My mouth quirks up on one side. “Yeah, I guess I do.”
“The thing is, most of the time, I suspect that ‘fine’ is Lemon speak for ‘not fine.’”
I clutch the neck of my T-shirt. “I . . . I’m on my way to fine. It’s been a strange day. A lot happening all at once.”
“Seems like it,” he says. “Anything I can do to help?”
“Thank you, but it’s—” I stop myself.
“You were going to say ‘fine.’”
“Sorry. I’m nervous or something.”
“Because of me?”
“Because of . . . the way I acted. And because you’re here anyway, asking if I’m okay. I treated you really badly, and you didn’t deserve it, and so, this is a good time to apologize.”
He looks at me funny. Probably the way I looked at Dad when he admitted he was wrong.
“I wasn’t expecting an apology. Usually you yell at me and run in the other direction.”
I can’t stop a tentative smile. “I earned that. And probably a lot more.”
He folds his arms and leans against his car. “I think you’ve already been through enough. And I’m sorry too. For the things I did. Hanging out with Rob. And Chelsea.”
“Yeah, that one kind of hurt.”
“I know. I knew it would.” He grimaces. “I admit I kind of liked the attention she gave me, especially since you weren’t talking to me anymore. Not proud of it. I felt really shitty afterward, so I avoided you, which was double shitty, because I didn’t want to, so it was like this guilt-frustration vortex I couldn’t get out of.”
“We weren’t together, so it’s not like you weren’t allowed to see her . . . or take her out.”
“I drove her to school that one time. That’s all.”
“Oh.”
He shakes his head. “Not my finest moment, but . . . like I said, I’m sorry. I was angry at you, really angry, because you pretty much tossed me aside. I guess I’m still confused about why. I have my suspicions, but still.”
“There were a lot of reasons. It was complicated.”
“That’s not a good enough answer. Not anymore.”
I pluck the dandelion from the sidewalk and twirl it between my fingers. “I . . . think I need multiple choice. Can you do that? To make it easier?”
I’m not sure if he’s going to indulge me, but he slides down his car, close enough now that I can reach out and touch him if I want to. A ghost of a smile hovers around his mouth.
“So, was it A, because you were angry that I talked to Chelsea about us; B, because you were afraid of the gossip; or C, because you decided you just didn’t like me anymore and didn’t know how to tell me?” He pauses. “Or D. None of the above, and there’s a space to fill in the blank.”
I tap the dandelion against my chin. “At first it was A, but that’s because I knew B would happen. And did happen. It definitely wasn’t C. Not even close to C. Miles and miles away from C.”
He slowly raises his head; his scar catches the light and I have to stop myself from tracing it with my fingertip.
“I was mad at myself too, because this”—I gesture to us—“wasn’t going to fly with my dad. That’s partly why I pushed you away, because I didn’t want anyone to talk about us, or specifically me, which sounds amazingly dumb now, because I’m all anyone talks about. The exact thing I didn’t want to happen started to happen. But none of that is your fault.”
“Why, though? What was so bad about us being talked about? Besides your father finding out.”
I think back, teasing apart the reasons that seemed so rational at the time.
“I just—I guess it has to do with my name. I’ve always tried to blend in because I have this ridiculous name. I hated it, the jokes and the comments. I was always afraid of the next round of teasing, so I tried to fade, so there wouldn’t be anything to say. And then, it was like everything exploded at once, making it worse. My sister left, and you showed up. Which—I don’t mean you were a bad thing—it’s just, I wasn’t expecting there to be an us, and nobody else did either. I especially didn’t expect it. Then everyone found out, and the videos started, and . . . you know the rest.”
I exhale, frustrated with myself, because this isn’t going right. “I’m totally screwing this up.”
“Just go slow,” he says. “I’m not timing you.”
I throw my shoulders back and start over. He’s here, listening to my rambling, and it’s worth every bit of struggle to find the words.
“You did the right thing by telling Chelsea the truth. It would’ve been wrong to string her along. I don’t know about her, but most girls—they have a whole relationship worked out in their head before it even happens—and she needed to know you didn’t feel that way about her. If I could go back, I would’ve dealt with the fallout, as bad as it was, but I wouldn’t have pushed you away. I think I screwed myself . . . by not having the confidence to believe I deserved to be with you. If I did, then we would’ve stayed together and all the things Madeline was saying wouldn’t have mattered that much. Nobody would’ve believed her. It probably wouldn’t have gotten as big as it did.”
His eyes move over me like a wave, from top to bottom. Warmth spreads through my chest under his intense gaze. Without warning, he grabs the knot of my hoodie, pulling me so I’m inches from his body. He runs a hand through my hair and pushes it behind my ear.
“What about now?” he asks.
“Now?” I repeat, not sure I’ve entirely heard the question. Or care. About anything except his thumb, light as a butterfly, trailing from my cheekbone to my chin to my throat.
“Yeah. Now. Are you still afraid?”
“Not. Afraid,” I utter, somewhat out of breath. His mouth is very close. “Maybe a little . . . dizzy?”
He laughs. “Lemon Lavender, you seriously have the best name ever. You’re so out of my league.”
