Poppy is feeling lost after the death of her beloved sister, Dandelion. That's when she makes a discovery, and a decision, there's no coming back from — and it fuels Rosie Storey's debut novel "Dandelion Is Dead," out Jan. 13 from Berkley.
After stumbling on her sister's Hinge app, Poppy decides to pose as Dandelion and reply to a year-old message from a man named Jake, despite having a boyfriend herself.
"What begins as a misguided attempt to feel close to Dandelion becomes something transformative for both Poppy and Jake, who is also dealing with his own struggles," Storey tells TODAY.com. "As soon as they meet the chemistry is undeniable, and their lives begin to change in unexpected, precarious and dazzling ways."
Storey calls this a book about personal authenticity and "choosing life in its rawest form," despite how difficult it can be to live honestly, as the truest version of yourself.
"It is about hope, connection and the courage it takes to step out into the sun alone and say, this is who I am. And then, if you’re lucky, have a kiss," she says.
"Dandelion Is Dead" is the British writer's debut novel. As for how she landed on the name Dandelion? Storey says the first draft was called "Eliza Is Dead," and after a sweep of agent rejections, she decided to change the font and the sisters' names.
"I knew we needed a fresh burst of energy — and that seemed like the quickest way! I wish I could remember how I landed on both of them being flowers, but I can’t. Perhaps subconsciously, because my real name is Rose, I was planting a floral sisterhood. We’re in it together for life now," she says.
Below, find an excerpt from "Dandelion Is Dead" — the moment Poppy encounters Jake and decides, despite perhaps her better judgment, to send a message.
Read an excerpt from 'Dandelion Is Dead'
So this, Poppy realized, was Hinge — her sister’s dating app. And here, the digital version of Dandelion was still alive, being cheeky. Securing likes.
Dandelion had shown Poppy some profiles of potential suitors before (mainly the funny ones), but Poppy had never seen her sister’s actual profile, how she marketed herself. It was titled with three sentences that Poppy read a few times, her brain glitching on the facts that were now redundant: Dandelion. 39. Does Not Want Kids.
As well as the Glastonbury photo, there was a close-up of Dandelion in bed looking sleepy, her skin prickling pink like it did when she was just out of a hot bath. In the next one, she was in her neon seersucker swimsuit in a deck chair somewhere exotic, a (probable) Negroni in her hand. In the last picture, Poppy saw herself. It was from a recent-ish Halloween party; the two of them and their friend Jetta had dressed up in vintage Adidas and tucked all their hair up into short, curly wigs. They’d been characters from the film "The Royal Tenenbaums"; Dandelion was the dad (Ben Stiller), and Poppy and Jetta had been his two matching red-tracksuited little kids.
In Hinge’s inbox, Dandelion had 173 matches and countless messages. Poppy tapped on a few at random. First, a girl (too young) called Chloe, a dancer. Dandelion had never answered her Sup? To an electrician called Gerald, Dandelion had gone in with Gezza, tell me a joke. He’d come back with one about an Englishman an Irishman and a Scotsman, to which Dandelion had replied immediately: I no like, byebye!
As Poppy scrolled, it became apparent that her sister lied a lot, which was no enormous surprise. She told people she was an exotic dancer and a firefighter and trilingual and super into roller blading — which caused Poppy to huff an appreciative laugh. She gave Hinge’s inbox one final, long swipe so that the names of tiny digital people careered past, like the bounty of a slot machine, before slowing and slowing and coming to rest on Jake.
JAKE
14TH MARCH, 2024. 8:24PM:
Dandelion, (good name) It’s weird but
I can feel
9:03PM:
Sorry.
my son woke up
He had a nightmare. But was going to say — I can feel your heat.
9:17PM:
(my son is three.
Split custody. No biggy)
The messages had been hanging, unanswered, for a year. Poppy liked the sound of Jake; she liked that he’d felt her sister’s heat.
It seemed highly possible that Jake’s main photo was a covert selfie, that he’d extended his arm and looked the other way as he’d taken the picture, pretending not to pose. In it, his hair was buzzed short and his eyes were closed, which maybe was the point, because it showed his eyelashes, top and bottom together, unusually thick and pretty in his square-jawed face. In another picture, he was wearing a faded cap pushed back, his dark hair curled behind his ears. He had dimples, or maybe just the one dimple eddying into his right cheek. His profile said he was 40, but he dressed boyish: sweatshirts, worn-out jeans and trainers.
Mainly, the other men Poppy had seen on Hinge were topless in a toilet taking unsmiling selfies, or Lycra clad and bulging, un- smiling on a bike. But Jake was playing Jenga with his son (captioned My Little Bud), and grinning wide and silly. In the cap picture, he was sitting with friends, holding craft beers in colorful cans on the crest of a hill, and the last shot wasn’t even him, but a handsome sky at dusk.
From a nearby garden the gnawing of an engine started: a mower or a chain saw. Poppy stood, and in front of the long mirror, she looked at herself and frowned. Throughout their whole lives, people had found the sisters to be confusingly similar. And, yes, Poppy knew their eyes (hair, complexion, voice, laugh), and, probably, skeletons, were ostensibly interchangeable, but she’d always felt the comparison to her sister to be overly generous, like comparing a Tuesday morning to a Friday night. Two and a half years older, Dandelion had been more attractive and more confident. More mischievous (nefarious, lightly evil). Later, more successful, pretty much running a hedge fund by the age of 35. Consequently, Dandelion had been considerably more wealthy — bought her gorgeous flat with cash. Mainly, though, and ironically, as it turned out, compared to Poppy and to anyone Poppy had ever met — Dandelion seemed more vital. She’d been filled with much more life.
Poppy smoothed her hair into a ponytail and stepped closer to her reflection. “Yes, thanks, I know I look like shit. I couldn’t sleep, so I ran here.” She thought of her boyfriend then, waking on a Sunday morning to find her gone; he’d be brewing coffee and, quite possibly, a sulk. “Anyway, better go. Thanks for the phone,” she said, through an inhale. Around her the room got bigger, gaped large and painful like an open wound.
In the hallway, Poppy locked the bedroom door and reread Jake’s messages. I can feel your heat kept catching like a splinter, though it didn’t hurt. It was more that the world hurt and this one line felt soothing. It was so true — Dandelion had been a wildfire. She’d ripped through life. She’d frazzled. Poppy closed her eyes and, next to her, she felt her sister scorching. She felt her sister nudging. Daring. “I guess I could ...” Poppy whispered, and then she was typing through the trembles and they were back together— stealing lip gloss from Superdrug as teenagers. Smoking on the beach, leaning up against red rocks. They were stripping to their knickers and cliff jumping at sunset, falling, flailing, holding hands, catching a few seconds of HOLY FUCK airtime, before smacking hard through black.
DANDELION
6TH APRIL, 2025. 8:26 AM:
Jake!
I’m sorry I’ve not messaged you
I was kind of busy
with, you know, Life.
But now
I'm here
I’m back.
Excerpted from DANDELION IS DEAD by Rosie Storey, published by Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC. Copyright © 2026
