DREAMS of 18 Read online

  It makes sense though. That’s why he isn’t in the uniform. He’s the one who’s moving in.

  Of course.

  He’s our new neighbor. I guess I just didn’t think of it because he’s so unlike the people who live here. All stuffy and pale and uptight.

  “Didn’t I just explain everything to you?” Fiona berates me. “I told you. Mom told us this last week. New people are moving in next door. And Brian Edwards is going to be in your grade. I looked him up online and oh my God, he’s so cute. I’ve been waiting for this day. I wonder where his parents are. You know what? I’m going to ask Mom to invite them over for a welcome dinner or something. I need all the dirt on him. Everything.” She squeals beside me. “Can you imagine, him living next door? So freaking cute and sexy. Ugh, I’m dying.”

  Fiona is a bit of a gossiper. Meaning she knows everything about everyone, and living in the same house as her means that I get to hear almost all of it.

  I’m not usually a fan of gossip and rumors but right now I’m kind of thankful for Fiona’s love for it. Because I know his name.

  Brian Edwards.

  That’s his name.

  Brian.

  Bri. An.

  And he’s in my grade…

  “What?”

  Fiona’s still watching the scene before us but at my sharply asked question, she faces me. “What?”

  “Who’s going to be in my grade?” I ask, belatedly realizing what she just said. My grade. Parents?

  “I knew it. You don’t listen at all.”

  I shake my head. “Can you just… Isn’t he a little old to be in my grade and living with his parents?”

  We both turn to look out the window.

  He’s still there but the moving guys are gone. He’s with someone else, though. A guy who’s wearing a yellow t-shirt – again, not the uniform – and they are talking. I think I saw him lurking in the background before, but I didn’t pay much attention to him.

  Anyway, this younger guy is cute, I’ll give him that. He has dark blond hair and an easy smile. Plus the yellow makes him look cheerful and approachable, somehow.

  Unlike the black and white plaid shirt and thick arms of the man I’ve been watching. They probably – definitely – say approach with caution.

  “Isn’t he a little older to be going to school at all?” I ask distractedly, watching the pair.

  The yellow t-shirt guy’s throwing around a ball and playing one-man catch with it, as he grins and says something to the man. He answers the younger guy with a slow shake of his head and a slight stretch of his lips that can barely be called a smile.

  I almost swallow my lollipop at the sight of it, though. Somehow, his non-smile is sexier than all the smiles I’ve ever seen.

  “What are you talking about? He totally goes to our school,” Fiona protests, then breathes out a dreamy sigh. “You know I’m not a fan of yellow but I’m willing to be a convert for him. Because that yellow looks amazing on him.”

  “He’s not wearing…” I begin, but then I trail off because it finally occurs to me.

  We’re not talking about the same person.

  Fiona’s talking about the younger guy. The one who’s wearing a yellow t-shirt. He is Brian Edwards.

  Not the plaid shirt guy… man… whatever.

  I feel Fiona looking at me and wrinkling her nose. Okay so, she’s figured it out too. “Oh my God, are you… Eww!”

  Looking away from the man who isn’t Brian Edwards, I face Fiona. “What?”

  “Have you been perving over that other guy?”

  “No.”

  “Ugh. You totally were. You’re so gross.” Fiona shakes her head. “He’s old, for God’s sake.”

  I feel the need to come to his defense. “He’s not old. He’s…” I swallow, searching for a better word. “Mature.”

  And sexy.

  Rolling her eyes, Fiona turns away and looks back out the window. “He’s forty.”

  I do the same. “He’s not forty.”

  I mean, yes, he’s older. Like probably in his thirties.

  It’s in every line of his body.

  It’s in the way his shoulders stretch out his shirt and his strong thighs fill out his jeans. Those muscles, that bulk and hardness can only come from age. From years of work and toil.

  From years of living.

  Not to mention, his mannerisms and confidence. His authority and command. Again, that comes with age. With knowledge.

