Page 5 of Forever Writing You

Our final bloom had fallen off and died seasons ago.

GROWING SEASON

BACK THEN

Dahlia

Snip. Snip. Snip!

I glance at the camera that watches the east side garden, wondering what the hell that sound is. It’s too loud to be a rabbit, and if a deer has somehow managed to jump our new eight-foot fence, I’ll have to let him enjoy a few blooms before kicking him out.

Snipppp. Snippp. Snip.

The camera rotates, revealing a Central High School varsity sweatshirt and…Everett Anderson.

He’s the most popular guy at my high school, and as much as I want to act like his cocky self doesn’t deserve it, he does.

It’s hard to look at his perfectly structured face without getting turned on, without envisioning what his full lips would feel like pressed against mine.

He keeps his ink-black hair short, but he always let a tendril fall over his left eye. His dimples deepen whenever he smiles, and whenever someone gets close enough—which I never do—his grey and blue irises could probably take their breath away.

I snap out of the trance with another “Snipppp!”

What the hell is he doing?

He cuts sunflower stems, and then he moves to another row, aiming his scissors at the neck of a red rose.

Rushing out of the house, I run down past the vegetables and catch him red-handed.

“Why are you trespassing here, Everett Anderson?” I exaggerate every syllable in his name.

“Dahlia?” He looks up, smiling at me as if this is some type of joke. “Aren’t you supposed to wear a shirt under overalls?”

“It’s laundry day.”

“Good to know.” He glances at my blue bra, and I make a mental note to always wear a shirt from here on out. “Am I bothering you?”

“Yes, and this is private property.” I pick up a nearby pitchfork and aim it at his head. “Get off or else.”

“Or else what?”

I make a stabbing motion with the pitchfork, and he laughs.

“If it’s alright with you, Psycho,” he says, “I’m picking some flowers for a bouquet, since my dad is coming home to visit me today.”

“You mean, you’re stealing?”

“Borrowing. I told your mom I’d pay her back when I get paid next week.”

I eye him as he plucks a few more roses, wondering why my mother didn’t mention this arrangement to me. Then again, she gives away flowers to high schoolers pretty often, so I shouldn’t be surprised.

“Why does your dad need flowers?” I ask. “Wouldn’t he prefer a tree or some specialty grass?”

“He’s a clothing designer,” he says. “He gets inspired by flowers.”

“Don’t get those then.” I drop the pitchfork. “I’ll show you where the best ones are.”

“You’ve decided to be nice to me now?”

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