Blue Rose (A Flowering Novel) (18 page)

40

I didn’t want to go to Prom in the first place, even before Jack made it out to be the worst thing I could ever do. But I also didn’t know how to let down Dave. And he was my boyfriend, after all. Sure, I wasn’t in love with him, but he was my boyfriend and it mattered to him. I suppose it made sense; he was a nice person. He never understood hate and he couldn’t imagine that there wasn’t an explanation for why people hated us. He didn’t agree with how they treated us, and he disliked them all, but I still think
that there was some part of him that thought that he could change their minds.

In addition to not wanting to go, I
also couldn’t afford it. I knew that everyone would judge my dress, even if I had money that I could dig up to buy something nice. But I didn’t, which made it worse.

“I can’t afford a dress,” I said one afternoon, even though we’d already bought the tickets and we were going. Prom was only a month away and, while a month is plenty of time in normal life, in Prom life, it’s like a second. Every girl had had her dress since January, even before she had a date. In high school, there is this stupid cult of Prom, as if there aren’t a million bigger things in the world.
However, I guess there really aren’t; it’s amazing how much one stupid dance defines four years of a person’s life.

Dave and I were doing homework
at his house. Jack wasn’t talking to us officially, now that we were going to Prom for sure. He put down his pencil and closed his book. “Come on,” he said.

“Where are we going?”
I asked.

“To get you a dress.”

I shook my head. “I just told you; I’m broke.”

“Yeah, well, me, too, but we’ll find something.”

He brought me to the Salvation Army in town. I was humiliated, because I didn’t want anyone to see me there. I didn’t want them to know that I was poor, but all of that changed when Dave brought me to the back, where they had a collection of dresses.

The stupid thing about Prom gowns is that they cost a fortune, and you only
end up wearing them once. Of course, the benefit is to people like me, because the Salvation Army had racks of dresses that had clearly been worn only one time. I tried on a few different dresses, but then, after I returned them all to the rack, disappointed, I saw it.

It wasn’t anything that would change anyone’s life. It was just a pretty, strapless blue dress with black ribbons along the chest
, but it was beautiful to me. It looked elegant and rich and like something that the future cheerleader I used to imagine I’d be would wear. And it fit perfectly, as if it was waiting for me. It needed no alterations and, between my pale skin, dark hair, and the blue dress, I looked pretty. The right kind of pretty – the kind that didn’t lead men to use a girl, but to protect her, to look out for her because she was something worth saving. It was the kind of pretty that Jack made me feel without dresses or words or effort.

“You look… nice,” Dave said, awkwardly. It had only been a month and we were still uncomfortable in the relationship. Friends made sense. Homework buddies made sense. But this didn’t. And there was always that gap between us, the gap that Jack left and that I felt in my new dress, wishing he was here instead to see me.

“Thanks.”

The dress cost $12, which Dave paid, and I was going to Prom. We didn’t talk about it again until Prom night, when he showed up with my corsage. I had forgotten to get him a boutonniere, and I only remembered once we made it to the hotel and I saw all
of the other guys wearing them. But my corsage was perfect. It went on my wrist and it was a collection of roses, all dyed various shades of blue, perfectly complementing the dress. The flowers were surrounded in a bunch of black lace and silk that looked like it was the same as the ribbons on my dress. I was shocked that Dave, a guy, remembered that much detail about my stupid Prom dress, but that was the kind of guy he was.

And that night, the flowers on the corsage were trampled in the upstairs bedroom of a guy who didn’t care about my ribbons or really anything else. While the one guy who did sat downstairs and waited for me, eventually giving up and going home, because everyone told him
that I would rather be with anyone but him.

41

He’s leaving tomorrow. It feels like he just got here, that life just started to make sense again, and he’s leaving tomorrow. I don’t feel abandoned, like I usually do; I just feel sad. In a few weeks, Dave has become all-encompassing. My days are full of him and, although we only spent the one actual night together, I can’t believe how long it took me to fall in love with him.

I have therapy later this week and I’m sure Melinda will be happy that I’m making progress. We’ve had a break from sessions because of the holidays, although she was worried; she gave me an emergency number in case things got bad, but strangely, the holidays were perfect. Jack and Lily are happy. My mom and Owen are happy. And Dave and I are… well, happy. But like I told Jack, that word is poison and I refuse to say it aloud or even think it willingly.

Dave picks me up to spend the evening with me. I didn’t tell him, but my mom is traveling for work. She wanted to let Owen stay to look after me, until I reminded her that I’m not only too old for a babysitter, but that I’m also well beyond that point emotionally. Still, she’s being all motherly and she left me a list of emergency numbers. I don’t understand this new world, but I’m navigating the best I can.

