Dandelion Dreams by Samantha Garman Read Free Book Online Page A

and it made her realize she wasn’t indifferent after all.”
    I laughed. It sounded exactly like something Mom would have done, and in that moment I almost felt like she walked alongside us. Those we loved would be immortalized in our memories, until we too, were gone.

Chapter 8

    Kai

    I wondered where I was as the countryside whizzed by the train window. I unscrewed my flask, took a long sip, and tapped my foot to the beat I heard in my head.
    The prostitute in the Red Light District had been nice. I’d paid her, only to realize I didn’t want to sleep with her. Instead, we’d reclined in her bed, not saying a word. After my hour was up, I went down to a café, bought a blunt and smoked it.
    Tristan would’ve told me I was crazy. Dream Tristan did tell me I was crazy. Dream Reece, softer, gentler, didn’t judge me aloud.
    I’d seen and done so many things after they died. I started with the Great Wall of China and then journeyed to Hong Kong. The pollution in the air made the sun appear blood red, and had made me feel like I’d landed on an alien planet. The Great Pyramids of Egypt were hot and dusty, and I’d almost gotten spit on by a camel. Camels were mean bastards. I drank beer in mass quantities to combat the dourness of Prague. One night I’d even stripped and went for a midnight swim in the Vltava River. I’d gone sport fishing off the coast of Croatia, fallen off the boat and almost drowned. Almost.
    None of it had made an impact.
    I hadn’t made my way to South America yet. Maybe I’d go see the Mayan ruins and offer a blood sacrifice—to what end, I didn’t know.
    The train stopped, and I got off. It was raining. God, did every place I traveled have to rain so much? I should visit an island with nothing but sun and white sand, and an endless supply of rum.
    My baseball cap was sodden, and my clothes stuck to me; it’s what I got for not carrying an umbrella. Maybe I’d get pneumonia and die. A guy had to have dreams, didn’t he?
    I walked around the old cobblestone square, dried off in a pub, and then soaked my blood in alcohol. I supposed I should find a place to sleep, if I didn’t want it to be a park bench.
    Everything was written in French. I was in France, or so I believed—for the time being anyway.

    •••

    I picked up the mandolin and stroked its body like I would a woman. My fingers glided over the strings; it was familiar, comforting. It hadn’t always been the case. My grandfather had been relentless when teaching me to play. I remembered the hours of practice, the anger when I couldn’t move my hands the way they needed to, until one day everything connected.
    My grandfather had been able to pick up any stringed instrument and master it, given enough time—it had been one of his many talents. I hoped I had inherited some of them, but I doubted it. The mandolin was the only thing I stuck with; nothing else held my interest. I was decent at many things, but proficient at few.
    I was too smart for my own damn good—my parents had said it often enough. I’m not sure I believed them, since I felt steeped in mediocrity.
    The moon shone through the window of the tiny studio I’d found in place of a park bench. No lights were on—not because I didn’t have electricity, but because I found the dark comforting, like this little town somewhere in the Loire Valley.
    The notes came out mournful, poetic—a eulogy for the friends I’d lost. I’d played them many eulogies.
    I uncorked the bourbon and drank straight from the bottle. When I was drunk enough, I asked, “Tristan? Reece? It’s your turn. Take a swig.”
    But there was no answer from the ghosts that followed me; silence was the only reply—the bottle of bourbon and an old, scarred mandolin my only companions.

    •••

    “How did you get a girl like Lucy?” I demand, casting into the lake. Tristan catches his first fish while I reel in my fifth.
    “Son of a bitch,” Tristan curses. “How am I supposed to win