Page 34 of Lotus

She spins around to face me, her grin still wide and teasing. She’s wearing a cropped t-shirt, cut high enough that her belly-button peeks through, her bronzed stomach lightly sheened in sweat from exertion. “Kidding. Sorry.”

I’m still adjusting to her sense of humor.

Realizing my hand is still loosely gripping her wrist, I release her, pacing backwards and forcing my eyes away from the exposed skin of her abdomen.

It’s been three months since I opened up to Sydney on my bed, letting her in, allowing our friendship to organically unfold. She is, by far, the most perplexing, endearing, complicated, beautiful, and charming human I’ve come across so far. I’m drawn to her in many ways, and I’m not sure if it’s our past history that binds us, or if it’s something else.

I enjoy spending time with Gabe, and even Sydney’s sister is bearable to be around, but there is something different about the woman standing in front of me, hair wild, cheeks still pink like her upturned lips. She doesn’t treat me like glass that will splinter and shatter. She doesn’t talk down to me like the old woman down the street or strangers who recognize me in public.

Sydney has an essence about her, something intoxicating and pure. I find myself thinking about her when I’m not around her. I find myself staring at her far too long, much like I’m doing right now. She ducks her head, a bashful gesture, breaking eye contact. Something inside me warms in response. “I’m sorry for intruding,” I apologize. Scratching at the collar of my neck, I nod towards her easel. “Were you painting?”

We both glance to the left side of the room, eyeing the unfinished canvas. Sydney nods, bending down to fetch her discarded hair band and pulling her tresses up into a messy mound. “Yep,” she chirps. “Painting. Dancing like a psycho. Take your pick.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“The psychotic dance moves or the painting?”

My eyes travel to hers and we share a smile. “Both are impressive.”

Sydney scrunches up her nose, moving into me, giving my chest a playful swat. “I like having you around. You’re good for my ego.” She smooths back the stray hairs from her forehead, a deep sigh following. “I need to get ready for work. I’m bartending tonight.”

“Oh. I came by to invite you to supper,” I explain, unable to veil the disappointment in my tone. Then, when her words sink in, my gut pitches with unease. She’s been working most weekends at the liquor establishment, and the prior Friday night she came home frazzled because a presuming customer had put his hands on her. “Are you sure you’re safe there? Should I accompany you?”

Sydney worries her lip between her teeth, my eyes zoning in on the action. “I’ll be fine. But you can help me pick out an outfit.”

“I don’t feel qualified…”

Her fingers curl around my wrist as she tugs me out of the office and towards her bedroom. “You’re a guy. You’re qualified.”

I’m not certain how my gender correlates to her fashion selections, but I find myself standing beside her, facing her opened closet. It’s brimful of colorful garments, ranging from sweaters to dresses to winter apparel. Sydney usually wears something close-fitting that accentuates her body when she works on the weekends. It’s a stark contrast to her normal weekday attire.

“What do you think?” she wonders aloud, puckering her lips as she skims over the clothing assortments.

I’m not sure why, but my attention is pulled to the opposite end of the closet. “How about this little ensemble?” I suggest, reaching for one of the hangers. “Appealing, yet conservative.”

Sydney gawks at me, one eyebrow arched with a flare of concern. “Oliver, that’s a snowsuit.”

“Well, it’s pink and feminine. And it looks awfully comfortable.”

“Maybe I was wrong about you being qualified…” she snickers, snatching the winter wear from my hands and stuffing it back into the closet. She peruses the other items and settles on a seductive black dress. “What about this?”

I eye the choice distastefully as she holds it up. “It’s all wrong. Butthis…” I pull an oversized parka out from the mix.

Laughter invades my ears. “Okay, no. I’m not going skiing in the Aspens—I’m slinging cocktails for preppy college kids. Dress code calls for sleek and sexy.”

She decides to go with the black dress, and I cross my arms with defeat, clearly not winning this debate. To be truthful, I’m uncertain why I even care so much. There’s no doubt Sydney will look stunning in that dress. All eyes will be on her.

Perhaps I fear thewrongeyes will be on her.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to accompany you?” The offer almost physically hurts me when the notion of being in such an overcrowded establishment registers. But Sydney’s safety trumps my own discomfort. “I can join you after supper.”

Her eyes seem to sparkle at the suggestion—pale blue eyes, the color of ice, yet always so warm.

A conundrum.

“That’s really sweet of you, Oliver. I know you don’t like crowds.”

Sydney surprises me with a quick step forward, her hand reaching for my shoulder for balance. She leans up on her tiptoes to press a kiss along my jaw. Taken off guard by the gesture, I turn my head, just slightly, and her lips catch the corner of my mouth instead. We both freeze for a moment, eye to eye, my breath sticking to the back of my throat like syrup.

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