38. Wicked

38

Wicked

She's My Peace

We arrive back at my brother's house much later than expected. My plan was to get Dahlia off that mountain before the sunset so she could watch it at my back as we took the Pacific Highway home.

It was far too easy to lose track of time, though, even as I watched the sun sink low in the sky, when she was wrapped up in my arms and we were lost inside those wildflowers. I didn't want to rush the gift—offering her a bakery of her own. I'm not sure I fully conveyed what it means to me, and to my brother, to invite her into that. If she goes on this adventure with us, she's truly solidifying herself as part of our family. Opening that cafe means that she has to stay here in Pacific Shores, that she's going to stay close to me.

In my head, it answered the prayer I've been pleading for since I met her: she's mine.

When she agreed, the sun setting like a golden halo around her shoulders, she was so earth-shatteringly beautiful that I lost myself. I didn't intend on taking her right there on the ridge, but when she looked at me with those smoldering blue eyes—brighter than the sea behind her head—it felt kismet, laying her back and showing her just what she is to me right then and there.

Mine.

Yours.

I love you, Dahlia.

She hadn't said it back, but I didn't expect her to, not after all she'd told me when we talked. I don't expect her to say it for some time, but that doesn't mean I won't keep loving her with everything in me. It doesn't mean I don't feel it when she looks at me, when she touches me, when she clings to me like I'm the only thing anchoring her to the Earth.

I know what we have goes beyond words, beyond language.

Pulling into the driveway, I kill the engine and help Dahlia with her helmet before lifting her off the bike. We quietly sneak into the darkened house hand-in-hand, assuming everyone is asleep by this time of night. I let Dahlia in before me, locking the door behind me.

"Monica?" I hear her gasp.

Spinning, I realize there's one lamp turned on in the corner of the living room, and my mother is curled on the edge of the couch with a book in her hand. She lifts her head at us, smiling, but I see the way her eyes are swollen and red.

" ?Por qué estás llorando? "

She shakes her head. " Estoy bien. "

"No," I say, stepping toward her.

My mother holds her hand out, snapping the book in her lap closed before getting up from the couch. "How was your birthday?" she asks, wrapping Dahlia in her arms.

Dahlia looks at me over Mom's head as she returns the hug, a twin expression of confusion and concern on her face. "It was perfect," she says quietly.

"What'd you guys do?" Dahlia dips her chin, attempting to hide a coy smile. Shaking her head, Mom walks into the dining room, beckoning us to follow. "You know what? Nevermind."

"What're you still doing here?" I ask. "Where are Darby and Leo?"

"Down at the beach."

"I've never met two people with less self-control," Dahlia mutters under her breath, causing a laugh to bubble out of me.

"Not like that," Mom chides, rolling her eyes. "Leo's…upset."

"What happened?" Dal and I ask at the same time.

"Sit down."

"Is Lou asleep?" Dahlia asks suddenly.

My mother nods. "She's in bed."

"Dad?" I ask.

"At home." She crosses her hands on the table in front of her as Dahlia and I sit down on the opposite side. "I wasn't planning on being over here so late. Stopped by to drop something off when Elena called. Leo stormed out, and I offered to stay with the kiddo until you got home."

"I'm sorry." Dahlia sighs.

"You've got nothing to be sorry for. That's what families do for each other," Mom says simply, glancing up at Dahlia with sincerity in her eyes.

She lets out an exhale next to me, as if that kind of care is a foreign language she's just learning, as if she's still struggling to understand it. I grip her thigh beneath the table and squeeze lightly.

"Elena's not coming, is she?" I ask.

My mother's bottom lip trembles, and I watch her swallow thickly. She only shakes her head, unable to say it out loud.

My face falls into my hands, three years of disappointment and devastation cascading over me like a monsoon. The weight of that bone-deep weariness is suffocating.

Memories—sudden and painful—flash across my mind.

"You can't leave," I pleaded.

"I can't stay here."

"This is where you live."

"It's where he died."

"We're all hurting, Elena. We need each other to heal."

"Watch someone you've let inside your body get buried and then tell me what the fuck I need, Everett."

"You don't get to monopolize grief."

"I'm not. I'm monopolizing guilt."

I still don't understand what she meant by that. The morning after that argument, she was on a flight to New York City, one I hadn't even known she booked. I didn't see her again for eight months, not until Leo and I took a trip to New York.

By that time, she seemed content to pretend Zach had never existed in the first place.

She hasn't talked about him since.

"What are we supposed to do?" I ask, my tone coming out rough and broken.

A soft, warm touch lands at the center of my back, moving in soothing circles.

"I think that's something to discuss tomorrow," my mother says quietly. "It's still Dahlia's birthday; let's not ruin it with this." I hear her chair slide out from the table. "I've got to get home and tell your father. We'll get together tomorrow and talk this out."

I nod, palms pressed against my eyes as I fight back tears and the scream I want to release.

"Should I wait up for my sister and Leo?" I hear Dahlia ask.

"I told her to text me when they came back up the hill. I think they'll be fine." I feel my mother's lips brush against the top of my head, her hands running through my hair softly. " Ti amo, tesoro ," she whispers.

" Ti amo, mama ."

The front door shuts a moment later, and that soft hand at my back moves up to my neck, tugging me against her chest as she cradles my head. Her breath is shallow and steady—comforting.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Dahlia whispers.

I shake my head. Words are lost on me at this point.

I feel utterly hopeless. They say when someone leaves their hometown, they only come home for two reasons: weddings and funerals. If we can't get her back here for the happiest day of our brother's life, we'll never get her back at all.

If New York was healing her, if it's where she was meant to be, I'd try harder to understand, but I know the reason she hides out east is because she's not healing. She's letting all of her wounds fester. She's fucking killing herself.

And I'll be damned if the only way I get her back here is by her own funeral.

I take a deep breath, knowing it's unfair to Dahlia for her birthday to end this way, not after I worked so hard to give her a perfect day. Pulling my head from my hands, I look at her, and she's smiling softly at me. "Come on," she says, standing from her chair and grabbing my hand. "Let's go to bed."

I pause, eyes fixated on her outstretched arm and the direction she pulls me, toward the stairs. Her room. "You…You want me to stay?"

A grin splits her face, light shining in her blue eyes. "Yeah, baby. I want you to stay."

A little while later, as Dahlia's breath—heavy with sleep—lands against my chest, I don't feel quite so hopeless. I run my fingers through her hair, and the darkness doesn't feel quite so all-consuming. The exhaustion isn't quite so heavy.

In my arms, she's my peace.