Sweet Dandelion

Lately, Ansel and I have been exploring various art museums in Paris. There’s an abundance of them and Ansel eats it up, staring at the paintings and studying the strokes imprinted in the paint from a time long ago.

“Really? You’re not going to keep arguing?”

“No.”

“Good, because I already got a plane ticket and was coming anyway.”

I laugh. Of course he is. “You’ll have to stay in a hotel though,” I warn. “There’s not enough room here.”

“What do you mean? I can sleep on the couch.”

“There’s only one room, so Ansel sleeps on the couch,” I lie.

Ansel throws an amused grin my way, from where he sits in the kitchen, looking out the windows and sketching the buildings surrounding ours. I bet it’s beautiful here in the spring and summer. Even now, the city is stunning, and the light swirls of snow floating down look like tufts of cotton.

“Fine, I’ll book a hotel. Send me your address again so I can get something close by.”

I hear a voice in the background. “Who’s there?”

“No one,” he says a bit too quickly. “I have to go.”

“Sage—”

Before I can say anything else the line goes dead. I stare down at the screen of my phone, now showing me my wallpaper—a photo of Ansel and I in front of the Trevi Fountain. We haven’t been to the Eiffel Tower yet. I think we’ve both been saving it, so we can savor the moment we’re finally beneath it. That might be silly, but moments deserve to be treasured. In the end, our memories are the things that matter most.

“That was weird,” I mumble more to myself than Ansel. I toss my phone on the couch, shaking my head as I pad across the room to where Ansel sits at the tiny kitchen table. I bend over, resting my chin on his shoulder as I study his sketch. “That’s beautiful. You’re so talented.”

He rubs the side of his pinky against the charcoal, blending it more. “You’re biased.”

“I’m honest,” I argue.

“You mean you’d tell me if you thought I sucked?” He turns his head to face me and suddenly he’s right there. His mouth centimeters from mine. For a second I think about how easy it would be to kiss him. All I would have to do is move the tiniest bit closer. Press our mouths together.

I jolt away from him like I’ve been electrocuted.

His brows furrow, probably wondering what caused my reaction.

I hastily tuck a piece of hair behind my ear, turning for the refrigerator and grabbing some water, gulping it down like my life depends on it.

“It’s okay if you feel something for me, you know,” he says from behind me, the sound of papers shuffling as he closes his sketchpad. “He isn’t going to own your heart forever.”

My throat closes up and I toss the bottle in the waste bin. “I’m going for a walk.”

I grab my set of keys from the bowl near the door, stuffing my feet into my boots and shoving my arms into my coat.

“Meadows, wait,” he calls, following me.

I pause with my hand on the door. “I’m very confused right now, and I need to take a walk.” There’s more bite to my voice than I intend.

I open the door, but it doesn’t close behind me and I know he’s holding it open, watching me walk away while I refuse to look back.

“I’m sorry.”

My steps halt. “Don’t be. It’s not you.”

It’s me. It’s always me.

I hurry to the elevator, down to the bottom level and out onto the street.