  Something about that is so breath-stealing.

  “I think he’s like thirty,” I say to Fiona.

  I would’ve said more but right then, Brian Edwards throws the ball up in the air and the man we’ve been talking about reaches up and catches it before Brian can, in one fluid motion. Like, he just touched the ball and it slid into his big palm.

  Talk about athleticism and reflexes.

  Whoa.

  “Thirty-seven,” she counters.

  “Thirty-three. Final offer.”

  She sighs. “Hmm. Okay. Thirty-three.” Then, “But still. Thirty-three. That’s like what? Seventeen years older than you.”

  “What does it matter how much older than me he is?”

  “Um, because you were perving on him?”

  “I was not.”

  I totally was.

  “First of all, age is just a number. You’re not what your age is. You are what you’ve gone through. Mark Twain said that age is just mind over matter.”

  Fiona makes a gagging sound; she hates it when I quote writers and philosophers. In her words, it’s lame and weird.

  Ignoring her, I keep going, “And secondly, he’s handsome. Why wouldn’t I look at him? Looking at a handsome man is not perving. Like when I pause the movie when Hugh Jackman takes his shirt off? That’s not perving. That’s observing. Same as you.”

  I probably shouldn’t have made the Hugh Jackman comment because now I’m wondering the same thing about Not-Brian Edwards.

  Him. Shirtless.

  I’m wondering if he takes off his shirt and loses that little bit of softness that covers his hard body, will his muscles jut out like sharp and rough peaks.

  “Well, I can see that he has a certain kind of appeal.” Fiona drums her fingers on her chin. “He’s tall. Rugged. Rough around the edges. Very masculine and tough-looking. I’d totally let him mow my lawn.”

  I grimace. “Okay. Now who’s gross?”

  “What? I’m just saying. He looks like a good worker. Like he can mow a lawn or carry furniture or whatever. They should probably tip him big. He totally saved the coffee table.”

  Fiona has her nose up in the air. Her shoulders are thrown back and her spine is straight. Condescension and superiority over mere mortals such as me. My mom has taught her well.

  “I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to hear that,” I say sarcastically, strangely angry on his behalf.

  Just because he’s a moving guy doesn’t mean he deserves to be belittled. And just because he isn’t the one who’s moving in next door is no reason to be disappointed.

  The latter is for me. Because I am disappointed.

  More than I should be.

  “Aww. Are you jealous?” She giggles.

  I hate when my sister giggles. It’s usually followed by a cutting remark.

  “Why? Because you deem him worthy enough to mow your lawn?”

  She outright laughs. “Oh, come on. I’m agreeing with you. He’s hot. But you’re right to be jealous.” She continues in a sing-songy voice, “Because you know that if I want him, I can have him.”

  I can’t even say that she’s wrong because she’s not.

  She’s right. Very, very right.

  If she wants him or Brian Edwards or any guy, for that matter, she’ll have him. As evidenced by the trail of broken hearts she leaves behind. One of them belonged to our history teacher.

  With her shiny blonde hair and blue eyes, Fiona is a complete
copy of my mom and a phenomenon. Not only in our school but also on the internet.

  My sister, Fiona Elizabeth Moore, is an Instagram celebrity. As in, she has about 50K followers, who moon over her beauty and make-up videos.

  Sometimes I can’t believe we’re sisters, or half-sisters.

  While Fiona thrives on attention, here I am, totally okay being invisible.

  I always sit in the back of a class. I hardly ever talk to anyone or even if I do, the conversation lasts about two minutes. I always have my head down and my face covered by my hair to stay away from people’s eyes.

  Honestly though, it’s not as if they’re giving me any attention anyway, what with my colorless cheeks, great, big brown eyes and super full and weird stung-by-a-bee lips.

  But it’s fine. I have made my peace with it.

  I mean, someone has to be lacking so people can appreciate beauty, right?

  “Well, if you wanna get him, now is your chance,” I say at last. “They’re almost done moving in the furniture.”

