Dreams of 18(9)

Like that makes it any better. But I honestly don’t know what else to say.

Mr. Edwards throws them a distracted glance like he couldn’t care less about the flowers. “Yeah? Why not the good ones?”

At his question, I lower my eyes to them. I finger the yellowed edges lightly. Some of the petals are so loosened and dry that a puff of air could make them fall apart.

Poor babies.

“Because no one else wants the bad ones,” I say.

“And you do.”

I look up. “Yes. I always want the bad ones.”

Bad things. Bad roses. Bad crushes.

His frown gets even deeper. I almost wonder if he’s doing himself a permanent injury by frowning this much. “Why’s that?”

“Because everyone wants something pretty,” I blurt out, even though I have a feeling the answer won’t matter to him. Nothing about me matters to anyone so why would something change now?

Even so, I keep going. “Something that’s fresh and beautiful. Something that’s perfect. But then, what about the things that are imperfect? Things that might not be as pretty or as conventional. Things that might be weird, outdated or outcast? They’re not in much demand, are they? They’re not wanted. But I do. I want them. So they don’t feel rejected.”

Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever talked this much. Not to a person I’ve never spoken with before. I’m usually the non-talker but something about Mr. Edwards is making me wanna talk.

Something about him has sucked away all my shyness. Or maybe it’s the buzz of pi?a colada.

Throughout my heartfelt speech, he kept his focus on my face, on my un-pretty, un-beautiful and imperfect face.

But now, his eyes have moved.

They’re hazel, by the way. He’s got hazel-colored, chameleon eyes. They change color. They go from green to brown to green again. I’ve never seen it happen in real life, though. I’ve only seen photos that Brian has showed me.

And his chameleon eyes are on my hands.

I look down and find that I’m moving my finger up and down the bumpy stems of the roses, grazing the thorns slightly. Not only that. My thumb is flicking the fragile petals, very slowly and carefully, lovingly even.

At his continued stare, my hands blush.

“Do your parents know you’re here?”

I focus back on him and catch the end of his eyes flicking up and coming back to me. Although I do witness the complete clench of his jaw. His almost bearded jaw.

He’s annoyed, I think.

“No,” I reply on a whisper that comes out strangled. “I mean, they won’t care.”

“They won’t care you’re talking to a strange man in the middle of the night.”

“You’re not a stranger. You’re my neighbor.”

He leans toward me, even though we’re still a few feet apart. And I swear to God, I feel the air around me grow hotter because he moved a micro-inch toward me.

“That’s how little girls like you end up getting kidnapped. Because they think talking to their neighbor when everyone else is sleeping is a great fucking idea.”

God, he’s so stern.

I mean, I knew that. But I didn’t know the effect it would have on me if he got stern with me, specifically.

All the wrong effects. The quickening of my breaths and the urge to smile.

Seriously, how am I not shy in front of him?

Not to mention, I didn’t know how it would feel when someone called me little.

I know I’m little.

I’m 5’2” on my best day and he’s at least 6’5” on all of his. I was right the first day I saw him. He is the tallest, broadest man, at least in Cherryville, Connecticut. He towers over everyone that I know and now that he called me little, I should be embarrassed by my size.

Shouldn’t I?

But again, I’m not. No embarrassment. No shyness.

All I can think about is how he can pick me up with one hand and how I can perch on his thigh like it was a log from a tree.

“Are you going to kidnap me?” I ask with amusement in my voice.

“No, I don’t want the hassle. I’m more of a serial killer type.”

Oh man, he’s funny.

“You can’t murder me, Mr. Edwards. You’ll end up in jail.”

He takes a few moments to answer. “Strangely, I don’t care about that right now.”

I look down at my red sneakers for a second, trying to control my smile. “I –"

“Leave.”

A muscle jumps on his cheek and everything slows down inside of me. I have to part my lips to drag in a breath because, well, I’m not afraid at all.

I’m not afraid of that lash of a sound that came out of him.

But I saw something. When I was looking down at my sneakers, I saw his shoes.

They aren’t his usual hiking boots – he’s had the same pair since he moved in. He isn’t wearing his usual jeans, either. Also, not his plaid shirt.

I can’t believe I didn’t notice before.

He’s in fancy clothes.

Being single, every once in a while, Mr. Edwards puts on fancy clothes – dress shirt, neatly pressed pants and dress shoes – and goes out on a date.

I knew he was going to go out tonight; Brian told me. But I didn’t know that he was going to go out out.