavier.

  I watch Lachlan as he finishes the last few touches to the meal and then starts plating. He has me help with that part, directing me easily to where he houses everything in the cabinets and drawers.

  We each take our plate to the table along with two glasses of water.

  “Should you let Zeppelin out?”

  He shakes his head, pulling out a chair for me to sit down. I blush, and take the chair, letting him push me in.

  “If I do, he’ll only beg for food. I’d like to enjoy dinner with another person for a change.”

  “Haven’t you had dinner with your family every night while they were in?”

  “Yeah,” he takes his seat, “but I want to have a nice meal with you.”

  Oh.

  We each cut into the pork chops and I take a small bite, not usually a fan of the meat myself. “Oh my God,” I cry in surprise, “this is delicious.”

  He chuckles, swallowing a bite of food. “You like it?”

  “So yummy.” I cut another bite and eat it before trying a potato. “God, you’re an amazing cook.” I can’t help but praise him, because it’s deserved. “Are you sure you wanted to be a basketball player and guidance counselor was your back up? Because you, sir, should’ve been a chef.”

  He laughs at my remark. “I assure you, I’m not that much of a talent in the kitchen. I excel far more at other things.” His eyes flash and he clears his throat, shaking his head slightly. “But I’m really glad you like it.”

  I take a bite of butter bread, chewing and swallowing. “Thank you for asking me over. I was fine staying in and watching movies but this ... this is nice.”

  He lifts his head from his plate. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” I echo.

  We exchange a small smile, one full of all the things between us we’re both too scared to give voice to. But they still exist there, in the space between words and glances, thoughts and sounds.

  When we’ve both had our fill, we stand in the kitchen together, him rinsing the dishes while I load them into his dishwasher.

  Once the kitchen and table are cleaned, he goes back to let Zeppelin free, and I stand in front of his window, looking out at his view. It’s only one floor above Sage’s so it’s not that different, but maybe it’s the impending new year counting down in a matter of hours that makes things look so different.

  “What are you looking at?”

  I jolt at the sound of his voice, husky and warm right behind me. Zeppelin’s wet nose pokes my hand before his long pink tongue swipes out and licks my fingers. I give a giggle before looking up at his owner.

  “Time.”

  “Time?” he repeats with a furrowed brow. “You’re looking at time?”

  “Yeah,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around myself. His apartment is plenty warm, so
it’s not like my bare arms are cold, but he must think I am because in a blink he grabs a blanket from a side chair and drops it gently around my shoulders. “See it out there,” I whisper, touching his window and leaving behind my fingerprint, proof when I’m gone that I was here and something existed in this space between us, “it’s passing us by.”

  “In here too,” he whispers, touching my elbow.

  Turning from the window, to him, I’m convinced he’s going to kiss me and God do I crave the touch of his lips. But he doesn’t. Instead he twines our fingers together and tugs me over to his couch, putting the TV on to one of the various countdowns.

  Bending down, I take my heels off and curl up on the couch with my body against his.

  He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to add distance. His arm rests lazily around my body like this is a daily occurrence—him cooking dinner and the two of us sitting together to watch TV.

  “I used to always watch the replay of the countdown in New York City with my mom,” I offer the information. It doesn’t even feel like glass shards are poking at my throat. “The one with Ryan Seacrest?”

  “I know which one you’re talking about.” He rubs his thumb in circles against my shoulder. “What else did you do?”

  “She’d put out snacks, like cheese and crackers, other finger foods, and she’d let me drink sparkling cider and I thought I was so grown up and sophisticated.” I give a soft laugh at the memories, how many times I probably made a fool of myself thinking I was drinking real alcohol. “I miss her.”

  “I bet she was amazing.”

  “She was, but how can you be so sure?” I tilt my head back, taking in his strong jaw.

  “You’re her daughter, and I think you’re pretty amazing, so she’d have had to be too. I can put that one on if you want.” He reaches for the remote lying on the couch near Zeppelin.