  I get up and move away from the window. Suddenly, my lollipop has lost its taste and all thoughts of me sneaking into the kitchen to get strawberries seem stupid.

  Suddenly, my birthday spirit has died.

  Fiona gets up, too. “It’s okay. I’ll let you have him. You’re the weird one in this family who’s going to make all the wrong choices and send our parents to their early grave.” She’s almost to the door when she stops to face me. “Which reminds me. Don’t mess this up for me.”

  I lie down on the bed, ready to put the music back on. “Mess what up for you?”

  “The Brian thing,” she explains. “He’s in your grade. Which means you guys will be sharing classes. I don’t want you to… weird him out, all right? I mean, we’re neighbors now so there’s no hiding that we’re sisters but just stay away from him.”

  I put my headphones back on and salute her with two fingers. “Gotcha. No weirding out the new neighbor and ruining my sister’s wedding plans.”

  She throws me another sharp look before sweeping her gaze around the room. “And clean your freaking room.”

  Then she leaves with a flourish, banging my door shut, and I throw a pillow at it. It slides down to the floor with a sad thud.

  “Oh, by the way, Violet! Happy birthday! You’re only sixteen once so enjoy it,” I mutter to myself in Fiona’s high voice.

  God, I’m pathetic.

  I’m so pathetic that as soon as my sister is out of my room, I rip my headphones off and dash back to the window to get a final look at him.

  Why? I don’t know. But I have to see him one last time before he disappears forever.

  But apparently, he’s already gone.

  He’s not there anymore. The front yard’s almost cleared out and one of the moving vans is pulling off the curb.

  I imagine him in it, his strong hands on the wheel and his long thighs sprawled on the leather seat. I imagine him driving with his window down and his elbow resting on the windowsill, all relaxed and loose, soaking in the summer breeze.

  He just looked like that kind of a man. Outdoorsy.

  Oh well.

  I’m being silly. And slightly obsessive.

  As usual, it’s about the wrong thing: a man I’ve seen from afar for maybe a total of fifteen minutes. A man I’m going to forget about by tomorrow.

  Shaking my head and sucking on my tasteless lollipop, I walk back to my bed.

  But for some reason, I don’t wanna forget him. So I bend down and fish out my journal from under my bed. I call it The Diary of a Shrinking Violet.

  I open to an empty page and write about a tall man in a soft plaid shirt with big hiking boots and rough muscles.

  A man I’m never going to see again.

  I call him the Strawberry Man.

  In my head, I mean.

  Because he makes me feel exactly how I feel when I’m craving the fruit I’m allergic to: restless and out of control, breaker of rules and avoider of common sense. I know I’m not supposed to want it but I do anyway.

  But that’s not his name, of course.

  His name is Graham Edwards and he’s not a moving guy. Which should’ve been kind of obvious in hindsight since he was the only one, other than Brian, who wasn’t wearing a mover’s uniform.

  Anyway, two years ago on my birthday, he moved in next door with his son.

  So really, he’s Mr. Edwards – that’s his correct nomenclature.

  Or Coach.

  Because he’s the coach of the football team at our school. That explains his good reflexes and athleticism from that day long ago.

  People say that he’s abrasive. Tough and without mercy. He rides the players harder than any other coach before. They’re all afraid of him.

  Behind his back, everyone calls him The Beast.

  People tend to scatter away and change direction when he walks down the hallway at school. Players tend to keep their heads down and come up for air only when he’s passed.

  Even a few teachers are afraid of him, but he’s the best the school has ever seen.

  Another fun fact: he’s eighteen years older than me, not seventeen as me and my sister thought when we saw him for the first time.

  Over the past two years, I’ve collected a lot of fun facts about him.

  Like he drinks his coffee black.

  He only has plaid shirts in his wardrobe, with a few threadbare t-shirts that he wears over the weekends and which, indeed, seem very, very soft. I wouldn’t know; never touched them myself.

