Dreams of 18

At my blurted-out reply, the muscle on his cheek lunges. It’s not a jump; it’s a tight lunge. His fingers jerk around my arm.

“Definitely a virgin, then,” he says and his voice goes harsh as well.

My teeth find my lower lip and bite it hard.

Virgin.

Yeah, I’m definitely that.

Of course, he didn’t mean it that way. It’s my own dirty, twisted mind.

“And you’re eighteen years older than me. So that makes you thirty-six,” I say needlessly.

“If you’re trying to impress me with your math skills, you should know that it’s useless. Try Mr. Gunderson.”

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?”