Page 10 of Dahlia Made A List

“A tree branch house behind the Gas n’ Apple? With a naked man inside? That’s not drunk. That’s some peyote or mushrooms or something.” This from the man who’d suggested growing my own herbs.

Vida tapped her chin with a hint of a sly grin. “She does lunch with Becca once a week.”

“Was it a yurt?” I asked, before they could decide on Vida’s mother’s hallucinogen of choice. “I’ve always thought it would be neat to stay in a yurt.” Not precisely the truth, but close enough. If I ever found myself in need of shelter, I’d take a yurt over a tent any day. The ones they blasted on Insta, filled with jewel-toned pillows and wall hangings, golden candelabra and colorful, intricate rugs.

Minerva smiled again. “You’ve got the start of a mighty fine list, there.” She settled back and looked over the room. “But enough about Dahlia. What did y’all think of this week’s book?”

Maia bumped her shoulder against mine, holding her Kindle between us. As the group moved on to their latest romance read, I nodded along and smiled until my cheeks hurt but inside, my mind reeled.

Another time, I might have been mortified at this group of strangers and acquaintances dissecting my life. But not tonight. The idea of creating a list intrigued me. A list of distractions. A project to throw my energy and focus into, a project that I could hold onto. Something real and tangible, and not shrouded in any more of the self-deception I hid behind.

Chapter Four

Wyatt

Ileanedagainstthefour-inch thick honey oak trim between the kitchen and Grams’s oversized living room. Everything about Grams’s house was oversized, though. Sorta like her personality. If I embarrassed the family with my lack of a college education, Minerva did it with her take no prisoners attitude.

Of course, where they could ignore my shortcomings, they couldn’t do the same with Grams, no matter how much of a family maverick she was.

Dinner had been a ruse, a ridiculous pretext to get me out to her house for some unknown reason. I’d expected to sit across from my formidable grandmother in her formal dining room as we hammered out a deal we’d already made for the drive-in. But instead of sharing a meal with me, she’d sent me out to one of Granddad’s many barns in search of an old neon light she wasjust certainI would want for The Royal restoration.

I’d spent the last two hours shifting boxes, farm relics, and everything else a hundred-and-fifty-year-old property accumulated over a couple of generations and came up empty handed. But Grams knew my passion for The Royal meant I would spend as many hours as needed to find a piece of vintage neon for my beloved drive-in.

I prided myself on being a good grandson and I loved my grandmother to the soles of her crafty little feet; which meant even if I didn’t want the neon sign, I would have done whatever she asked. No question. But it still rankled to be manipulated.

And while I’d been dodging bat droppings and feral barn cats, my grandmother had been getting shitfaced in her living room. Curiosity trumped my irritation, though, when she giggled like a woman a quarter her age. I shifted my shoulder against the oak trim to better take in the view. Grams shared the space with several women and a couple men. She slumped bonelessly into the corner of a leather chair one of my uncles had gifted her and Granddad years ago. She propped a tablet on the rolled arm of the chair, her gaze fixed on the screen.

“Where was I?” she asked then.

“At ‘good girl’,” Ms. Beck called from her spot on one of the sofas, a wine glass dangling from her hand, threatening to baptize the carpet. “Read that part again, Min. Can’t hear a man say ‘good girl’ enough, really.”

A smattering of giggling followed that request before Grams cleared her throat and began to read with the sort of theatrical flair I’d never heard out of her before.

“‘That’s right, Emma,’” Grams read aloud in her husky imitation of a man’s voice. “‘You look so pretty with your lips around my cock. Such a good girl, aren’t you?’”

I snapped up straight, heat flushing my face. My grandmother was reading from one of her romance novels. Out-the-fuck-loud. To a group of people. My mind blanked.

“Fuck me, but I love her sex scenes,” said one of the men from where he sat on the floor, his back against a sofa. “All hail our queen, Valerie Cameron.”

Glasses clinked as they all raised their beverages in a salute.

“It’s the ‘good girl’.”

“I don’t agree. It’s the writing, the setup. I’ve read some stories where the author just tosses that phrase in somewhere and it just doesn’t hit with the same punch. Lacks any impact.”

“Yep, it’s the buildup.”

“Minerva, you read the male parts so well.”

“I just think of Sherman’s bedroom voice.”

And I’m out. Bad enough to hear a bunch of people breaking down a romance book like it was The Great American Novel. Not gonna linger long enough to hear my Grams wax poetic about my Granddad’sbedroom voice.

I stalked over to the fridge. Least my grandmother could do was feed me. I yanked out the fixings for a roast beef sandwich and over the next twenty minutes, cringed every time the crew in the living room cackled.

After what felt like an hour, Grams appeared at the entrance to the kitchen, alpha of her pack of crazies, their arms filled with dirty glasses. Seemed the gathering was winding to a close. I shoved up from the table.

“Wyatt,” she said with a deceptive gasp of happy surprise. “Should have known you’d help yourself to something to eat. Did you find that neon sign?”

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