Sweet Dandelion

Like always, I can’t talk about the deep stuff for long.

“How’s Zeppelin?” I ask. I haven’t run into his giant bear of a dog again, but I have bumped into him a few times going in or out of the building. It’s such a huge place that it surprises me that I see him there as often as I do, but I guess it’s not so crazy considering we have the same schedule.

His eyes narrow on me. He knows what I’m doing, moving the topic to something safer, but he always lets me. I’ve already told him far more than I’ve told anyone in the last almost year. I still haven’t figured out why, but since talking to him makes me feel better I haven’t pondered too much on it.

He rubs a hand over his thickly stubbled jaw. I bet he’s the kind of guy who shaves and still has five o’ clock shadow.

“Zeppelin is good. I feel bad for him though. A condo isn’t exactly the best place for a dog his size. Hopefully one day I’ll have more room for him.”

“I want to live on land, own lots of acres,” I admit, a wistful smile gracing my lips as I allow my mind to drift and envision a future that has the things I want. I suppose it’s ironic how I know I want certain things but I still haven’t figured out what I want to be. “Wide open space seems nice. It’s crowded here.”

“Yeah, it is,” he agrees.

“Where’d you grow up?”

He pushes his dark hair from his eyes, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Arkansas.”

“And you ended up here?”

“Mhmm,” he hums. “Moved here for college and fell in love with this place. The views are spectacular, and the mountains,” he muses, tapping his index finger to his lips. “But one day I’ll move outside the city.”

“Sage moved here for college. He stayed too. Obviously.” My eyes look around the room, at all the books. “You read a lot?”

He looks behind him at the shelves filled with rows of books of varying length and size. Most of them are work related I’m sure, but I notice some novels interspersed throughout.

He lets out a husky laugh and stands up, walking over to the shelves. “Yeah, a lot can be learned or enjoyed in the pages of a book.” He looks over his shoulder at me. “Come here.”

I listen to his command, standing at his side. Warmth radiates from his body and I try to ignore the zap of energy I feel in the air.

Can he feel it too?

Tilting my head back, he angles his down to look at me. His eyes trace my face before he looks me in the eye.

Yeah, he feels it too.

He clears his throat, pulling his eyes from me and back to the shelf.

I shouldn’t be feeling this connection, this draw to be near him.

He’s the school counselor.

He’s practically a teacher.

He’s almost eleven years older than me.

I repeat those sentences in my head in rapid-fire succession, but they don’t calm my racing heart or lessen the heat growing in the room.

Mr. Taylor reaches for a book on the t

op shelf. He’s so tall, probably six-three, which means he doesn’t have to stretch far.

“Read this.”

He places the book in my hands, careful not to touch my skin with any part of his.

I look down at the white cover with the blue eye.

“1984 by George Orwell,” I read, running my finger along the cover. I can tell its been read many times. The pages yellowed and the corners of the cover curling upwards. “Why this one?”