I can’t focus with him in kissing distance, but I manage to say, “Do you accept my apology?”
“I do. Do you accept mine?”
“Yeah. I do too.”
He sighs, lowering his hand from my face. “Not much else has changed, though. There’s no new video, but that’s just for now.”
I nod. “Madeline’s probably going to start it up again. She said as much today.”
His forehead creases. “Does it matter if she does?”
I sense this is what we’re hinged on. How am I going to react to more gossip? More comments? More rumors? It’s a valid question, but I know I can’t go back to before. Even if nothing really changes, I’m different. I have a voice. I have myself. I have Isabel. And I can have more than that if I allow myself to.
“No,” I confirm. I lean back a little, needing some air, and to fully see into his hazel eyes. “I don’t know if Chelsea will ever stop targeting me or if Madeline will make new videos, but I spent a long time running away, and I don’t want to be like that anymore. I don’t want to have to choose between what I want and what everyone else thinks I should have. Not for them or anyone else who has an opinion.” I touch a cut on his knuckle, likely a souvenir from Rob Frost’s face. “I’m not saying it won’t ever hurt and it won’t make me angry—that would be really naive—but I promise not to hide anymore or pretend there’s nothing I can do about it. As long as you promise not to beat anyone else up. They aren’t worth it. They don’t matter.”
I wait, trying to be patient in the seconds that follow. A few kids on scooters skitter by, so fast they’re gone in a flash of sun-lit metal.
He finally says, “I’m not sure what I expected when I came here today. There was so much crap between us, so much distance, and part of me thought it would stay that way. I didn’t stop caring, though. I’d see you in English or in the hall, and I’d want to go to you, but then I’d remember you didn’t want my help, so I’d stay away. But I also knew everything you were going through at home, and I was back at the beginning again.”
I’m surprised he’s been tied in so man
y knots, just like I’ve been. I assumed he didn’t care, that he didn’t think about me at all. This glimpse to the other side reminds me how I’ve underestimated him. I grip the hem of his T-shirt and tug so we inch even closer. With every tentative touch, we stitch up a wound, gradually pulling the seams together.
“Do we have a deal?” I ask. “Or, at least, have I explained my complete irrationality?”
He looks down at my fingers curled into his shirt. “We have a deal. Complete irrationality has been deciphered, and added to my Lemon dictionary. What about mine? All the stupid shit I did?”
“Forgiven,” I say. “So . . . what now?”
“You always need to know what’s going to happen, don’t you?”
“It’s just . . . I mean . . . are we . . . something? Like friends?”
He tips my chin up. “Yeah, let’s go with friends.”
The pterodactyl is back, swooping through my stomach. “Good, because I really want to be your friend.”
“Friends don’t ignore their friends,” he says. “And they don’t take their friends’ enemies to school.”
“And friends don’t yell at their friends, then run away without an explanation.”
“Come here,” he murmurs, pulling me to him. The final distance closes; my head rests against his shoulder while his arms wrap around my lower back. I never thought I’d get to feel him again, and I lose time and space while remembering the wonder of it, the breathlessness. His heart beats just a little fast, matching mine. I close my eyes, enjoying the spinning.
“I don’t think this friendship thing is going to work for very long,” he says.
I laugh, knowing it’s true. “Well, let’s use the definition of ‘friend’ loosely.”
“Maybe we should take it for a test drive. Did you realize it’s Wednesday?”
Initially, I’m confused, but then my head pops up. “I haven’t had a slushee in forever.”
“We could get one if you want.”
“Now?”
“Unless you want to run first. I can wait.”
“Slushee today,” I say. “Running tomorrow.”
I reluctantly leave his arms and turn toward the house, where Mom and Dad have their faces pressed against the window. The sun blots out their expressions, but neither of them scurries out of the house and drags me inside, so it must be semi-okay. I raise my hand in a wave and then point to my phone, indicating I have it with me. After a moment, Mom moves away from the glass, but Dad stays.
It isn’t until I’m in Graham’s car that Dad lifts his hand in response, a flat palm against the window and a little shake. Maybe it means see you later, or maybe he’s letting me know I’m going to be subjected to a full Graham interrogation when I get home. Either way, I smile and press my own hand against the glass. I leave it there until the car pulls away from the curb and the house is out of view.
The music is up and the windows are down as Graham heads out of Westmoore. Being here feels right, even if nothing is perfect. I don’t know what’s going to happen with Meg, and I sure as hell don’t know what’s next with Madeline and Chelsea, but for the first time, I’m not so worried about it. I’m just going to take this moment and go with it, because that’s all I can really do. The sun will set, and it’ll rise again. I’ll figure out a little more about myself—the things I am and the things I’m not, so I can be Lemon Lavender without hiding. Without being so afraid.
Bring it on, tomorrow. I’m ready to unfold.
author note
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about the author
ELLE PALLMORE earned a degree in fine arts before deciding she wanted to tell stories with words instead of pictures. Focused on contemporary YA fiction, she writes by day and reads obsessively by night. LEMON LAVENDER IS NOT FINE is her debut novel. Visit her online at www.ellepallmore.com and on Instagram.
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