So, yeah, I stay to the penthouse. It’s easier that way, especially when the world below the windows I’m still careful to avoid feels like too much.
I read. Watch television. I journal, eager to write down the fragments of some of my dreams—other nightmares—before they fade, another lost memory. Sometimes I get the nerve to press my hand against the glass and look out at Harmony Heights, fighting the strange flutter in my stomach that heights seem to trigger.
Obviously. Whether it’s four floors or forty, I don’t think I’ll ever be comfortable around heights again…
Dallas comes home every evening around the same time, already ordering a new meal from the restaurants and the Fortress’s kitchen for me to try. One thing about not remembering shit? I can discover my likes and dislikes all over again, something that gives Dallas great pleasure when a plate he picked for me hits the spot.
Tonight, though, when I hear the front door open, he’s at least an hour early. I get up to greet him—or scream if it’s a stranger— and, when I notice that itismy husband, I’m just about to ask him why so early when I notice the clear wrap on the right side of his neck.
Abandage.
My breath catches as I rush toward him, my fingers outstretched. “Oh, Dallas. What happened?”
“It’s okay, Luce. I’m alright. It’s just… I finally had a chance to do something I’ve been meaning to for a while now. I know a guy. He was able to squeeze me in, but he said not to take the wrap off for a couple of days unless it oozes.”
What—
“Here. Look.” He bends his knees enough to close the gap in our height. This way, I can look through the clinging wrap and see that, beneath it, he has a tattoo of?—
My belly jolts. “Is that… is that a dandelion?”
He nods. “Do you remember how you used to call them wishies? The ones with the fluffy white seeds? How you’d pluck them from the ground, puff out your cheeks, blow the seeds all over, and make a wish? Well, my wish came true when you found your way back to me, and I thought…” He taps the black spade tattoo on the opposite side of his neck. “Since I have this one here, I put this one here.”
I don’t even know what to say at first. I’ve heard him call me ‘Dandelion’ a handful of time, almost as though it’s a habit that he tried to break, but can’t. I never asked what it meant, and I wonder if his story about ‘wishies’ is the reason why he’s inked a black dandelion puff with the individual seeds blowing away is because I once told him that.
Do you remember?
Tears sting my eyes. Ducking my head, I refuse to let him see as I mumble, “I’m sorry. I… I don’t remember.”
But, God, do I wish I did.
Dallas’s gentle fingers go to my chin, lifting my up enough that I have no choice but to look into his eyes.
With his other hand, he uses his thumb to wipe the tears welling up in the corner of mine. “It’s okay, baby. You’ll remember in time. Until you do…” He moves his hand, tapping the wrap. “I’ll remember for us.”
My lips split in a wobbly grin. “So you got that tattoo for me? Because I’m your… Dandelion?”
“You got it.”
“And anyone can see it. It might not be a wedding ring, but if you make sure to tell any of the customers who hit on you that you… you know… have a tattoo you got for your wife, I wouldn't mind it.”
For a heartbeat, Dallas looks at me like he can’t believe that the thought would cross my mind. That I would bejealous.
And then he smiles, such an honest, open smile that I instantly start to go wet. Then again, that’s part of getting used to the reality that this man ismine…
“I’ll do that, Luce, just to set your mind at ease? But you should know… I’m not worried about anyone else.” He tucks a lock of my hair behind my ears. “You shouldn’t be, either. It’s only you, Dandelion. It’ll always be onlyyou.”
I should’ve known better.Ididknow better. And, yet, I’m still surprised when a week later there comes an unexpected knock at the penthouse door.
Dallas left hours ago. We shared breakfast, he kissed me goodbye, and reminded me to order lunch instead of picking at last night’s leftovers. He teased that he would know, so I waited until around two, placed an order up, and ate by myself in the living room.
Now it’s three hours later, and Dallas won’t be back for at least one more. That’s why, when I hear the elevator chime, followed by a soft knock and a gentle, “Hello?”, I freeze where I am.
I had gone into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water. I was thirsty, but now I’m wary. Wary and, okay, curious. No one knocks at the door. The porters who bring up our meals knock, then leave the covered trays on a rolling cart behind before returning for it later. Same with the mail. In all the time that I’ve been living here, Dallas hasn’t had a single visitor that wasn’t his cousin, and the voice I heard was too delicately feminine to belong to Adrian.
It’s a woman. It has to be a woman.
Why is there a woman knocking on our door? This is the penthouse. You can only reach it with either a key—via stairs—or with a code—in the elevator. This isn’t the case of someone wandering around the Fortress, getting lost or curious, and making their way to the top floor. Oh,no. They’re here on purpose.
