Where The Dandelions Grow

16 - Flowers

He sighs and grabs them. "I don't, those are my friends'/. drinks. They came by late last night drunk and shit. I forgot to throw them out before I left.

"This is the living room obviously." He waves his hand in a circle then at the kitchen. "Uh, I don't cook much, but I can make delicious ass tea."

"Tea?"

"Yeah," he laughs. "I know, random."

We walk down his hall. "Here is the bathroom." It's a nice baby blue color with white tiles on the walls. A big standing shower with see through glass windows sits in the corner. I had never seen one of those in real life before. I always thought, as a kid, when you're in those showers, how does the water not go on the floor everywhere and fill the bathroom?

Clearly, now I know the answer to that.

"Here is my office."

He opens the door and I'm stunned. The first thing that catches my eye is the large setup he has going on. Headsets, keyboard, and a landline sit in the table it's a proper small office for where I assume he goes when he does want to go into work directly. He can be people's therapist from the comfort of his own home.

I slide my fingertips along the surface of his things. This is a nice place for working. It has everything that may be comforting to someone like Brandon. A small couch in the corner, a wall full of pictures of him, his friends, his mom right beside his workspace and a mini fridge that's probably filled with his favorite snack and water for when he's working.

We make our way to his bedroom which is like a larger version of his office, but better. It's much larger than his childhood bedroom with a color pallet of gray, white, and brown.

His windows are large and look down onto New York City. His job must pay him wonderful to be able to afford this apartment.

I would hope so at least.

I sit on his bed and shake my head, my head going back to Sara. "I can't believe my life right now."

Brandon sits on the floor in front of me with his arms resting on his knees, looking up. I twist my lips. "Do you think she ever thought about me? My mom?"

He nods. "I bet the thought of you and what she did to you made her feel sick every day."

"Do you think she wants to know me?"

"Would you allow her to get to know you?"

I bite down on the inside of my cheek and replied to his question in my head. Why would I want to know her? I'm twenty-one, it's too late for a relationship with my mother, especially after lying so horribly about her death.

"No." Sadness laces my voice.

He nods his head. "I understand."

"Come here, please," I whisper, swallowing urge to cry.

His head tilts slightly, but I don't miss the slight smirk on his face. "What was that?"

I back up on the bed, "I said come here."

His smirk grows stronger, and he stands up slowly, his slightly oversized shirt brushing against his body, his singular gold cross chain starts to dangle as his body bends over and begives to hover over mine. The movement of my chest quickens and his body lowers to the space right beside mine. His closeness makes it hard to breathe. His face is perfect, the smile plastered on it. God, he's beautiful.

"If I could tell you the things running through my head right now, you'd hate me," His fingers caress my jawline, stopping at my chin.

My bottom lip quivers as I try to gain my composure. "Tell me."