19. Wicked

19

Wicked

Paper Rings

Taylor Swift's voice is deafening as I step inside the house.

I shut the front door behind me and drop my green bodysuit on the dining room table—because lord knows I won't be changing into that until the last second—as I walk through to the kitchen. Leo and Darby are out doing something for their wedding; I don't remember what, but Dahlia is supposed to be home.

As I enter, I realize that it smells like hot chocolate. Not like the packaged one, but like someone heated melted chocolate and milk right over the stove—a warm, delicious, inviting smell.

But it's not hot chocolate I find in the kitchen. It's a fucking mess.

Dirty mixing bowls are scattered along the counter, sprinkles spilled across the floor. There are little brown balls coated in multi-colored sprinkles laid out on wax paper-covered baking sheets. I think they might be the chocolate I was smelling.

Despite the chaos, the sight taking my breath away is the sway of Dahlia's hips as she attempts to moonwalk across the kitchen floor, dancing to ‘Paper Rings'. Lou twirls around next to her, belting the lyrics into the chocolate-covered wooden spoon that she holds to her mouth like a microphone.

They're both so entranced by the music and their singing that they haven't noticed me enter the room, and I can't do anything other than stare at them, entirely allured. Dahlia's face is lit up with a carefree brightness that I've never seen on her before, like all her worries have been forgotten. She throws her head back, laughing as Lou wiggles to the floor and back up again.

She's so unbelievably beautiful, it feels like a stab right through my chest.

The warmth in her face, the wild movement in her body, has me physically stumbling back and leaning against the wall, like my legs can't bear to hold me up as I'm buried beneath the weight of her enchantment.

Because that's what she is—fucking enchanting.

I don't know how she could ever question her worth as a woman, her value as a mother, when that kid laughs and sings like she's the happiest girl on Earth. I don't know how Dahlia doesn't see that the only thing Lou needs in this world is her. I don't know how Dahlia doesn't see that she's enough.

The urge to capture this moment and save it forever is overwhelming, so I pull out my phone and take two pictures of them spinning around the room—they still haven't noticed me—before sliding to record video. I capture the song playing, the light on their faces, and their god-awful singing.

Finally, Dahlia spins at a slow enough speed that her eyes catch on mine, going wide as she freezes. Then, she screams, an ear-piercing, blood-curdling scream, which triggers a yelp from Lou. The spoon in her hand clatters to the floor as they both look at me with shocked, scared eyes.

As soon as recognition passes through her, Dahlia's hands fly to her chest, and that fear morphs into vexation. "Fucking Christ, Everett! You wanna warn someone when you walk into the goddamn room?"

"Mom!" Lou shouts. "That's two dollars."

"Godammit," Dal mutters.

"Three!"

"Okay! I get it." She leans over the counter to catch her breath, tapping on her tablet to lower the volume. I have tears streaming down my face as I stop recording, and she lifts her head just in time to watch me slip my phone back into my pocket. "Were you recording that?"

"Absolutely," I choke out through fits of laughter.

She rolls her eyes. Lou runs around the end of the kitchen island and grabs me by the hand. "Everett, we made truffles! You have to try one."

I let her lead me, her hand so small inside my own. She plucks a small chocolate ball covered in green and purple sprinkles from the cookie sheet and places it in my palm. Dahlia watches me curiously, but Lou's big green eyes are basically pleading with hopeful anticipation as I bite into the soft, fudge-like ball.

It tastes like milk chocolate with a hint of something even sweeter, and the truffle absolutely melts on my tongue. It's soft and rich, and explosions of flavor burst in my mouth.

"Holy fuck."

"That's a dollar," Lou says, but the smile on her face is filled with pride. I glance at Dahlia, who's smirking too. I pull my wallet out of my back pocket as I pop the rest of the truffle in my mouth, fishing out four dollar bills and handing it to Lou. She scurries over to a jar on the counter and stuffs the money inside.

"Dal, these are amazing."

I swear, I see Dahlia blush. "Thank you. I make them every year."

