His garden.
Something he told me that he started doing because he could use it as an excuse to watch me.
It’s not an excuse anymore though.
It’s his dream.
Yeah, this. Roses.
Just like it took me months to calm my anxiety down to a level that I could get out of the house, it took him months to remember his dream.
“Roses,” he whispered one night after we’d just made love.
He was over me, all sweaty and hot when he lifted himself up on his elbows and said, “I’ve been having this… recurring dream. About my mother. I’m about five or something and my father and me, we’re picking roses for her. And when I give them to her, she smiles.”
My thighs that were still around his hips, tightened and I cupped his jaw. “Really?”
“Yeah. I think…” He swallowed, giving me a vulnerable look that tugged at my heart. “I think it’s real. It’s a memory and I’m dreaming about it. I think… I want that.”
“Roses?”
“Yeah.”
I knew that crying would fuck with his head – he’d told me – but I couldn’t stop myself. I burst out crying like an idiot and he had to console me for the next ten minutes.
When I got myself under control, I said, “Let’s do it then. Let’s build the biggest rose garden in our new world.”
And we did.
Not only that though, the gardening books that I found stacked in a corner in his closet? Turns out, those are an extension of his dream.
My big, bad husband wants to own a nursery of roses and he’s even working toward it. This rose garden is the testament to that. He started expanding it right after he told me about his dream. And ever since last fall, he’s been supplying fresh roses to some of the local flower shops.
Since we live in Denver most of the time where he also works as a coach to a high school football team, he has a couple of guys working for him at the garden. They started helping him out as a favor until Graham could pay them.
One of them is my pen pal, Billy. I finally met him and he’s hilarious. He told me a lot of stories from the drunk days of Graham’s – both funny and tragic – and I swear I’m so glad that those days are behind us.
Anyway, it makes me smile every time I think of my beast working reverently with something so fragile and delicate. Something that’s his dream.
Like he’s doing right now.
He’s clipping thorns from them and cutting off the stems gently, and I know why.
I climb down the steps of the back door and approach him. He hears me, obviously and stands up.
When he faces me, I notice that he has a bunch of roses collected and he’s holding them in his big, rough hands.
Hands that I’ve always loved so much.
“Are they for me?” I ask when I reach him.
Summer breeze – yeah, there’s a breeze now and also sunshine in our part of the world – ruffles his dark hair as he takes me in, in his plaid shirt and sneakers.
His eyes roam over my body lazily, waking up goosebumps along the way.
When at last, he comes back to my eyes, he takes one of the flowers from the bundle and traces the side of my cheek with it. I have to curl my toes at that. At his both tender and seductive move.
“Yeah.”
“What’s the occasion?” I tease.
He reaches the side of my mouth and traces the curve of my lips as he makes me wait for his answer. He studies it, the curve and seam of my mouth for a second before bending down.
“It’s my baby’s birthday,” he whispers, his eyes all penetrating and intense. “Happy twenty-first birthday, Violet.”
Gosh, he’s always the first to wish me a happy birthday.
These days, there are a lot of people who do and they’ll all call me tomorrow, but his wish is the only wish I look forward to the most.
His wish is the only one that makes my heart beat faster.
Smiling, I take the roses from his hands, including the one he was tracing my mouth with. I bury my face in the blooms and smell them, their scent hitting me so strongly that I have to sigh.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “But that’s not the only occasion, is it?”
His eyes flick back and forth between mine, his tone both rough and teasing. “What’s the other occasion?”
I raise my eyebrows at him. “Remember your gift from last year? The one you gave me on my twentieth birthday?”
“Why don’t you remind me?”
Smiling, I shake my head at him.
It was his gift to me, see.
Our wedding.
We got married last year on my birthday.
It actually started when we saw a bride and a groom outside of a church that we were passing by back in Denver.
At their sight, I just stopped. I don’t know why but the bride was so pretty and glowing in her white dress and the groom couldn’t take his eyes off her. And there were so many roses, all pink and red and beautiful.
In that moment, standing there, watching them laugh and kiss, I saw a dream with open eyes.
I daydreamed about Graham and me. I wanted us to be that one day.
I wanted me to wear a white dress and him in a black suit and I wanted to be surrounded by his roses, holding hands and kissing.
Of course, I never said anything to him but who am I kidding? He guessed and a few weeks later, he proposed.
I told him no and I kept telling him that up until the wedding day. Which he decided on and made all the arrangements for on his own; picked out a dress for me too, on his own.
“I’m not going to marry you just because you think that’s what I want,” I almost shouted at him on the wedding day.
“Good. Because I’m marrying you because that’s what I want,” he countered.
“But we never even talked about it before I saw that bride and groom.”
He exhaled a large breath, giving me a turbulent look. “Don’t you get it, yet?”