  Well, okay. I’m lying. They are soft and I did touch them once. After they came out of the dryer, freshly laundered. Long story.

  Anyway, he goes running every morning at four. No exceptions. Even though he has trouble sleeping at night.

  I found that out probably the first week of him being here. I can’t sleep at night, either.

  I’m the child of night and the moon. A moonchild.

  I like the dark. I like being awake and alone when everyone else in the neighborhood is sleeping. I like climbing up to the roof with vintage music in my ears, a lollipop in my mouth and my journal. Under the flashlight, I write about my day. Sometimes I read Bukowski because he’s the kind of a writer you read at night.

  For the past two years though, I mostly watch him. I sit on the roof for hours, dangling my legs and sucking on a lollipop, wondering.

  What keeps you up, Mr. Edwards?

  Why can’t you sleep?

  Unlike me though, he’s never watching back. He doesn’t even know that I’m there. Instead, he does interesting things. He swims laps around his pool. He exercises. Or he works in the backyard on his passion project.

  Oh man, his passion project.

  I’m so in love with it. I love watching him work on it.

  I’m not a stalker. Not at all. I know that all this knowledge that I have of him might seem stalker-ish. But it’s not.

  It’s not as if I went looking for these facts about him. They just fell into my lap because his son, Brian? He’s my best friend.

  Incredible, right?

  It’s still as unbelievable to me as it was two years ago. In fact, I had no intention of being his friend and ‘ruining’ things for Fiona. But he was persistent. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. He’d say hi to me whenever he saw me; sit beside me during lunch; talk to me in the hallways when no one ever did. Frankly, he kinda freaked me out a little bit in the beginning with his cheerfulness and interest. And then, we got paired up for a lab class and well, the rest is history. We became the best of friends.

  And everything would be awesome, if not for this one little thing.

  A thing called a crush.

  I have it and because of that, when I close my eyes, I see him.

  His dad.

  Yeah, I have a crush – a massive, massive crush – on Mr. Edwards, my best friend’s dad.

  How wrong is that, right?

 
Right?

  So, so wrong.

  I’m probably breaking all the cardinal rules of friendship. In fact, I broke them even before Brian and I became friends because I inadvertently watched his dad the day they were moving in.

  Ugh, why do I like the wrong things? Why?

  But there’s a silver lining.

  You see, it’s a crush – just a crush and not love.

  Thank God, it’s not love.

  Thank. God.

  There’s no way it can be love. I don’t know anything about love. It’s not like I’m rolling in it. My dad hardly pays me any attention. I drive my mother to drink. My sister barely tolerates me. Before Brian, I had no friends.

  But most of all, how can you fall in love with someone you haven’t even talked to?

  Mr. Edwards and I, we haven’t had a single conversation in the two years that he’s lived next door. In fact, he’s never even looked at me once.

  Not once.

  I’m not kidding. I don’t think that Mr. Edwards knows that I exist, even though I’m his son’s best friend.

  Although, some of it is my doing.

  After it became apparent that I had this massive crush on my best friend’s dad, I stopped going over to Brian’s house. I’d make excuses and avoid setting foot in a place that smelled so like Mr. Edwards: all spicy and musky. It got so bad that Brian would keep talking and I’d sniff the air just to smell more of his dad, completely tuning him out.

  That’s creepy, right?

  So, I avoided going there and instead, started to have Brian over to my place. Which we’ve debated about quite a few times.

  “Why can’t we hang out at my place?” he asked me one time, while we were in my room, doing homework.

  I pursed my lips, still keeping my eyes on the notebook. “We hang out at your place.”

  “No, we don’t.” Then he sat up straight, all blond and broad – not as broad as his dad though. “And I think I know why.”

  Thank goodness I was sitting at my desk and my head was bent over my homework so I could hide my face from him. My blushing, heated face.

  “There’s no reason,” I said quickly.

  “It’s my dad, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

  “You’re scared of him.”