It's clear that she feels comfortable in the kitchen. I wonder if it's therapeutic for her somehow. She made those brownies before her first day of work, that lemon cake that was sitting on the counter the day I came to fix her car. I remember her giving my mom a box of lemon cookies too.

Maybe she just has a sweet tooth, if the insane coffee concoctions she brings into work every day are any indication.

"Do you bake a lot?"

She nods. "I always have. It's a stress reliever, I guess." She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, turning toward the counter and gathering a handful of dishes before she drops them into the sink.

I grab the broom from the pantry and begin sweeping up the sprinkles as Lou asks, "Everett, are you a Swiftie?"

I smile to myself. "I'd say so, yeah."

Dahlia chuckles from where she washes dishes at the sink. "Lucille is the biggest Swiftie of them all."

"What's your favorite era?" she asks, leaning over the counter and placing her cheeks in her palms. Her deep green, saucer-like eyes bore into me, like it's the most important question she has ever asked.

"Probably Midnights." I mimic her position, grabbing another truffle and popping it into my mouth. "What's yours?"

"Oh my gosh," she squeals. "You are totally Midnights!" Those eyes light up as a grin overtakes her face. "I'm Lover."

"Oh my gosh!" I mimic the excitement in her tone. "You are totally Lover."

She's practically vibrating with energy, and I can feel Dahlia looking at us out of the corner of my eye, but I'm afraid to meet her gaze for some reason.

"Lucille, why don't you go upstairs and take a shower so we can get you ready for your costume?"

"Okay!" she chimes, mouth full of truffle. The patter of small footsteps ambles toward the staircase at the front of the house.

I wordlessly make my way around the kitchen, grabbing utensils and meeting Dahlia at the sink. She looks down at my full hands, watching as I toss them in with the rest of the dirty dishes before I take the whisk she just finished scrubbing, placing it into the dishwasher.

"How did you get into baking?" I ask before she can protest my helping her.

She clears her throat, and I notice that pretty flush back in her cheeks. "When I was pregnant, I…um…I spent a lot of time at home. I got bored easily, especially the first few months, since I was taking a break from school. The only thing that got my mind off …everything was cooking." She laughs under her breath. "Except I hate cooking. But I love dessert. It started with cookies, and over time, I learned how to perfect recipes and explored more." She hands me a bowl, and our fingers brush as I take it from her. Her skin is soft and warm beneath mine, and I hold it there for just a little longer than necessary. "By the time Lou was born, it had become a source of comfort for me, and then it became something we did together."

I nod. "Why'd you spend so much time at home during your pregnancy?" I pause, glancing down at her, but she refuses to meet my eyes. "Were you sick a lot or something?"

She shakes her head, and her body goes stiff. It's like I can see some sort of memory flood through her, haunting her daydreams.

I place my hand on her lower back, and she flinches at the contact. "I'm sorry." I quickly pull it away. "I didn't mean to bring up something that might…"

"My dad." She shudders as whatever she's remembering wracks through her.

"Your dad?"

She finally looks at me, storms raging in her blue eyes. "He locked me in the house. Took away my car. My phone. Cut off all my access to the outside world. He told me I could leave once I agreed to an abortion." Her lips tighten as she swallows and blinks, turning her head in the other direction, fighting back tears. "They sent Darby away and wouldn't let me talk to her, wouldn't let me contact Jason and tell him. It was so fucking lonely. I was trapped."

That word rings through me. Trapped .

They locked her in the house like she was their prisoner. Their embarrassment. Their mistake. They tried to hide her away from the world, shame her for what happened. I can't imagine how it'd feel to be in that situation period, let alone because of one's own parents.

I think my heart has broken for Dahlia before. I've seen hurt and fear and devastation in her eyes, and my heart ached because of it, but nothing quite compares to the raging storm and hurricane of despair that roars through my chest now.

"That's why you freaked out about your car that morning," I say quietly, still trying to process the horror of what she just told me. "It makes you feel trapped. You need to know you have an escape route. The ability to get away."

