DREAMS of 18 Page 4

  Mr. Gunderson is our math teacher and one of the few who’s afraid of him. He’d be happy to see me take an interest in the subject but fuck that right now.

  Right now, all I care about is him. Mr. Edwards, the football coach, my neighbor and my best friend’s dad.

  My crush.

  Who just came back from a date.

  “What’s useful then?” I ask him. “If I’m trying to impress you?”

  What?

  What am I saying?

  His stomach hollows out on a breath and despite myself, I fight not to close my eyes at how intimate it feels, him breathing against me. His tight, hard abdomen moving against my delicate ribs.

  Everything about me feels delicate pressed up against his body, more delicate than the dying roses that are trapped between us.

  “Stepping away from me would be a good start,” he grits out in an abraded voice.

  He’s right.

  I should step away, but I can’t. Not yet.

  “I don’t… I don’t make it a habit to sneak into your backyard. I swear to God. And you weren’t supposed to catch me, anyway.”

  “What was I supposed to do, then?”

  “Not be here. You were supposed to be on a date, right?”

  God.

  Did I really just ask that?

  Did I really just ask that like I have a right to know?

  What’s wrong with me? What’s happening to me tonight?

  Apparently he’s thinking the same thing, because he draws closer to me; his sharp face, with jutting-out cheekbones and angled jaw and heavy brows, blocks out the stars and his fingers around my arm are probably in the process of leaving marks.

  “Who said I was on a date?”

  Your clothes. And shoes.

  “Because, uh, Brian told me.”

  “Brian told you.”

  “Uh-huh.” Not a lie technically; he did tell me, but he didn’t mention his dad was going on a date. “Plus, it’s Friday, right? People go on dates on Fridays.”

  My explanation isn’t making any difference as far as Mr. Edwards’s anger is concerned. If anything, his features are turning even angrier and harder.

  So obviously, I keep talking, “Not that you do. Go on dates, I mean. I don’t mean to imply that you’re a serial dater or a player or anything. Just so I’m clear. In fact, all I’ve ever seen you do is coach football and take care of Brian. Which is amazing, you know. It’s not…” I swallow. “Not every parent takes care of their kid. Brian’s very lucky. You’re a good dad. You really are.”

  I totally wasn’t expecting my ramblings to take this turn but now that they have, I can’t deny it. It’s the truth.

  He is a good dad.

  Brian told me that his mom, Cynthia, left him when he was just a baby. Only a few days old. It was a one-night stand and his mom didn’t want the responsibility so she left Brian with Mr. Edwards and never looked back.

  He also told me that Mr. Edwards had a scholarship from a college to play ball but he gave that up when Brian came into the world.

  Mr. Edwards has always been very upfront about it with his son. Brian says that his dad thinks he should have all the information because him getting abandoned by his mother is not his fault and is not something to be ashamed of.

  In fact, the night we were smoking pot, Brian got really emotional – he’s super emotional and passionate, actually – and said, “I lucked out, you know? My dad’s probably the best man I know. Like, he’s given up so much for me. I wish I could do the same for him some day.”

  It makes me feel warm, how caring and protective and responsible Mr. Edwards is. So unlike anyone I’ve ever known.

  “Go home.”

  His words, spoken with finality, break my thoughts. He even lets go of my arm and straightens up.

  Even though it’s night, the world suddenly seems too bright as his shadowy, looming presence goes away.

  But I’m still holding onto him, his shirt.

  I’m addicted, it feels like.

  To talking to him. To being looked upon by him. To not feeling shy with him.

  “Violet.”

  The way he says my name for the first time ever – low and rough like a secret – makes me think that he means someone else. Someone pretty and sexy.

  Someone who has a right to say his name back.

  “Graham.”

  “Who said you could call me that?”

  His words are almost a snarl and I wince. “But you just –”

  “That’s Mr. Edwards to you.”

  “Right. Okay. M-Mr. Edwards.”

  His gaze dips to my parted mouth before he jerks it away. “You don’t want to spend your birthday behind bars, do you?”

  “No.”

  He looks down at the roses I stole, still crushed and trapped, before gazing up. “Then step away from me and go home.”

  I should.

  He’s right.

  If all the information I’ve collected over the years is right, then I know he’ll make good on his threat. He’ll call the cops on me.

  But if I moved away and went home, then this would be over. This whole surreal, moonlight encounter will disappear.

  It took me two years, two fucking years, to be this close to him. To have him see me.

  To finally find out that I come up to his chest when we stand like this. That when I take a breath my breasts brush against his ribs and that if I were to lean forward and put my forehead on him, I’ll barely touch his collarbone.

  Two years.

  I can’t move away.

  I look at his lips. “Mr. Edwards?”

  “Step. The fuck. Away.”

  There’s a warning in his tone. An urgency, even. Or maybe it’s me. I’m the one filled with all the urgency that this is my only chance.

  The only chance to know how it feels.

  I keep watching his mouth. “It’s my birthday.”

  “Go. Home.”

  For two years, I’ve been good.

