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Hours later, when Sage finally gets home, my stomach is growling restlessly but I’ve finished three of the five assignments due by the end of the week.
“Did you order dinner?” Sage unwinds the scarf from around his neck.
“No.” I stand, stretching my stiff limbs. “I’ve been doing homework.”
“Damn.” He looks at the explosion of papers and my laptop I had to grab from my room to start a paper. “I’ll call something in.”
“Thanks.” I rub my tired eyes, then start organizing my mess so I can move it to the bedroom.
“You can leave that if you want,” Sage says with a wave of his hand, pulling out his phone with the other. “I don’t mind.”
“Nah, I’m done for the night. I need a break and food.” I crack a smile.
Sage chuckles, dialing one of the various delivery places we eat from way too often.
Carrying everything back to my room, I dump it on the desk. I wrinkle my nose at the mess and organize it the best I can. Luckily, I won’t have to pack any of this stuff up until Wednesday morning.
Sage’s steps echo in the hall, pausing outside my room.
Looking up, I regard him as he leans his shoulder against the doorway. He looks around my room, at the limited decorations and lack of personality. Beyond the wind chime, there’s not much of anything that says this is my room.
He gives me a sad smile. “You should paint the walls.”
I look at the bare white walls, crinkling my nose. “What’s the point?”
His shoulders sag while guilt eats at me, because I’m responsible for that immeasurable weight he bears. “It’s home, D.” His voice is soft, my initial crackling on his tongue.
I press my lips together before I can tell him this isn’t home. I don’t want to break his heart.
It’s not that I even think of the house we grew up in all that often, but a home holds happiness inside its walls, it has a personality, a beating heart of the people who live there. Sage’s condo doesn’t have it. It’s pretty stark with only a few masculine touches. There’s nothing special about it. It’s a place to sleep, to eat, and watch TV. That’s about it.
I don’t tell him any of my thoughts though.
Instead, I say, “Maybe one day.”
Padding over to my dresser, I slide open one of the drawers and yank out some pajamas for after my shower.
I still feel Sage watching me. Easing the drawer closed, I hesitate to look in his direction but I make myself do it. His jaw works back and forth, the hazel of his eyes more brown than gold for once.
“Sage?” I prompt, wanting to drag him from wherever the depths of his thoughts sent him.
He meets my stare.
“What?”
He continues to blink at me.
“Sage, come on…”
He rubs a hand over his jaw, letting it fall to his side. “Your room back home was always a mess. It was an explosion of color and things you loved. Your shoes were almost always kicked off on the floor, dangerously close to tripping you or anyone who entered. There were pictures of you with friends, of me and you, mom and dad, there was life and personality. It was you. This cold, lifeless space, it isn’t you.” He tosses a hand at my room.
I look around, at the white walls, white bedspread, white furniture, and even the fluffy white rug. I picked the stuff out and he bought it.
“Your old room was yellow,” he continues. “God, it was that awful shade of bright yellow and I hated it so much. I asked mom once why she let you pick that color. You know what she told me?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer, he knows I don’t know anyway. “She said everyone deserves to express themselves in some way and color is the easiest way to do that. She told me Dandelion was the perfect name for you because dandelion yellow is the color of your soul.” I want so desperately to pretend I can’t see the tear making a track down his cheek. “White is … it’s empty. And it fucking terrifies me to think that this is a reflection of you now. What if your new color is white because your soul is empty? What if it’s my fault for not trying harder?”
“Sage—”
He thrusts his fingers through his hair and I bite my lip, because I know he needs to get this off his chest. He works day in and day out, in what I’m sure is a cubicle, but who knows. Since he hates his job I assume he hates talking to most of his coworkers. He still rarely goes out with friends. He comes home to me, to his broken little sister he’s been saddled with, and it kills me that he carries this kind of burden on his shoulders.