Her eyes find mine, and though she doesn't let them fall, I see the tears shimmering there, as if it's the first time she has had words to name those emotions.

"Something like that."

"Dahlia." I step toward her. I'm almost afraid to touch her because of the way she flinched before, but I've also learned over the last few months that my touch brings her comfort. I slowly lift my hand toward her face, ensuring she can see it coming. She doesn't shy away from it as I cup her cheek and run my thumb across her jaw. "I don't want you to ever feel that way again. You'll always have a way out, an escape route. You'll always have me to call."

She lets her eyes flutter closed at those words, taking a deep breath and settling herself. "I've never told anyone that before."

"It's safe with me."

As those blue pools fall open, all their depth lands on me, and I'm suddenly sucked inside them, drowning in them. I know then that I'd do anything she asked of me. I'd go to the ends of the Earth for her—for her daughter. I'm lost to her storm, and I belong to her sea.

I wonder if that's written all over my face as the softest of smiles highlight her freckled cheeks. "I know."

When we arrive home after trick-or-treating, Lou immediately plops down in the center of the living room floor, dumping her candy out across the rug so she can sort through it.

My parents had come by just before we left to see Lou in her costume—and to make fun of the rest of us in ours. They stayed at the house to hand out Dahlia's truffles, since they don't get many kids coming through their retirement estate.

Our costumes were horrendously embarrassing, but I know that kid was having the time of her life. It was weird that only a year ago, Leo had dragged me to some flashy Halloween party in L.A., and despite the frills and status, neither of us really wanted to be there. Even though this year, we were skipping around our neighborhood in homemade costumes, being laughed at by our neighbors, and following three blondes who completely turned our lives upside down, I don't think either of us would've wanted to be doing anything else tonight.

Darby and Leo join Lou on the couch as Dahlia runs upstairs to get out of her shoes. My brother is still wearing his ugly ass blue pants and Captain America t-shirt, with the little hat and shield to match. I'm pretty certain the only shield Dahlia could find was for a children's costume, so it's way too small for him. Either that, or Dahlia grabbed that shield on purpose so he'd look stupid, which only makes me more obsessed with her.

Darby got away with a pair of black jeans, purple hoodie, and a toy bow and arrow slung over her back. My assumption was that Dahlia would take the same route, but when she appeared at the bottom of the staircase earlier, I was met with a costume that was anything but casual.

Tight, faux leather pants looked practically painted on her, with her lush hips and the dip of her waist hugged by a black athletic jacket. The zipper stopped right at the center of her chest, giving off the smallest glimpse of her flawless, full breasts. Thigh-high, heeled boots with silver stripes ran up her legs, and a matching belt sat fastened at her waist. Her blonde hair was sleek and straight at her shoulders, and she even painted her lips cherry-red.

The sight of her sent all the blood rushing straight to my dick. As she walked down the stairs in front of my entire family, I watched, slack-jawed and drooling.

"What?" she'd asked, feigning innocence. "I thought this was what you wanted?"

"Everything I've ever wanted," I found myself saying without much thought.

Thinking back, I don't think I meant to say the words out loud, but the way she had smiled was well worth it. I'll put my heart out on my sleeve—in the palm of my hand—for her if it means she's going to blush and smile at me like that.

If I let myself think too hard about the fact that she's above me right now, peeling those pants off her smooth legs, I'm going to lose my mind. So, I retire to the kitchen, putting away the leftover truffles. I secretly stash a handful aside to bring home for myself.

I think the evening went well. Lou skipped with excitement to the front door of every house in the neighborhood, sometimes dragging one of us with her. People gushed over her costume—a sparkly, red, long-sleeved unitard that ran down to her ankles, a silver circle fitted in the center of the chest, a gold belt wrapped around her middle. She also had a golden tutu, an Iron Man helmet propped at the top of her head, and a yellow pillowcase for collecting candy.

