Wherever the Dandelion Falls

by Lily R. Mason

  Once we got outside and out of sight, Faye burst into giggles. I couldn't help but laugh with her. Once the laughter died down, I pulled in front of her and murmured, "For real this time," before sealing my lips to hers, capturing a more honest, intimate kiss than we had exchanged for the sake of getting revenge on Vance.

  Faye hummed into me and kissed me eagerly back. "I think we," kiss, "should have lots more," kiss, "real kisses," kiss, "at my place."

  I kissed her harder for a second. "Sounds like a plan." I was excited to get back to her place and see where the night took us.

  We hung there, lips not touching, but hungry for each other still. Finally I broke the tension by saying, "That was unexpectedly fun."

  She grinned. "I love dashing the hopes of douche bags."

  I smiled and kissed her once more before taking her hand and walking back to where she'd parked.

  "What did you say to him?" I asked, still smiling as Faye started the car and pulled away from the curb.

  She smirked. "I told him that I was intimately familiar with someone he had once offended and that I was planning on giving it to her better than his precious pecker ever could."

  At that my smile dropped. I was surprised and incredibly uncomfortable with what she'd said. "Faye, that's gross," I said. "And in case you've forgotten, you're not giving it to me yet."

  Faye reached over and gave me a placating pat on the knee. "He doesn't know that, though."

  I jerked my leg away from her. "It makes me really uncomfortable that you said that.”

  “Why?"

  "Because — because he knows my boss, and because now he's got further proof that I'm easy. I made a mistake with him."

  Faye frowned. "What?"

  Realizing I had almost admitted to sleeping with Vance, I stiffened. I couldn't tell Faye I'd slept with him on the third date without offending her. We were on our — gosh, I'd lost count of how many dates we'd been on — and we hadn't had sex yet.

  My silence wasn't an effective distraction though.

  "What mistake?" Faye asked, getting more agitated.

  Feeling backed into a corner, I mumbled, "Sleeping with someone too soon."

  Faye was quiet for a minute, hands gripping the steering wheel a little too hard. Then, finally, she said quietly, "You slept with him?"

  Knowing I couldn't lie, I mumbled, "Yes."

  "How long did you date?"

  Feeling all the shame of waking up in the hotel room alone, I said quietly, "Not long enough."

  "How long is not long enough?" she asked, tensing in her seat.

  Wanting to avoid telling her the truth, I mumbled, "It doesn't matter."

  "Were you a couple, or just dating?"

  Feeling my face grow hot, I put my hands over my cheeks to cover them. "I don't want to talk about it."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I don't."

  Faye was stony for a moment before she turned forward, her motions jerky with contained anger as she said, "I get it," she muttered. "You'll sleep with a guy on the first date, but not a girl."

  Offended by her assumption, I scoffed. "No."

  "Second date? Third date?"

  "I don't want to talk about it."

  Faye gave me a passive aggressive shrug. "I just want to get a feel for your double standards concerning penis and vagina."

  I gasped. "It has nothing to do with body parts."

  "You sure about that?" she asked, eying me with what felt like vicious accusation.

  I couldn't believe what was happening. Hadn't we just been giggling and kissing on the sidewalk? She seemed like a completely different person now.

  "Why are you being like this?" I asked. I was genuinely bewildered by her sudden aggressiveness.

  "Being like what?" she said, defensive.

  Deciding to give her a taste of her own medicine, I crossed my arms and avoided looking at her. "Obsessing over things I did before we were dating.”

  "Do you actually like girls, or do you just like throwing your bisexuality around for men to see?"

  I was flabbergasted. Where was all this anger coming from? How was she so threatened by my attraction to men when it had never been an issue before?

  "My attraction to men isn't a threat to you any more than my attraction to women. It was you who decided to flaunt our relationship in front of Vance. I would never have made a show of claiming you in front of someone just to spite them."

  Faye didn't respond, and my comeback felt like a twang from a poorly fired arrow.