  I never wanted anything from him. I never expected anything. I never even tried anything with him. I’ve kept my distance, knowing he’s my best friend’s dad.

  But for one second, I wanna forget.

  “I can’t.”

  And then, I step up on his date-shoes.

  I’m probably ruining them but this is the only way. This is the only way I’ll reach his mouth.

  This is the only way I’ll get what I want.

  A kiss.

  “Violet.”

  This time, it feels like he’s smashing my name between his teeth but I’m so far gone that it doesn’t make me stop.

  Just a brush of my mouth over his. Just one taste before I go to the west coast and leave him behind.

  This could be my goodbye.

  Besides, no one is here. It’s dark. No one is going to know. No one is going to see. It’s safe. I can kiss him and run away.

  “Step away from me before I make you,” he threatens.

  I should probably heed it.

  But I know I’m not going to.

  Bukowski said to let the thing that you love kill you. Not that this is love but it’s okay if he kills me for this.

  “I just wanna know how it feels. Just once. Please.”

  Without another word, I reach up and put my mouth on his.

  I feel the roses getting completely crushed between our bodies. I even feel the prick of thorns in my chest.

  But nothing compares to the softness and heat of his mouth.

  It’s a dry kiss. A hard pressing of mouths. I feel him breathing against me and that makes me so hungry for him. Hungrier than I’ve ever been for anything.

  Even strawberries.

  Just when I peek out my tongue and go to taste him, everything falls apart.

  “Dad?”

  It’s Brian’s voice.

  And then, “Violet?”

  Holy fuck. That’s
Fiona.

  I jerk away from Mr. Edwards and spin around to find a shocked Brian and an open-mouthed Fiona.

  “It’s not… I didn’t…”

  I don’t know what to say in the face of their horrified, grossed-out, betrayed, you name it, emotions.

  “We didn’t…”

  I look at Mr. Edwards, only to find that he never moved from his spot.

  He’s standing there, turned away from them, his jaw gritted and his dark, angry eyes on me.

  Just me.

  And my dying roses are lying crushed and scattered at his feet.

  Ten months later…

  He’s staring at me.

  Like, really.

  At first, I didn’t notice. I had my head down and my headphones on, listening to “Surrender” by Cheap Trick. But then, I felt a little prickling in my scalp and I looked up.

  This guy is sitting right across from me and his eyes are glued to mine.

  I’m not sure why.

  Does this guy know who I am? Does he know what I’ve done?

  But that’s impossible, right?

  I mean, look at where I am.

  I am at a coffee shop in the city, miles and miles away from Cherryville, Connecticut. No one knows who I am in New York City.

  In fact, no one knows anyone in New York City. That’s the beauty of it. Anonymity.

  But why the hell is he staring at me? Why?

  Why?

  If he knows me – if – then doesn’t he also know that it freaks me out? I’ve never been good with people’s attention anyway. So if he knows me, doesn’t he know what happened to me and how I lost it when people wouldn’t stop staring at me and harassing me?

  I hate it, okay.

  I do.

  My doomsday brain has started ticking. I’m already going flush around the throat. My heart is swelling and swelling in my chest and I know it’s going to burst.

  Not to mention, I’m starting to lose my breath. I’m sweating. My body is itching to curve itself into a ball.

  I’m losing it. I’m losing it.

  I knew it.

  I knew going out of the house was a bad idea. I don’t even know why people go out and walk on streets and talk to other people when being alone is just so damn wonderful.

  When you’re alone, no one’s staring at you. No one’s pointing fingers at you. No one’s snickering or stopping you on the street and asking you questions.

  Did you really do it?

  Is it really you? From the photo?

  Did you really kiss the coach at your school?

  But!

  But…

  Everything is going to be fine. It’s going to be okay.

  Everything is going to be fucking perfect.

  Because I can stop it. I can.

  With trembling hands that almost knock my coffee cup down, I reach across the table to get to my baseball cap and my Audrey Hepburn sunglasses.

  I put them on. I lower the rim of my magenta cap and inch upon my huge sunglasses and bring my dull blonde/brown hair forward.

  Now, I’m covered.

  I’m protected against the dark rays of people’s eyes.

  I fold my arms across my chest and try to breathe.

  In and out.

  Out and in.

  I do it. I keep doing it. I keep breathing. I keep breathing like they taught me back at Heartstone.

  “Hey.”

  The voice makes me flinch and look up. It’s my friend, Willow. She’s standing by the table and immediately, a rush of warmth flows through my body.

  She’s blocking me from that guy’s eyes.

  Everything is fine.

  See?

  I blow out a breath. “Hey. When’d you get here?”

  “Like a second ago.” She turns to look at the guy before taking a seat opposite me, appearing concerned. “You okay?”

  I sit up and wipe my clammy hands on my shorts. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Her concern grows. “Because when I came in, I thought I saw you having an almost panic attack?”

  I wave my hand. “Oh. That. It’s nothing. It’s, uh…” I wave my hand some more and clear my throat. “I was just trying to, uh, breathe. That’s it.”

  Sighing, Willow cocks her head to the side. “And you have your disguise on because there’s a lot of sunlight in here? And not because that guy was staring at you?”

