Dreams of 18(7)

“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.”

At this, I had to look at him because… what?

“What?” I repeated my thought.

He had his arms crossed over his chest as he raised his eyebrows at me. “You are. It’s because he’s such a hardass, isn’t it? You’re scared of him.”

“I’m not scared of your dad.”

Quite the opposite, actually. I was afraid of the fact that I wasn’t afraid of his dad at all. I was afraid that if his dad looked at me in front of Brian, I’d blush so badly that my secret would come out.

“Come on, Vi. You can tell me.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “You can tell me anything. You can tell me all your secrets.”

Um, I think not.

I threw a pencil at him and his goofy moves. “You’re crazy.”

He thumped a fist on his chest, going all macho on me. “What, you think I can’t protect you? Come on, Vi, I can take my dad for you. You know I’ll keep you safe. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

I wrinkled my nose when he winked at me. “Yeah, why don’t you save your flirting for the girls who’re actually interested?”

“Well, if you gave me one indication that you are one of those girls, I’d leave everyone for you.”

I rolled my eyes at him and his strangely grave voice before going back to my homework.

But then, that’s Brian.

Completely crazy and goofy and oozing with boyish charm. Every girl at school wants him and every boy wants to be his friend. So totally different than my weird, shy self and somehow we’re friends.

Anyway, after a lot of avoidance and making myself scarce around Mr. Edwards, it’s safe to say that I haven’t exchanged a single word with him in two years.

So how can it be love?

How can it be that gravity-defying, soul-deep, bone-tingling, epic-as-fuck connection when we haven’t done something as basic as have a conversation?

It can’t be and it’s not.

I don’t even know the man. Not really.

All I have is a few scraps of useless information that I’ve either observed or heard from his son. That shirt-touching thing? It didn’t happen because I broke into Mr. Edwards’s room in the middle of the night to try to feel his clothes up. It happened because I was helping Brian with the laundry and I just… accidentally on purpose touched it a little.

Even so, how would Brian react if he knew that I was some kind of a creepy information-hoarder? That I watch his dad at night and that I love his plaid shirts?

He would flip out and dump me as his friend, that’s what.

But more than that, he’d be hurt and I can’t do that to him. I can’t hurt the only friend I’ve got.

So I’ve decided to leave.

We’ve graduated from school now and I’ll leave at the end of summer and go to a small college on the west coast. Brian is going to Columbia – his dream school. In fact, he’s leaving early to start his new campus job there and even though we’ll be apart, and I’ll once again be friendless, I couldn’t be happier for him. He deserves it for being such a hard worker.

But that’s like, a month away.

Right now, it’s a little before midnight. In only a few minutes, I’ll be eighteen and I’m sneaking out the window of my bedroom on the second floor. But instead of climbing up to the roof, I’m making my way down using the branches of the tree that’s been there for as long as I can remember.

My family went to sleep ages ago and like always, they’re not going to remember my special day. Hence, I’m making my own arrangements.

It started with a little pi?a colada, the stuff for which I stole from my parents’ liquor cabinet. I made myself one while listening to “The Pi?a Colada Song.” Just seemed appropriate for the occasion.

Now on tipsy legs, I make my way across the driveway and step into Mr. Edwards’s backyard. It’s all dark and silvery and is visible in outlines, except for one thing.

This little garden toward the back – a rose garden.

It’s laid out in a semi-circle at the far corner, adjacent to the wooden fence, and somehow the fat, buttery moon is directly up above it. I can see the roses, a mix of red and pink, their stems swaying slightly with the midnight-summer breeze.

As soon as I reach it, I kneel down on the ground. I’m in my shorts so the blades of dry grass tickle my bare knees and calves. Bending down carefully because, well, I am a little buzzed, I smell the nearest rose.

A rush goes through me as the scent hits my nostrils.

It slams the back of my mouth and fills up my lungs like smoke. Like a big drag of marijuana that makes you a little dizzy and lightheaded. A little euphoric. Brian insisted that I try it last year for the first time and we couldn’t get the grins off our faces for hours.

Smelling these roses is sort of like that.

It makes me smile stupidly. I rub the tip of my nose against the velvet petals, feeling mellow and happy.

It’s his garden, see.

Mr. Edwards’s.

He’s the one who grows these beautiful, fragile, colorful things. This is his passion project.

I’ve seen him kneel right where I’m kneeling. He bends the same way as me, curling his big, muscular body over these plants. He turns the soil, waters it, weeds out the dried leaves, the dying petals.