  Faye swerved suddenly into a turning lane. "I guess I'll take you home," she said, low and icy. "You're obviously not in a place to continue our romantic evening." She said it with such crisp distaste, everything about her felt prickly.

  "Fine. I hope you stop getting angry over imaginary things I did to wrong you," I huffed.

  Faye took a breath as though she was going to respond, but then closed her mouth, deciding against it.

  Feeling like I had an opportunity to gain some footing, I addressed her previous accusation that I was treating men and women differently in my dating practices. "For your information, I regret sleeping with him. He made me feel really bad about myself."

  Faye tucked her lips into her mouth as though she were chewing them for a moment before she said, "I'm sorry to hear that." Her words were still tense, but they were less aggressive.

  A few minutes later she arrived at my door. "Sorry the night ended on a sour note," she said. "Next time I'll just keep my thoughts to myself."

  Looking at her with a critical eye, I said, "No. Next time, share your thoughts honestly like we agreed when we decided to be open with each other about our feelings. Don't wait until they explode when you're angry."

  Faye tucked her chin down and nodded. "Okay."

  I opened my door and slid out of my seat, picking my purse up off her floor. "Thanks for dinner," I said, the relief of my nearby apartment relaxing the knot of unpleasantness in my stomach.

  Faye nodded again and mumbled, "Goodnight."

  "Night," I said, and closed the door.

  And as I turned to the steps of my apartment and fished out my keys, I realized it was the first time since our first kiss that we hadn't kissed each other goodnight. And that made me sad.

  Faye gave me a sheepish, grateful smile, and walked next to me into the restaurant. I saw her face go blank as she took in the surroundings. Then she leaned toward me, shoulder brushing mine as she hissed, "Riley, this place is really fancy."

  I gave her a smile and a tap on the wrist with mine at our sides. "You deserve it."

  Faye still looked overwhelmed, so I said, "I wanted to bring you here for our first date, but we missed our reservation."

  Faye's smile relaxed as we both remembered eating pizza with each other in a divey little shop near her house.

  "I liked our first date exactly as it was," she murmured.

  Feeling warmth soak into my chest at the memory of her face that night as we ate cheap pizza at a rickety table, I said, "Me too."

  As soon as we were seated, I felt something flapping at my knee and realized she was leaning forward so she could pat my knee.

  Grinning, I leaned forward so I could hold her hand under the table, and we sat there, hunched over, smiling like fools.

  Realizing we wouldn't be able to eat like this, I looked around and spotted a circular booth on the other side of the restaurant that wasn't being used. When our waiter approached, I asked, "Is there any way we could sit over there?" pointing to the booth.

  The waiter gave a stiff bow at the waist and said, "Certainly, ma'am. Just one moment." He walked briskly away and Faye gave me a funny look.

  "I can hold your hand with more stealth over there," I explained.

  "Oh I know," Faye giggled. "But he called you ma'am."

  I chuckled and brushed it off. "Only ma'am I ever want to be is a Madame."

  Realizing that I'd just brought my weird stripper humor into a fancy restaurant with a b
eautiful, vanilla girl, I felt embarrassed.

  "Really?" Faye asked, forehead crinkling.

  "No," I said, eager to reassure her. "I have no interest in going back to prostitution. Maybe working in relief for kids who are forced into it on the streets or helping women self-advocate and set good boundaries with their clients, but not doing direct work." I lifted my water glass and felt the cool relief of the icy water flow down my throat.

  Faye studied me for a minute and said, "You'd be brilliant at that."

  I stumbled over her compliment and felt myself almost choke on my water. I wasn't used to being told I'd be brilliant at anything. Not even taking off my clothes.

  Faye must have seen my surprised, because she said, "I'm serious. You'd be a great public health advocate for sex workers."

  Although the idea had never crossed my mind, as soon as Faye said it, I realized she was describing something I would love doing. I'd heard of women who drove around at night with vans full of condoms and postcards for sex-worker-friendly health clinics, and women who advocated fiercely for legislation that kept sex workers safer, but I'd never pictured myself as one. Until now.

