Sweet Dandelion

“Ansel is … Ansel. He’s harmless.”

And a drug dealer, but Sage doesn’t need to know that.

“Dani.” His hazel eyes narrow in disbelief. “When I was his age I was constantly having to whack one off. Flirting with girls was basically a full time job and believe me we did a lot more than flirt.” He uses air quotations and I roll my eyes. Watching my brother have a meltdown over this is mildly hilarious.

“You’re blowing this out of proportion.”

He scrubs his hands down his face. “How did Mom handle this shit with you? Boys and stuff?”

“Well, I had friends that were both girls and guys. It was never a big deal.”

He tugs on his hair and then points at me. “No dating for you. Friends, fine, I’ll have to get used to it. But absolutely no dating.”

I want to laugh at him but I know it would be the complete wrong reaction in this scenario.

“All right, whatever you say.” I pat his chest mockingly as I pass him. “I’m going to my room.”

“Why do I feel like you’re secretly laughing at me?” he calls after me.

“Because I am.”

Closing my bedroom door I lean against it, biting my lip to stifle my smile.

I know not all days are going to be perfect. Happiness is fleeting for everyone. But I allow myself this one small victory.

Chapter Eleven

“Hey, Neighbor.” I drop onto the loveseat cushion in Mr. Taylor’s office. He looks up from a piece of paper, laying it aside.

“I suppose we are.”

“Bleh.” I stick my tongue out like I’ve tasted something sour. “Don’t say suppose it makes you sound like a stuffy old man. You’re not old.”

“I’m not?” He leans back in his chair, fighting a smile.

I don’t think he’ll ever admit it, but he’s amused by me. And I’ll never admit it, but what I thought would be a torturous fifty minutes every day is quickly becoming my favorite part of the day. He doesn’t push me to talk about what happened. If I don’t want to talk that’s okay. If I want to have a simple conversation he’s cool with that. And if I give him a breadcrumb of information I know he feels like it’s a win.

I pull out a sketchpad I bought yesterday, using a basic #2 pencil to scribble some lines on the page. I’m definitely not an artist like Ansel is, but the museum he took me to inspired me to try things out on my own. Art is, after all, experimental and subjective.

“How old do you think I am?” he questions when I don’t reply.

I look up from the piece of paper and the lines that look like nothing but to me form a close up image of the trunk of a tree. The ridges and whorls.

“I don’t know, but you

’re not old. I doubt you’re thirty yet.”

“Twenty-nine,” he surprises me by giving me a definitive answer.

I point the eraser end of my pencil at him. “See? Not thirty and not old.”

“What is old to you?”

I pause, pouting my lips as I ponder his words. “I don’t know. I guess it’s more of your being than an actual number. Someone fifty might act older than someone eighty, you know? There are some crazy old ladies out there.”

“But I’m not allowed to say suppose?” He cocks his head to the right, waiting for my answer.

“Hey, that was a piece of advice not a judgment. Do you want to sound like a stuffy old fart?”