Dreams of 18

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.