Page 1 of Saved By My Buyers

Prologue

Dahlia

Alone tear slides down my cheek as I glance over my shoulder at the sea of mourners in the church. Dad knew a lot of people. There’s so many who I have no idea who they are, yet they somehow know me.

Did he talk about me?

Brushing my long, curly brown hair out of my face as I turn toward the front of the church, I have to wonder if he did or not. Alvin Moore was a social butterfly who did well as a local lawyer in Laura, Florida.

He seemed to care about everyone, but I don’t think he had a lot of time for me. Dad was also a wonderful networker for his firm, as it helped to bring him continued business.

As the baby in the family, I kind of got pushed to the side, because I couldn’t understand the adult conversations. I get it, I just wish sometimes that I was older than I am, so that I could have had a more important role in his life. Instead, I feel like a nuisance even at his funeral.

I have an older brother who sits next to me with legs spread wide, his sad eyes downcast as he listens to the priest do his thing during the sermon. Cyrus is five years older than me, was close to Dad, but has always been terrible at expressing himself.

His skin is milky and pale compared to my tanned, his dark red curls wild over his forehead. It’s almost as if we aren’t related at all.

He’s a very angry fifteen-year-old, and as much as I want to find comfort, it won’t be with him.

Deep breath in and out. Mom is sitting next to Cyrus, while I sit on the aisle. She’s quietly crying, which is better than the sobbing she did when Dad first had a heart attack. It was out of the blue as they were headed to bed, right as a thunderstorm cut the power.

Shivering as I think about how Mom couldn’t coherently speak to the emergency operator that night, I look up at the priest who is talking about what an amazing man he was. It’s true, Dad was the best, even though he didn’t really see me as a person. He’d help anyone if he could, and was involved in so many different community activities in our small town.

So tell me why I had to chase the ambulance down on a Sunday night to get them to come help him?

Gasping, I clamp my hand over my mouth, ignoring the disdainful, piercing glare my brother gives me. The memories of the terror, how the chill in the night air stung my skin as I ran in my sleep clothes, threaten to assault me, but I can’t let myself break here. I know he’s in pain too, but God he’s being an asshole right now.

Everyone forgets that I’m ten-years-old, since I’m tall for my age and way too smart for my own good. I look more like mom with my tanned skin, brown, curly hair, and large caramel eyes.

I don’t think I look at all like my father, Cyrus pulled all of the Irish genes, while I pulled the Latina ones. I’m telling myself that’s why they’re largely ignoring me, as Cyrus reaches over to rub Mom’s back to comfort her as she quietly cries. Swallowing hard, I remind myself that my tears don’t matter, so I force them into a little box to examine later.

Mom stands as it’s time for her to speak to everyone about Dad’s life, but I’m not expecting her hand to grab mine, effectively dragging me up to go with her. Panicking, I force my feet to walk next to her as her hips bump into me, and my pretty long-sleeved white dress billows along my ankles.

I don’t have any black clothing since I love bright patterns, and the white dress was a gift from an aunt I barely know from a year ago.

It’s humorous to me that the same aunt yelled at me to wear a slip under it, when she saw me, as she walked into my house to drive us to the funeral. I didn’t realize it was a bit sheer, because I don’t pay attention to those things.

I’m ten, climb trees, and perpetually have scraped knees and elbows. Aunt Amelia went out and bought me one, with minutes to spare before the funeral started. I don’t know the rules about wearing white and making sure my underwear won’t show through.

My eyes are still a little swollen from crying over that, and hot embarrassment creeps over my neck as I walk past Aunt Amelia. Reaching out, she twitches the skirt into place, nodding as if only now do I pass inspection.

I hate it here so much.

Tugging me to stand beside her at the lectern, Mom looks out at everyone.

“Alvin would have been touched to see everyone here today,” she says softly into the microphone. Mom’s body is trembling beside me, and despite myself, I hold tighter to her hand, pressing myself into her side.

She’s always despised speaking in front of people. Mom has a small accent from when she immigrated here from Colombia, and thinks people look down on her for it. As far as I know, I haven’t heard anyone make fun of her.

It’s such a slight accent, you can’t even tell unless she’s nervous. Like now.

“Thank you so much for coming to say goodbye to him like this. Dahlia begged to come up and give you a happy memory of her father, so I’m going to allow her a chance to tell you how much her Daddy meant to her.”

Did my mother just throw me under the bus? Looking up at her with wide eyes, I notice the way she ignores me. My skin feels too tight as black spots crawl over my vision, and I force myself to look forward.

She’s seriously putting me on the spot here.

I can’t remember a single thing, happy or otherwise at the moment surrounding my dad. Swallowing hard, I force myself to focus on what I want to say.

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