Page 18 of Lotus

“Oliver! I’m so sorry. I forgot you were here.”

I frown, watching as she yanks the hem of Gabe’s t-shirt down over her thighs. It’s Sydney’s sister—the woman with blue hair and a name that matches a fruit.

Tangerine, perhaps.

Gabe appears in the frame of the doorway, shirtless, his head ducked bashfully. “Sorry, man. We didn’t mean to wake you.”

Tangerine forces a smile as she runs past me and escapes into the hall bathroom. I look up at my brother.

He clears his throat. “We were just… playing a game.Twister. You know, with the colorful dots and weird yoga poses? Crazy fun.”

“Twister?” My frown deepens. “I assumed you were having sex.”

Gabe’s mouth shapes into an ‘O’ as his eyebrows raise, his feet shuffling back and forth like he’s uncomfortable. “Right. We did that, too. AfterTwister.” He coughs into his fist. “All that nervous energy, like, ‘who’s gonna win’? It’s a breeding ground for sexual tension, and—”

Tangerine slips out of the bathroom, tiptoeing by me as if she may go unnoticed. People are strange.

“Anyway, sorry to wake you up. We’ll be quiet,” Gabe finishes just as Tangerine sweeps past him and disappears into the darkened bedroom.

He throws me an awkward smile and closes the door.

I head back to my room with a sigh, glancing at a nearby clock and noting it is after three A.M. Being able to tell the time is a convenience I never knew I was missing.

I pause in front of my bedroom window, glancing out to the adjacent house and noting the window across from me is dark and motionless. Sydney is surely asleep, along with the majority of the world. My mind skips over our last few exchanges, settling on the look in her eyes when I told her not to come over. I offended her in some way.

I didn’t mean to, of course, and her reaction made me feel uneasy inside. I’m not accustomed to such a feeling—the kind that resembles a little woven knot of dread blooming deep inside my gut. My emotions have always been fairly dependable. Nonexistent, mostly. The only time anxiety or remorse would trickle its way inside me was when I’d read a compelling novel, or when I watchedThe Princess Bridefor the very first time. Human-inspired emotions are confusing and unexpected.

But I can’t help but wonder if my blunt honesty gave Sydney that same dreadful feeling, and the thought alone only heightens that feeling for me.

I turn back around to face my far wall. It’s partially covered in pencil etchings, creating a familiar world I wish I could escape into. Exciting characters, new adventures and conflict, a beautiful damsel in need of rescue.

I will save her; I always do.

My eyes drift higher, reading over the three words that kept me company for two long decades:The Lotus Chronicles.

I’m watching the birds again the following day from the cement stoop, reveling in the exquisite way their wings flutter and their heads bob with quick precision. I am fascinated.

After my eyesight adjusted to sunlight, I thought, surely, the sun was the most wondrous part of freedom. But as I continue to absorb nature, animals, and wildlife, the sounds and smells… I am inclined to change my mind.

I’m only outside for short while when Sydney steps onto her front lawn. At first, I think she’s going to approach me, but she only sends me a quick smile before she begins to busy herself around the yard. I observe her. She perches herself on the side of the house with rubber gloves and tools, then starts to dig small holes. A vague, hazy vision flashes through me of a woman teaching me how to plant a garden. A kind, soft-spoken woman. Warm and familiar.

Perhaps she was in a dream once.

My attention is shared between the birds and Sydney as I sit on the front porch in quiet reflection. The birds are incredible, but my gaze keeps pulling to the right, fixating on the woman who feels important to me in the most unusual way. She swipes at a light sheen of sweat skating along her brow, kneeling in the soil, planting seeds and bulbs.

Sydney glances up at me, having felt my eyes on her, and I tear my sights away. But it’s not long before my peripheral view catches her sauntering over to me, dappled in dirt stains. I stare straight ahead.

“Good morning,” she greets softly, landing just a few feet away. “It’s beautiful out. I thought I’d get an early start on my vegetable garden.”

I clear my throat, bowing my head. Words are elusive, as they often seem to be.

“Look, I know you didn’t want to see me, but—”

“I wanted to see you.” I’m startled by the sound of my own voice as I turn to look at her through a jagged swallow. “I just didn’t want to be seen.”

The heaviness of my admission has her softening instantly, and she takes my words as an invitation to step closer. I rake my eyes over her, noting that she appears much different than she had the previous night. She’s dressed in a t-shirt showcasing an unknown man’s face, tied loosely at her slender hip with some sort of rubber band. Her flaxen hair is pulled up, her face no longer painted.

The previous night she wore tight, revealing clothes that planted a tickly feeling in the pit of my stomach.

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