“So… plans?” he says, standing in my kitchen doorway.

“Well, actually.” I pause. “Come in.”

I’ve never had sex in my bedroom. Not willingly. My bedroom holds a lot of horrific memories and, as much as I’ve tried to hide them, they’re still present. My mom replaced the furniture and, although the
Starry Night
poster didn’t make it through the holocaust of my father, I still have the album from my grandmother. But almost everything else has been replaced, as if my memories could be pushed aside with new paint and a dresser. All afternoon, I sat on my bed and I thought about Dave, my past, my future. I thought about the box of alcohol and razors that’s still in the back of my closet, although I don’t use the razors much anymore. I thought about the photo album, but I still haven’t been able to bring myself to open it. I thought about the memories associated with place, but then I realized that just as home can be anywhere, the good and the bad aren’t physical locations. And I made a decision to change the shape of the memories, to give the room more than new furniture.

I take Dave’s hand and
I bring him to my bedroom. It’s a lot like being in high school again with him, but in the best way. He makes me feel like so much is possible.
No,
I tell myself,
that’s not just him.
It’s true, because lately, I actually feel more active in my life and I like the way that I’ve made choices and I’ve been able to be something different. But when I close my bedroom door and turn to face Dave, I can’t deny that love is pretty damn powerful.

“Can I show you something?” I ask. “It’s kind of a big deal.”

He nods and I sit down on my bed, reaching underneath and taking out the photo album. “When I was a kid, my grandmother gave me this album. She told me that I should remember beauty, but she also told me that it was possible to make new dreams. However, she said that the new doesn’t replace the old, and I don’t think I really understood. Not until recently.”

“
It’s okay,” he says. “I’m not asking you to replace Jack.”

I shake my head. “I wasn’t talking about Jack. I was talking about new us and old us. Because I think there is something in new us that wouldn’t really be anything without the mistakes and the long road to getting here.”

“There’s never been old or new you. There was always just you,” he says and I flush.

“Anyway,
” I say, changing the subject, “I used to put my drawings in here. I never look at them. I haven’t looked at them in ages. I still slip them in between the pages every so often and I guess I felt like someday I would… but I wasn’t ready.”

“That’s a theme lately, huh?”
he asks.

I look at him. His eyes are so kind, and I wonder how I never saw him truly. “It is. But… I want to look at them. My grandmother said
that I had a talent, but you know. I was ten. I’m thinking of going back to school and I assumed it would be psychology, since that had been my plan. I guess I just need to know. And don’t lie to me, okay? Don’t tell me to major in art, just because you’re sweet.”

“I won’t.”

“All right then,” I say and I close my eyes, handing him the album. I feel the weight of it leave my hands, but I’m scared. I don’t want to know; I don’t want things to stop being good.

A lot of time passes, with him silent and my eyes closed. I hear him turning pages, but he doesn’t comment and I don’t look. Eventually, I hear him shut the album, but he still doesn’t say anything. I open one eye and look at him. He’s staring at the album; he doesn’t even notice
that I’m looking at him.

“That bad?” I ask.

“I didn’t know,” he tells me.

“About what?”

“I mean, I knew, I guess. I knew what had happened, through the things people said and what I pieced together from you and Jack. I saw the scars on your legs and I know how closed off you can be. I knew that you hated when I touched you, even when you said that you didn’t. But I don’t think I
knew
.”

“You do now?”

He opens the album to a drawing I did right after Jerry left. It’s abstract, but I can feel the pain emanating from it even as he holds it up to me. I never look at my work when I’m done, as if I pour myself into the art and then it’s over. The catharsis happens and then it gets tucked away. But looking at it now… it’s more honest than I have ever been with another person or even with myself.

“You are extremely talented,” he says. “But I don’t know if you should go to school for this. It’s too raw. Are you sure you want people seeing it? Judging it?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know what I want. I always wanted to be an artist, but there isn’t much of a place for that these days, is there?”

Dave closes the album and tucks the drawing back into it, before he places it on my dresser and joins me on the bed again. “There’s a place for whatever you want to make room for, Alana.”

I lean over and kiss him. At first, it’s just grateful. But his hands reach into my hair and it turns into something else quickly. It’s not like I didn’t intend for this to happen, because I wanted to do this. I wanted to change what the room represents, but I can’t help but get nervous as his hands pull my hair tight between his fingers and his kiss grows more urgent.

“You make me feel so much,” I tell him, my cheek pressed against his.

He holds me close to him, but the proximity starts to explode into something else. I lean back, pulling my shirt over my head, and I take off my bra. Dave doesn’t undress, but he pulls my pants and underwear off, and then he moves between my legs again. His hands grip my thighs as he circles his tongue on my clit and I close my eyes. The memories try to ruin the moment, but I push them away. I don’t want to think about anything but him.