“Get what?”
“I’m not a dreamer, Violet,” he snapped, running a hand through his thick hair. “I told you. I don’t have dreams like you. I don’t close my eyes and automatically see what I want. I don’t automatically want something. I have to learn to want it. It takes time for me to learn to want it. And when I saw you, all choked up and emotional, high on your goddamn teenage hormones while you were staring at them, I got jealous, okay? I got so fucking jealous because you’d never looked like that with me. I got jealous that your eyes were all shiny and bright and stunning because of something that didn’t involve me. And that’s when it hit me. It hit me that I wanted that, you understand? I wanted that look from you. I wanted to put that look in your eyes where your eyes shine so bright that my chest hurts from it, okay?”
I went all silent after that, all speechless but he kept going.
“I want that look from you, Violet. I want it and I’m going to put that look in your eyes whether you want it or not, got that? Now come on, I’m running out of patience here. I’ve heard a thousand goddamn nos from you in the past one month and I’m going to lose it now.”
Oh Jesus.
What else could I do but walk up to him and tell him that he was an idiot. That he had no reason to be jealous. That the reason I had that look in my eyes was because I was daydreaming about him and me.
When I told him the last part, his nostrils flared and he went for me.
He threw me over his shoulder and brought me back to his rose garden, where a priest was waiting for us along with Richard – thank God, their friendship is still going strong and didn’t get ruined because of that almost panic attack incident, Brian and Billy.
And that’s how we got married: him in a black suit and me in shorts and a t-shirt because he didn’t give me enough time to wear the white dress he bought me.
It’s okay though. I wore the white dress later that night.
In thi
s moment, I step up to him.
I get on his feet and wind my free arm, the one that’s not holding the roses he picked out for me, around his neck.
His hands settle on my waist and my body goes flush with his.
And the roses?
They get trapped between us like they did on my eighteenth birthday.
Craning my neck up, I say, “I’m sorry I kept saying no to you.”
“A thousand times,” he growls, squeezing my waist.
I guess, he’s still kinda pissed about that. “I was scared that you were scared.”
His eyes go all liquid at that. All liquid and emotional and beautiful. “I was. I am. But you inspire me to be brave, remember?”
I swallow. “Yeah. You inspire me to be brave too.”
An emotion ripples through his features and I rise up on my tiptoes to press a soft kiss on his beard. “Happy first wedding anniversary, honey.”
“Yeah. It’s that.”
“Oh, that reminds me. Don’t be an ass to my mom tomorrow when she calls, okay? Be nice.”
He gives me a blank look but his jaw tics.
Yeah, he does not like my mom and she doesn’t like him. She still thinks he’ll leave me brokenhearted even though, we’re married now and it’s been two years since he came back for me and I left Connecticut to be with him. And he hasn’t forgiven or forgotten her years of neglect.
But I don’t want them fighting over me.
“Come on. It’s a big day.” I bite my lip and peek up at him through my eyelashes. “It could be your gift to me.”
His eyes narrow in a familiar dangerous and delicious way. “I thought my gift to you was reading that crazy Bukowski guy.”
“Hey, he’s not crazy. He’s my favorite writer. Besides, he was the one who made me kiss you that night.”
He brings his face closer to mine. “How’s that?”
I can’t believe I never told him this story. “Well, he said to find that one thing in the world that we love and then let it kill us. I’d already found that one thing in the world that I loved. You know, when I was sixteen. So I figured that at eighteen, I’d steal a kiss from you and let you kill me.”
“Yeah?”
“Yup.”
He comes even closer to me, closer and closer, until he’s blocking the moon and all the light of the world.
Until he’s all I see.
“How about I just kiss you back this time?”
Laughing with my whole heart, I go for another kiss on the night of my yet another birthday. The roses are still trapped between us and I’m still standing up on his feet.
The only difference is that these roses are fresh and velvety, instead of dying and rejected, and he’s kissing me back.
Oh and we’re kissing in our world.
A world we’ve built on love and dreams.
A world where he’s mine and I’m his.
Forever and ever.
***
People go through lives barely living.
They never go crazy.
They never crave something to the point of pain.
Their chest never hurts at the sight of someone.
They don’t write in diaries. They don’t collect dreams in their big, fat hobo. They don’t create new worlds. They don’t stare at the moon and they don’t climb up to the roof at midnight. They don’t jump in the water with their clothes on and they don’t fall in love with someone at first sight.
I could’ve been one of those people.
I could’ve lived a dull, ordinary life but she came along and changed everything.
Because of her I tasted the snow last winter. Because of her I read poetry in front of the fire one night.
Because of her I dance with her at midnight to the songs from her kickass playlist. And because of her, instead of running inside when it rains, I stand on my spot and let the drops drench me.