I made sure we stopped by Debbie Michaelson's house—the patron of my father's who told him she wouldn't bring her car to the garage anymore after my brief stint with her grandson. I made sure to showcase what a reformed playboy I am, taking my girlfriend's daughter trick-or-treating this Halloween rather than getting shitfaced at a party. I made sure to say the girlfriend part out loud too, mostly just because I like the way it rolls off my tongue and I enjoy the sound of Dahlia's breath hitching every time I say it.

My favorite moment of Halloween, though, was when Darby dared Leo to take Lou's pillowcase and go up to one door completely by himself. She knows as well as I do how hard it is for him to turn down a dare. The best part was when the owner of the house recognized him and asked him to sign a t-shirt. Caught up in the midst of that, Leo forgot to ask for candy, and Lou sent him back up to the house a second time.

I hear Dahlia call down to Lou that it's time for bed, then the sound of their footsteps ascending the stairs from the front of the house. I know I don't have any reason to stay, but I don't want to leave without saying goodnight to Dal, without having just one quiet moment alone with her.

I decide to make small talk with my brother for a while and hope that Dahlia comes back downstairs before she goes to bed herself. I stop short as I enter the living room, finding Leo and Darby both asleep on the couch. Lou's pillowcase is lying on the floor, candy spilled across the rug.

Both of them are breathing deeply, my brother sitting almost upright with his fiancée sprawled across his chest. One arm splays around her waist while the other sits at his thigh, her hand nestled in his palm.

I watch that hand flex, his fingers tightening around hers, as if, even in his sleep, he needs to remind himself that she's still there. She hasn't left him again.

"Do you think we should wake them up?" Dahlia's whispered words startle me as she appears at my side.

"No." I shake my head. "They look peaceful. Plus, he'll wake up in a few hours when his back goes out anyway."

She laughs quietly as she brushes past me and begins to pick up Lou's candy. Wordlessly, I squat down to help her. Once we finish, she takes everything into the kitchen and, like a moth to her flame, I follow. She's wearing a pair of joggers and a black tank top. I can tell by the way her breasts bounce as she reaches into the top cupboard for a glass that she's not wearing a bra.

My hands are balled into fists at my sides, aching for her touch. I want to step into her, want to feel her body against mine again. I want to grab those lush hips, touch that soft skin. I want to taste her again. I need to be reminded of what those pillowy lips feel like.

"Everett?" Her voice breaks me from my trance.

"What?"

"I said thank you…for tonight." She laughs to herself, and the sound makes my cock jump. She laughs so prettily. "You really went above and beyond in your fake boyfriend duties."

She puts an emphasis on that term, and I decide I hate that word. Fake . Nothing about tonight—the way I acted, the way I felt—was fake or forced.

"It has nothing to do with our arrangement, Wildflower." I find myself rounding the kitchen island, closing the space between us. "I care about Lou," I say, towering over her now. "I care about you. I want you to understand…" I sigh, slowly lifting my hand and tucking a piece of wild hair behind her ear. "Regardless of this arrangement, no matter how long it lasts, I'm gonna be here. For her. For both of you."

Her ocean eyes swirl with hope and hesitation—and the war within them is enough to bring me to my knees. She's searching my face rapidly, looking for the lie that she's so used to being told. I let her search; all she'll find here is honesty.

I drop my forehead to hers, keeping my hold on her face. Both of our eyes close, and I feel her sigh against my lips. I want so badly to kiss her. Feel her. Taste her.

But I don't. I don't close the gap because, as always, the ball is in her court. I wait for her to decide what she wants from me, knowing I'll give her all of it.

It's this moment—with her lips nearly touching mine, her skin beneath my fingers—I realize I don't want drunken nights at the bar or random hook-ups with people I barely know anymore. I don't want surface level. I don't want temporary.

I want to clean candy up off the ground with her. I want to help her do the dishes, to watch her dance around the kitchen with her daughter. I want to hear them laugh together and be the reason for their smiles.

But I know I can't tell Dahlia that, because every promise she's ever relied on has been broken. I have to show her that this isn't an arrangement for me. This isn't fake. She may be mine for show, but I'm hers for real.

All I've got to do is prove it.