Page 33 of Lotus

I will definitely be locking myself in the bedroom for the duration of the evening.

“All right,” I say, stirring the sauce and inhaling the fragrant aroma. “What is he like?”

Gabe slides up beside me, back to counter, his arms crossed. “Pops is pretty cool. He re-married eight years ago and has two other step-kids I’ve met a few times. They’re okay. My dad is a business guy and owns a bunch of restaurants in Lake Geneva. The have a big ass house along the lake.”

“He sounds successful,” I conclude. “It must be a rewarding life.”

My brother shrugs with indifference. “Not really my scene. We don’t share the same values, I guess. He’s all about money and status. My priorities are friends and fun.”

“I can see where there may be a dissidence.”

He makes an agreeable humming sound before pulling himself forward off the counter. “Anyway, I’m going to hop in the shower. You should ask Sydney to come over for dinner.”

I take the sauce off the burner and begin to gather the rest of the ingredients so I can assemble the dish. “Yes. I’ll stop by and invite her.”

“Or you can text her,” Gabe chuckles, scratching at his shaggy mop of hair.

Hmm.I suppose Icouldsend her an electronic message on the cellular device Gabe purchased for me, but I’ve been struggling to fully comprehend it. There are far too many icons. Gabe added a harrowing assortment of colorful bubbles to the device and told me they were called ‘apps’. Software applications, I discovered. All of them provide different functions—most for entertainment, like Bookface… which has nothing to do with books.

Disappointing.

“I prefer face-to-face communication,” I tell him distractedly, as I transfer the sheets of pasta over to the ceramic casserole tray.

He shrugs again, then disappears down the hallway. “Suit yourself.”

While the lasagna bakes, I decide to head next door. Stepping through the threshold into Sydney’s foyer, I realize I have picked up the horribly rude habit of forgetting to knock when I visit her—much like my brother. But I don’t retract my footing because shrill music is vibrating the walls, her own voice singing loud and proud over the vocals. She wouldn’t be able to hear my knocking, anyway.

I follow the melodies up the staircase and find Sydney dancing wildly, her back to me, her ponytail whipping around in circles as she sings into a paintbrush. It’s a bizarre and entertaining scene, something I’m unable to tear my eyes from as I linger in the doorway. I watch her body sway and move as she rolls her hips and flips her hair from side to side.

I recognize the band to beNirvana—one of Sydney’s favorites, and the first she introduced me to three months ago when we officially rekindled our long-lost friendship.

Sydney is still unaware of my presence, which makes me feel uncomfortable, like I’m infringing on her privacy. But now I’m afraid I’ll startle her if I make myself known and ruin this carefree moment she seems to be enjoying. I allow another minute go by, hardly containing my amusement when she pulls the rubber band loose from her hair and begins flailing her head up and down, blonde locks flying in a thousand different directions.

Unsure of what else to do, I pull out my cellular device. I suppose I should get some use out of it. Scanning through the plethora of icons, I find the one that allows me to transmit messages. I locate Sydney’s name and type out:

Hi, it’s Oliver. Don’t be alarmed, but I’m standing behind you.

I tap the ‘send’ button and watch as she reaches into her back pocket, pulling out the device that seems to be vibrating.

Fascinating.

For as much as I prefer less complicated means of communication, I can’t deny how impressive this new advancement is.

Sydney whirls around after reading my message, her cheeks flushed, her hair utter chaos, then tells the ‘Alexa’ machine to silence the music. She stares at me with a heaving chest and wide eyes. “Fuck, Oliver. How long have you been standing there?”

Her voice is hoarse. She’s out of breath. Sliding my hands into my pockets, I study her sheepishly. “Approximately three minutes.”

Sydney blinks. “Excuse me. I need to go die.”

“Please don’t do that.” I rush into the room before she can make any drastic decisions. “I apologize. I couldn’t seem to look away from your performance.”

“My performance…” Sydney plants her palms against both cheeks, and they look even redder than before. “How far do you think the ground is from the window? Rough estimate? Do you think I’ll croak, or will I just break my legs and live out the rest of my humiliation in a wheelchair?”

“Um… I would speculate it’s roughly a fifteen-foot drop, and you’re more likely to break your legs than die. However, if you fall head-first, you’re inclined to injure your neck, which would either kill or paralyze you.”

“Great. See you on the flipside.”

Sydney turns and races toward the open window, and I react by reaching out and slinking my fingers around her wrist to hold her back. She starts giggling hysterically, falling against my chest, then looking at me upside-down with a wink. The worried breath lodged in my lungs escapes through parted lips.

---