Page 36 of Dahlia Made A List

Ms. Lester was seventy if she was a day. “I had no idea, Ms. Lester.”

“No. You’re content to scamper here and there, heedless of the chaos and destruction you leave in your wake. Happy to wave and smile and bounce your way through Weston Mill. Some of us dig in and put down the work to make something beautiful.” She gave me her back, returning to the patch of earth she’d been working on before I interrupted. She slanted me a last, dismissive glance. “Something real.”

My scalp prickled, cold washing down my spine. I whipped around and flew back up the stairs to my apartment.Chaos. The word ripped through me, a dagger with a thousand blades.

My mother’s words echoed in my brain, the theme song of my childhood.Sit still, Dahlia. Calm down, I could do with a little less chaos out of you, Dahlia. Pay attention, Dahlia. Finish your homework, finish one thing before you start another, focus up, Dahlia.

I slammed the door behind me and secured the deadbolt into place, before rushing through the house to the shower in my bedroom. My fingers trembled as I fumbled with the knobs. Hot full blast, just enough cold so I didn’t scald myself. I stripped, dropping my clothes to the cold tile floor and lunged into the shower stall and the water jetting down.

For several long minutes, I just stood under the water, let the stream soak my hair, my skin. Steam filled the little room, hot and moist and familiar. I tilted my head back, put my face under the blast of water and exhaled, but it was too late. The tears came. No delicate, pretty tears, either. Harsh and shuddering, and I gasped, sucking in a mouthful of water only to nearly choke.

With my forehead pressed against my fist on the bright, white tile, I breathed deep. Wyatt said he’d put in plain white subway tile because it was simple. He’d done it himself. I trailed my index finger along the cold, clean grout. What would Ms. Lester’s aunt think about his simple white tile? I’d had no idea the place once belonged to my neighbor’s family.

I bounced and smiled and waved my way through town every day, but I didn’t know anything about the people I waved at. Just those who waved back, the ones that smiled, and the ones that ignored me. Like I was keeping score, earning a blue ribbon with every returned wave. Acknowledgement had always been enough for me in the past.

If I got to know them—if they got to knowme—I risked disappointing them.

Do better, work up to your potential, show me you mean it.

Even at work, despite the curse of my oversharing stupid details, I never told Maia when I figured out Brandon was cheating on me. I focused on taking care of the shop, being the people pleaser, hoping if I did enough, she’d need me and keep me around. If I brought in drama, showed myself as needy or disruptive, why, then she might prefer someone else working in her salon. Being her friend.

Because if I showed too much of myself, it wouldn’t go well. The friendship I hoped for would fade away. No more questions about my weekend, no more invitations to coffee, no more laughing over the latest celebrity scandal or local gossip.

I lathered shampoo in my hair, digging the tips of my fingers into my scalp as if I could scour away the thoughts I tried so hard to leave buried deep. As soon as Brandon came to know me better, I became too much for him. Walking chaos. And he went looking for someone else. He wasn’t the first. No, my mother had that distinction. Too much work, too much effort.Chaos. Might as well be my calling card.

But Ms. Lester saw right through my shields, past the charade to the useless person hidden behind the smiles and people-pleasing helpfulness.

Growing a garden, learning to drive, joining the Shameless Readers, finding my signature dish, were any of these things really going to change the kind of person I was?

I tilted my head back to rinse the shampoo from my hair. I pooled a glob of conditioner in my hand then massaged it through my hair. My pretty pink and peach hair that an hour ago had made me feel so good.

New hair, new perspective.

Do better, Dahlia.

I winced at the echo of resignation in my mother’s voice. The fatigue that coated her words, that said no matter the words she spoke to me, she didn’t really expect me to do any better. To be any better.

But I could drive now. I couldn’t make left hand turns and every time I pulled out of the neighborhood I was terrified I’d have another panic attack, but a year ago, I’d been unable to even get behind the wheel.

And I’d tried out for roller derby and done well. Really well. And I’d loved every minute of it.

And I could continue to tick off each item on my list. I didn’t need Ms. Lester. I would get another plant from the Jacinda’s Nursery and try again. Try harder this time. Watch a video. Figure out what I’d done wrong with the last one and not make that mistake again.

But I owed Wyatt a huge apology for crawling all over him last night. He’d been nothing but helpful and I’d gone and ruined everything with that kiss.

Because as desperately as I wanted to complete my list, as much as I wanted to change the habits of a lifetime and make better choices, and become a better person, I couldn’t do it alone. Somehow he’d become integral to my success.

Chapter Twelve

Wyatt

Irolledthecreeperunder the Firebird, shoving my heels along the cement floor. The drain bolt was being stubborn and the creeper kept rolling on me as I struggled to get leverage and force the bolt to loosen. With a grunt, I pulled harder and finally the fucker gave way. I unscrewed the rest by hand, but with all the shifting and rolling on the creeper, the pan I’d lined up beneath to catch the used oil had been shoved aside and oil spilled onto my clean cement floor.

“Damn it,” I growled, reaching for the pan to pull it back under the fountain of dirty black sludge. Oil coated my arms, the sleeves of my shirt, even splashing across my chest. “Fuckin’ stupid motherfucker!”

Shoving hard, I rolled out from under the car, knocking my elbow against the ground before I reached daylight. I shot to my feet and headed to the sink built into the side of the garage. Maybe I had another shirt in the truck.

“Motherfucker.” I glared at the car draining oil, but it was my own damn fault. Carelessness. Stupidity. Distraction.

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