  Faye squeezed my hand. "When you first told me about being an escort, I was biased and naive. When you told me about how you made your client get tested and how you set limits about what you would and wouldn't do and how you always used protection, it made me think of sex work differently. You could help a lot of people. Not just sex workers, but people like me who judged you unfairly. Stigma is a public health issue too."

  I was suddenly so overrun with ideas and questions, it took me a long time to respond to Faye. All I could do was slowly agree. "Stigma is indeed a public health issue."

  At that, our waiter returned to the table and, after reseating us, asked if we'd like anything to drink. Faye glanced up at the waiter and then at me, sheepishly.

  "Um... a bottle of the house red?" she asked.

  Even if she was the bravest girl I knew, she was still so sweetly unsure sometimes.

  I gave a subtle nod and she smiled, confirming that we wanted a bottle of red. The waiter bowed again and walked away.

  Faye turned back to me, squeezing my hand on the seat as she said, "I know you'll figure out what you want to do."

  Suddenly, I had a lot more uncertainties. She had just implied that I didn't want to be a stripper permanently. Which I didn't, but I hadn't told her as much. It was quiet as we looked at our menus.

  After our wine arrived and the waiter did the formal taste-test dance with Faye, I decided to find out how she really felt about my job.

  "Does my job bother you?"

  I felt anxiety rush through me as I prepared myself for her answer.

  Faye held my gaze as she thought through the best words to use.

  "It's not my favorite thing about you," she said, solemn but gentle. "I'm working through how I feel about it, but I wouldn't date you if I couldn't live with it."

  Relieved she was honest, I nodded.

  "I mean, it's just a job, right?"

  Not sure I was telling the whole truth, I nodded and echoed, "It's just a job."

  Faye gave a lighthearted shrug. "As long as it's just a job, I'm okay with it. You'll know when you're ready to leave."

  Concerned and unsettled, I bit my lip and said, "What if I'm never ready to leave?"

  Faye gave another light shrug. "Then you're lucky to be doing something you love."

  I gave her a grateful smile and nodded, lifting my wine glass to hers.

  "Cheers," I said.

  She lifted her glass to mine, but she didn't make eye contact, so I held my glass out of clink's reach.

  "You have to look me in the eye," I said, eager to change the mood back to something more fun. I lowered my voice and said, "Otherwise it's seven years of bad sex."

  Faye's eyes went wide in mock alarm and she breathed, "So that's what happened to me before..."

  I giggled and she grinned wider because I'd liked her joke. Then her smile settled into the corners of her eyes and she gave me a meaningful look as we clinked our glasses together.

  "To finding our passion," Faye said, lifting her glass with a subtle rise of her eyebrow.

  It was rife with innuendo.

  I stumbled over her sudden flirtation. She had turned our conversation about careers into something about sex. Sex between us, nonetheless.

  All I could do was murmur, "To finding our passion."

  I took a sip and realized that dating Faye was going to be a lot more exciting than I'd anticipated.

  Chapter 20: Hold Me Tight

  The night before Faye's parents arrived, we had silently planned to spend as much time together as possible. I hadn't gone more than a few hours without seeing her in weeks, and the thought of being apart from her for seven days was awful. I didn't want to miss anything about her; her sleep breathing or her shy smiles across the room or the feeling of her body pressed against mine. But I didn't have a choice. Her parents were on their way and I didn't get a say in how things would unfold. I didn't get a say in much at all lately.

  As we made love that night — at least I like to think it was making love — I felt as though she was pressing apologies into my skin, hoping each kiss and touch and orgasm would fill a reserve of reassurances I would need from her for the coming week. Part of me wished they could. But the bigger part of me, the scared part, hoped that these weren't our last hours together before something was shattered or lost. Time was moving forward toward change, and I wasn't ready.

  When we had exhausted ourselves and lay dazed in her sheets, room eerily neat around us in preparation for her parents' arrival, I decided to speak up.