But most of all, because of her, I’m learning to dream. A thing people wonder about.
I’m learning to want and desire and crave.
I’m learning to live.
Because she’s a girl made of moon and magic. She’s a girl who has streaks of gold in her thick hair, red as fuck lips. And she’s a girl who glows in the moonlight.
A girl I’ve loved since the first time I saw her.
My beauty.
My Violet.
THE END
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Coming 2020
Welcome to St. Mary’s School for Troubled Teenagers: an all-girls reform school where bad girls are sent to become good.
Here rules are iron-clad.
Girls are still bad and wild, albeit secretly.
And no boys are allowed. Like, ever.
Meaning crushing on the principal’s hot son, Arrow, who’s visiting for a few weeks from college and sending him naughty love letters – just for fun – is a big no-no.
If only the new bad girl, Salem Salinger, cared about that. And if only the broody and dark, Arrow Carlisle, cared about her…
ADD ON GOODREADS
My husband: As always, he’s my strength and my reason to do all of this. Thank you for being my very first and true champion.
My parents and my sister: Thank you for being so supportive and enthusiastic about my very unconventional career choice.
Sophia Karlson: Thank you for your time and invaluable suggestions that made this manuscript shine.
Bella Love: Thank you for being my friend right from the start and sticking with me through the good and the bad. And thank you for reading the book and giving me your amazing feedback.
Danielle Sanchez: I’m so glad that we crossed paths earlier this year. You’re so innovative and talented, and I’m so happy to have you in my corner.
Melissa Panio-Peterson: Thank you for always being my cheerleader. I adore you and your enthusiasm.
My team: Najla Qamber – my cover designer who made this gorgeous cover; Leanne Rabesa – for always cleaning up manuscripts and keeping track of timelines and seasons; Virginia Tesi Carey – for being so easy going about things and for a keen eye that catches everything.
My readers: I want to thank all my readers (blogging and non-blogging) for always supporting me and taking the time to read my words. You guys put a smile on my face every day.
Writer of bad romances. Aspiring Lana Del Rey of the Book World.
Saffron A. Kent is a USA Today bestselling author of Contemporary and New Adult romance. More often than not, her love stories are edgy, forbidden and passionate. Her work has been featured in Buzzfeed, Huffington Post, New York Daily News and USA Today’s Happy Ever After.
She has an MFA in creative writing and she lives in New York City with her nerdy and supportive husband. Along with a million and one books.
She is represented by Meire Dias of Bookcase Agency
www.saffronkent.com
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New Release Alert
I remember the day I lost my mind.
The sun was out, and the day was bright. It was fucking miserable.
Through the window of my apartment, I saw people jogging, cycling, laughing in Central Park. The birds were chirping and there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky.
Did I mention it was miserable?
Yeah, I remember everything about that day. Every single thing. But that’s not the worst part.
The worst part is that everyone else remembers it too. And the thing about everyone else remembering is that they don’t ever forget it. And they don’t let you forget it, either.
As if you need any more reminders
.
As if you don’t relive those moments in very vivid and graphic detail. The day you crossed over to the other side.
The side where the crazies live.
I’ve always straddled that line and done a great job of staying on the sane side. Because unfortunately, everyone else in my family is sane and un-crazy. I’ve always wanted something in common with them. Other than my silver hair, that is.
I come from a family of silver-haired and green-eyed women. Also, tall.
Taylor women are tall and willowy and stunning and have been for generations. It’s our signature, actually. Not to mention fashionable and successful.
We own a boutique clothing store called Panache on Madison Avenue that caters to the old-money New Yorkers and Upper East Siders.
When I was born, my mom, my grandma, my aunt, my older cousin who was eight at the time, they all thought I’d be like them. In fact, they were so confident about my Taylor-ness that they’d already decided on a name suitable for a Taylor baby: Willow.
They shouldn’t have.
There’s nothing willowy about me. I’m not delicate or graceful or tall.
Except for the legendary silver hair, I don’t possess any of the Taylor qualities. My eyes are a startling shade of blue. I’m too short and my fashion sense is a pair of shorts, sneakers, and t-shirts with Harry Potter quotes.
But the thing that bothers me the most is that I was born with something more than blood in my veins. Something extra-terrestrial, alien, quite possibly blue-colored – hence the weird, un-Taylor color of my eyes. Something dark and shadowy, with long claw-like fingers. Something that has weighed me down all my life.
“Have you thought about it?”
“No,” I say.
“Have you thought about harming yourself in any way?”
“No.”
“Are you ready to talk about what happened that night?” she asks.
I look up from where I’m playing with my short nails. They don’t let us keep long, sharp ones on the Inside.
DREAMS of 18 Page 35