  My heart jumps.

  She sounds exactly like my therapist, Nelson.

  If he knew that I put on the cap and the glasses to ward off – for argument’s sake, let’s call it a panic attack – he wouldn’t like it.

  He’d say, “Violet, you’re using these as a crutch.”

  When in fact, crutches are not so bad. They help me. It helped when I colored my hair pink for a while so no one would recognize me. But it was too much maintenance, so I stopped and got myself a disguise.

  So what? Shouldn’t I be helped?

  Besides, I’m fine.

  Everything is fine.

  I smile, or at least, I try to. I’m still recovering from what she calls an almost panic attack brought on by some random guy’s eyes on me.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m fine. And look, I can even take these off.”

  I make a big show of taking off my disguise and putting it on the table.

  Willow smiles back. “Oh yeah, you definitely can. Definitely. You’re definitely not denying anything.”

  At this, my heart doesn’t jump. It leaps off my chest and gets jammed up in my throat.

  Deny.

  I don’t like that word.

  I’m not denying anything.

  I’m not.

  So yeah, I can’t handle when people stare at me. I can’t handle talking to strangers so I never go out of my house, and yes, I use a crutch from time to time.

  And okay, fine. I do get panic attacks sometimes.

  But can anyone blame me?

  I’m used to being invisible.

  Ten months ago, the world didn’t care about me. They didn’t know who I was. They didn’t care if I sat in the back of a room or walked down the street with my headphones on or sang along to a song tunelessly in my backyard or climbed up to the roof at night or read books on a park bench.

  No one cared that I could disappear into my own world.

  But there’s no disappearing now. There’s no my own world when the entire world seems to be watching me.

  When my own friend is watching me like I’m about to blow.

  My eyes sting but I blink and take a deep breath.

  Everything is fine, Violet.

  “Can we please not talk about it?” I almost beg.

  Willow stares at me a beat before nodding. “Absolutely. We totally don’t have to.” Then, she beams. “Let’s talk about how awesome my husband is.”

  I breathe in a sigh of relief and sit back. “Oh yeah?”

  “Uh-huh. He bought me this set of all the Harry Potters. Brand new covers. With illustrations. He says it’s a wedding present. Can you believe it?”

  Willow is a Harry Potter fiend. Like, you can’t be her friend if you don’t know what Quidditch is and where to find the train that will take you to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Oh, and she makes you take a test to determine which house is yours.

  I’m a Hufflepuff.

  “That’s your wedding present?” I cup my chin in my palm. “What about other things? Like, you know, stuff that requires a bed and a bedroom.”

  “Oh, there’s that.” A dreamy smile. “There’s so much of that. But for the record, it does not require a bed and a bedroom. A table, a couch, a floor. A wall. All of that works too.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Let’s not talk about that. I can’t think of Dr. Blackwood in those terms.”

  So I met Willow while I was at Heartstone.

  Okay, so last summer and a little bit of fall, I spent some time a
t Heartstone Psychiatric Hospital because of how things blew up on the night of my eighteenth birthday.

  Actually, that was the only bright spot in all the misery that followed: spending time at Heartstone. I liked it there. I liked how invisible I was. How people didn’t pay me any attention. It was peaceful unlike how crappy my life had become.

  Oh and I made some friends while on the Inside too.

  “Fine. Although I love thinking about Dr. Blackwood in those terms. That’s how I got through all those sessions back at Heartstone.”

  I cover my ears with my hands. “No more!”

  She laughs, her face and her signature silver hair glowing.

  It’s love. Love can do that to you.

  No matter how unconventional it is. And Willow Taylor and Dr. Simon Blackwood’s love story is unconventional, to say the least.

  They are the two people who never should’ve fallen in love. In fact, there are rules against it.

  Things like that don’t happen in real life. You don’t fall in love with your psychiatrist and you certainly don’t marry him over your Christmas break from college.

  But somehow all of that happened to Willow and I couldn’t be happier for her.

  A second later, the coffee shop door opens and the other two members of our little gang step inside: Penny and Renn.

  And as usual, they’re bickering. That’s what they always do.

  “I can’t believe you did that. I still can’t believe you did that,” Penny says, disbelief evident in her voice.

  Renn shrugs. “Well, why can’t you? It’s me. What else do you expect from me?”

  Penny shakes her head as they approach our table. “You’re gross.”

  “You’re just jealous because you didn’t come up with it yourself.”

  They both drop down in their chairs at the same time. Penny turns to us. “She stole my phone and texted my objectionable photo to Cooper.”

  Cooper is Penny’s lab partner. We all think there’s something there but Penny denies it. Renn, who recently gained Penny as a roommate after Willow moved out to live with Dr. Blackwood, is on a mission to find out.

  “Like how objectionable?” I ask Renn.

  She grins, looking super pleased with herself. “In lingerie.”

  Penny stabs her finger at Renn. “Which she forced me to wear and then took pictures of, even when I said I didn’t want to.”

  “Oh please. Forced?” Renn addresses us. “She was happy to pose.”