Page 113 of Wicked & Wildflower

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.

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