Page 99 of Wicked & Wildflower

While Dahlia is gone, I sneak downstairs and make her a cup of chamomile tea. On my way back up, I notice that Lou’s bed doesn’t have any sheets on it. I assume Dahlia was going to wash them while she was away for the night. I find the bundle in the dryer and warm them up then make her bed for her.

I’m just finishing when I hear the front door unlock, followed by the sound of hushed voices. I slip down the hall into Dahlia’s bedroom, shutting myself in her bathroom just in case Lou comes in. The voices seem to bypass Dahlia’s room, and it’s another ten minutes of silence before I hear her door creak open.

“Everett?” she whispers.

I exit the bathroom to find her sitting on her bed, eyes appearing bloodshot, body drooping with exhaustion. “How's she doing?”

“She’s fine, I think.” Dahlia shrugs. “Embarrassed.”

“She has nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“I know.” She sighs. “I think it was just a bit much for her. She’s a homebody. I think being outside her safe space is scary for her. It probably would’ve been better for her to have a sleepover at her own house first.” Dahlia’s voice cracks as she adds, “But this isn’t her house. I don’t even have a home for her.”

Her face falls into her hands as a soft sob breaks from her throat.

“Dal,” I whisper, sitting down beside her. I don’t know what more to do than wrap my arms around her back and pull her into me, allowing her to cry against my chest. “This is her home, both of you. Just because Leo’s name is on the deed doesn’t mean you don’t belong here. It was your grandma’s house, and he bought it exactly for this reason, so that her family could continue to make it theirs.”

She doesn’t respond, but the tears continue to fall. I don’t know how to make this better. “She could have friends over here any time. You know they wouldn’t care.”

She sniffles. “Leo’s a celebrity. I can’t have random people invading his space like that.”

“D-List at best.” I snort. “Lou could have friends sleep over. Nobody is going to give a shit.”

A small laugh bubbles out of her, and I instantly settle at the sound of it.

“I was so frustrated by her,” Dahlia continues. “I just wanted one fucking night to myself. One night without having to worry about her.” Her voice breaks again. “I feel so guilty for being upset. A mother shouldn’t want space from her own child. I don’t want to ever make her an imposition. I know what it’s like to feel that way, and I don’t ever want to do that to her.”

Short, rapid breath filters from her lips, and I know it’s because she’s trying to stay quiet. She’s afraid of her daughter hearing her break down.

“You’ve never made her feel that way.” I press my lips to her head. “You’re her safe place. She knows that.” I stand from the bed, reaching for the hem of her shirt. She looks up at me with red-rimmed eyes but lifts her arms without hesitation. I pull her hoodie off and toss it in the hamper in the corner of her room before pulling back the sheets. “Get into bed.”

I hear the shuffling of blankets as she gets comfortable, and I round the room to the other side, grabbing the tea I made from her dresser.

As I crawl in beside her, I pass her the mug. “Chamomile with honey.”

“Everett.” She sighs. “Thank you.” Taking a sip, she asks, “You made her bed too, didn’t you?”

I nod. “You’re her safe place, but I want to be yours.”

Her hands tremble as she places the tea on her nightstand and turns to face me. “Why?”

Because I love you so much, it fucking hurts.

I open her arms and pull her into me. “Because you deserve it. Because you make me feel safe too.”

Her head falls against my chest, her hand over my stomach. I inhale the scent of her coconut body wash and savor the feel of her warmth against me.

“I feel safe with you,” she whispers. We lay in comfortable silence for a while longer as I stroke her hair. Only the unsteady rhythm of her breathing lets me know she’s still awake. It was just a few weeks ago that she told me she was afraid she couldn’t offer me more than sex, but whatever has happened tonight feels like a whole hell of a lot more.

I’m not sure if she realizes that yet, so I decide not to say anything.

“Why do I feel like a bad mom all the time?” she asks, so quiet, I’m not entirely sure she’s even addressing me.

“The fact that you even have these kinds of thoughts proves exactly how good of a mother you are,” I respond anyway. “You question it because you care, because you’ve been navigating this alone her whole life, and because you didn’t have an example to go off of.” I press my lips to her forehead. “You’re an incredible mother, Dahlia. Coming from someone who grew up with a great one, I can say that with certainty. Anyone who knows you, who sees you with her, would agree. There’s no need to worry your pretty breath with thoughts like that.”

She sighs sleepily. “Breath isn’t pretty.”

I huff a laugh at the random train of thought, hoping it’s a sign that what I’ve just said has gotten through to her.

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