  "I'm scared of something changing," I said quietly.

  At that, Faye curled into me, running her hand over my ribs and around to my back to press me into her.

  "Don't worry," she murmured into my hair.

  And though it was sweet and more than I had expected from her, I couldn't help but want more. She could have said Nothing will change or A week from now we'll be right back here like nothing happened. But she hadn't said those things. She'd just counted on my blind faith, which I was all too accustomed to giving her.

  I guess that's what love is.

  In the morning we said a somber goodbye and I tried to soothe her anxiety about hosting her parents. I gave her a few more suggestions for entertaining her hard-to-please parents and pressed long, deep kisses into her lips before I left her apartment. As I walked outside into the foggy chill, I felt as though I'd left a piece of me inside that I couldn't go back for. I trudged toward my house and let myself into my apartment. It almost didn't feel like mine anymore, I came home so infrequently.

  I tried to spin the silver lining of having so much free time without Faye. I needed to start building relationships with equipment rental places and getting acquainted with the different social media accounts that Michael used to promote his business. Chatting with Michael, I'd realized that much of my work could be done from home, which was nice. I imagined lying in bed with my laptop, planning an event, while Faye lay next to me writing a paper, occasionally reading passages out loud to get my input. It was a future I hoped would eventually happen.

  I didn't know what to do with myself without Faye around. Even though we never did structured activities, time always seemed to pass quickly around her.

  I set about organizing my belongings, putting away the clothing strewn on the bed and shoes cluttering the floor, cast off when I visited home to get more clothes or check the mail before going back to Faye's. I set down the large bag she'd asked me to bring home for the week, not wanting to unpack it, for fear that that would mean the things inside would never return to my drawer at Faye's. This week was temporary. It had to be.

  I ventured into the kitchen and discovered there were no dishes to do. There was no mess to tidy, no magazines to recycle, no hair to clean from the floor or drains. I looked around and realized that I must be the messy one in the
apartment if my absence meant the apartment stayed so tidy. I made a note to ask Justine if I was pulling my weight with the cleaning.

  Thinking of Justine, I pulled out my phone and texted her, asking what she was doing and if she wanted to hang out. It struck me that, even if she had time, she may not want to hang out with me. I hadn't been the best friend or roommate lately. I'd gotten sucked into Faye and neglected Justine. I decided to make her dinner to apologize.

  I pulled up recipes on my computer before walking to the grocery store to buy the ingredients I needed for an authentic molé sauce. Justine would love it. But as I fried the peppers and raisins and sesame seeds and tortillas, all I could think of was Faye and if she would like my cooking. I wanted to share the sauce with her, but I knew I couldn't.

  As the week went by, I found more things to occupy myself with. I saw a few of my friends from grad school, called my parents and sister, and patched things up with Justine. But there was a kind of emptiness, an anxious waiting that didn't abate with the few texts I got from Faye. She sent pictures of the touristy things she did with her parents, and a beautiful picture of her between her parents on the bridge. Her long hair was blowing across her face in strands, and she was trying to smile as her arms reached around her parents' backs. But something in her eyes was so tired and sad, I couldn't look at the picture for more than a few seconds before I deleted it.

  I started to wonder if the joy I got from Faye was real. If it was so easy for her to put aside, to deny to people she cared about, was it one-sided? Did it exist outside my own head? I began to worry that I'd been creating an elaborate illusion. I had no way to soothe myself, since I couldn't contact Faye.

  As the weekend approached, my anxiety increased. I knew Faye was introducing her parents to "Dave," who's name was coincidently Dave, on Saturday night. With Faye's permission, I had briefed him on the situation. At first he had balked, asking me how I could possibly be okay with him filling in for me at dinner with her parents. Sidestepping my true feelings, I'd insisted that it was something Faye needed to feel safe, and he had begrudgingly agreed. But his discomfort had only served to increase my own. I didn't want him filling in for me at all.