Dave lets go of my leg and
he slides his fingers inside of me. He uses his thumb on my clit and moves his body up along mine. His hand is between us and I push toward it as his lips move along my collarbone, chest, and neck. He teases me in the right spots and I tighten around his fingers.

“More,” I plead.

“What can I do?” he asks, wanting nothing but to please me.

“I want you inside of me,” I tell him.

He undresses and lies down on his side, still teasing my pussy, and we roll over so that I’m on top of him. I take his hands and hold them down at his sides and then I slide down over his cock. He reaches deep into me and I slowly rotate my hips, feeling every inch of him from the inside. Pressing my body against his, I push down on his hands and tuck my head into his shoulder. Slowly, he matches my motions, but it’s teasing and exquisite and I don’t want to speed up. I don’t want it to stop. I can feel him breathing, his chest picking up speed as we both stay mostly still except for the turning of my hips and his slow pushes to get deeper. His skin is on fire against mine and he kisses my head while I bite down on his shoulder.

“Alana,” he whispers.

I can’t take it anymore, but I don’t want to change it. I want it to be like this, while I want him to do whatever he can to me and then more. I sit up and I start to ride him faster, feeling him push harder and trying to keep up with my speed. I lean back so that he can reach the spot inside that will drive me mad. The contractions begin in earnest and my toes and feet start to tingle. I reach for him and he sits up, joining me and holding me against him, so that I can ride him but still feel his body against mine. Wrapping my legs around him, I hang on and soon, it’s just too hard to wait.

Dave holds me as I come, my body out of my control, weak against his strong hands and arms, and my entire body is full of him. He doesn’t change his motions or speed, just stays focused on helping me reach the plateau and then, I crest. I open my eyes and smile at him, biting my lip as I release everything I’ve built up.

“Yes,” I say. It’s the only word I’ve said, the only noise I’ve really made, but there is so much meaning in that word. He pulls me tighter into his embrace and, as my orgasm ends, his builds. He’s desperate for it and I feel him trying to hold on, to give me more, but I want him to let go. I tighten around him and he lets out a long, slow moan, and that’s it. He just can’t wait anymore, and he comes, probably for the last time before he has to leave me. But it’s exactly right and I fall asleep almost immediately, safe and warm in my bed for the first time in my entire life.

****

In the morning, we don’t have a lot of time before he needs to be at the bus station and I don’t want to have sex, as if there is nothing else to wait for in the time that he’s away. Instead, we get coffee and we sit in my car by the river. There isn’t time to drive to the beach, but it doesn’t matter. We could sit inside the dingy bus station and it would be just a place. There is so much more to hold onto now.

“I’ll write this time,” I tell him. “Every day.”

He nods, quiet.

“I promise,” I insist.

He holds his coffee and looks out the windshield. “If things change… if you realize you don’t have room for me in your life anymore… it’s okay. Just… don’t tell me until I get home? Write a letter and tell me everything’s fine.”

“It will be fine,” I argue.

“Okay,” he says, although I’m scared for the first time since he got back. We didn’t talk about the war, about what he does while he’s over there, and I realize that maybe he won’t come back. There is a real chance that he won’t come back and it all just seems cruel right now.

“It’s not fair,” I say. “I had so many years I could have…”

He puts his coffee in the cup holder and takes my hand. “No, it’s okay. You’re right. Everything will be fine.”

“I’m going to school, but not in New York. Not at the community college, either. I’m going to apply to RISD and, if I don’t get in there, I’ll find something. But when you come home, I won’t be far. I’ll be here, and I’m waiting this time, Dave.”

“I love you,” he tells me one last time before we have to leave for the station.

He leaves. There is no epic change of heart where we decide to go on the run and let love overcome all
of our responsibilities. He’s almost late and we only have a quick kiss in the middle of the dirty sidewalk. I watch him get on the bus, but there are no window seats left, so there’s no beautiful movie goodbye where he mouths declarations of love through the window as the bus drives away. He just gets on the bus, heads back to wherever the hell he goes, and that’s it. I get in my car and drive home, where the house is empty because my mom is still traveling.

I won’t think about what could happen. I won’t hope for the best, because I can’t bear to be devastated, but instead, I will think about the last few weeks and how much I love him. And I will write. Every day, just like I promised. I’ll go back to school and maybe the future will be better than the past.
Maybe it won’t, but there’s no point in thinking that way.

Opening my grandmother’s album, I look at her drawings and then
at my own. Some are terrible. I had no idea what I was doing when I was a kid, but some have a lot of potential. I see the pain in them that Dave saw, but I also see in them a girl who refused to give up entirely.