Dreams of 18

He did. He even left it at my door with a note of his own, saying that if I need anything else, all I have to do is ask. I left him another note and thanked him and told him that I was going to go away for a while.

I wish I was strong enough to see Billy face to face. I wish I could at least say hi.

But that’s not important right now.

My entire energy needs to be focused on Mr. Edwards and the plan that I have for him. It’s going to be hard but he can do it.

Okay, first order of business is to get these new roses planted.

So I go out back to his rose garden that I worked on yesterday. I let my hobo slide down to the ground and squat to fish out my headphones and lollipops. Popping one in my mouth and putting on “The Chain” by Fleetwood Mac, I get to work.

The air is quiet and the breeze barely exists. It’s like even the wind doesn’t blow in this part of the world. Everything, even the trees, the ground, the grass is abandoned and on its own.

Something about that, about the silence and the loneliness of the place tugs at my heart as I’m digging holes and planting the overnight-soaked-in-water roses.

I’m on the ground, bent over, my knees mashed into the dirt and my hands pressing the soil around the last rose bush when I hear the backdoor open even through the song in my ears, and I stop.

Hastily, I straighten up, take off my work gloves and my headphones before turning around.

Mr. Edwards is up.

Like yesterday, he’s standing at the threshold, leaning against the doorjamb with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s just woken up; sleep is evident in every line of his sharp face and the stuck-up strands of his thick hair.

There’s one difference though. He’s wearing a t-shirt: white over his plaid pajamas, and he doesn’t have a liquor bottle in his hands.

So I guess there are two differences.

Swallowing, I leave my stuff on the ground and stand up, all dirty and mud-caked. My eyes instantly drop to his bare feet. The hem of his pajamas flutters around them, making them seem as vulnerable as yesterday.

I still can’t get over how he walked on broken glass to prevent me from doing it myself. I was supposed to bleed for him, seal my promise in blood.

But he bled for me, instead.

Gosh, he bled for me. And he touched my bare skin.

Biting my lip, I ask, “How’re your feet?”

His gaze drops to my mouth, making it tingle. “I’ll live.”

“You should really put bandages on them.”

“How are my roses?” he asks, ignoring my advice.

They remind me of you…

His words flash through my head and every part of me blushes. I remind him of delicate flowers he used to grow and care for. The flowers with pink, velvet petals. The color I’m sure my skin is turning into.

If only that was a good thing.

“Well, at the risk of pissing you off, I think they should be good. Unless you remember that you hate them now and forget to water them on purpose, they’ll live too.”

A glint shines in his eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it’s a glint of light amusement that somehow cuts through the tension.

“By the way, they’re Peace, the roses. Since you know, I took away your peace and all that. So I’m giving it back.”

“You are, huh?”

“Yup. They’re supposed to have lemony –”

“Lemony yellow petals with pale pink edges, I know.”

Damn it.

Why is it so sexy that he knows these things? Someone like him, someone so rough knows so much about something so tiny and fragile. Before I can ask him how he knows so much about the roses, he tells me, “I’m not paying you for all the yard work. In case this is how you plan to finance your college education.”

A churning happens in my stomach.

Liar.

I’m a liar.

But I still try to tell the truth. “I don’t want your money.”

“You want water?”

“Are you going to tell me to jump in the lake again?”

“I’m going to go back to the kitchen, open my fridge and bring you a bottle of water.”

I blink.

Then I blink some more.

Did he really just say he was going to bring me water?

I narrow my eyes at him. “Are you going to poison it? The water?”

“Hadn’t thought of that.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.” He scratches his beard. “Actually, I was thinking it’s the least I could do for all the free yard work you insist on doing around here. But if you want to jump in the lake instead, you’re more than welcome to.”

And just like that, he straightens up from the doorjamb and leaves.

I stare at the door, now empty of his presence, wondering what just happened? Is this somehow… a truce?