Page 70 of Dahlia Made A List

I grunted, my fingers tight around the phone.

“Seems to be botherin’ you though, huh, grandson?”

“I promised to help her with her list. Can’t fuckin’ help her if she doesn’t tell me what it is, now can I?”

She laughed, the sound scraping across my nerves like the sting of blackberry briars. “Keep tellin’ yourself that, Wyatt. See how that goes over with her.” She quieted, her voice chiding. “You missed a lovely dinner last night.”

I did. I’d fucked up royally and it was only becoming clear how much now. “I’ll make it up to her.”

“By helping her with Number Three.”

“Something like that.”

We ended the call and I took my sorry ass home. Where I stewed and paced and rethought every decision I’d ever made with Dahlia. I needed to see her. I needed to tell her I couldn’t read. I needed to tell her I had a feeling what Number Three might be and if I was right, her list was fucking complete.

I spent Sunday night in my bed instead of the couch, but I spent it staring up at the white ceiling. Monday morning I was leaning on my truck when she came down from her apartment, wearing a lacy white dress and Converse. She was still walking to work, despite the license and ElCo.

Her pace slowed when she caught sight of me. I pushed away from the truck and met her half way. “I can’t read.”

I’d meant to lead up to it, but the words spilled out in an angry rush. “I can’t fuckin’ read, never have and never will. My mind doesn’t see letters and numbers like normal people. It’s dyslexia and when my granddad took me to be tested, they told him it was probably genetic.”

She stared up at me, eyes wide, head tilted a little to the side, as though looking at something a little curious.

“It’s why I said what I said up on the mountain.”

“The ‘just a fuck’?”

“Yeah.” I shoved my hand through my hair. “You’d already said you wanted a good man and kids and the whole package.”

Dahlia’s brows drew together, her pretty pink lips thinning into a frown. “I’m not seeing the connection there, Wyatt?”

Not the reaction I’d been expecting. She was supposed to turn all sweet and commiserating. Say she was sorry for me. Feign kindness. “It . . . um . . . ” I fumbled for what to say. “The connection is I can’t be with you because I know you want kids and a future and I can’t give you any of that.”

She nodded, rolling her lips together. She heaved her bag higher up on her shoulder. “You decided that, huh? You decided I couldn’t handle your not being able to read?”

“No. I mean, your list. You wanted to stop wasting time with men you couldn’t see a future with.” My mind spun.

“Good you know my mind for me, Wyatt. How in the world do I get through a day without you deciding things for me?”

“Fuck. That’s not what I meant—”

“But that’s what you’ve done.” She shifted, took a step down the sidewalk, before turning to face me again. Her face flushed, anger flashing in her eyes. “I have ADHD. My head doesn’t operate like your so-called normal people. That mean I can’t have kids, either? You wanna decide that for me, too?”

“No! Fuck no, Dahlia. You’re perfect.”

The sparks in her eyes faded and she looked at me for a long moment, her gaze tracing over my face, taking me in. “I’m not perfect. I never could focus on school, so I started skipping classes in tenth grade. Barely made it out of high school, and flunked right out of college, though I tried. For my parents. Because that’s what they wanted for me. They didn’t understand me. Didn’t try, if I’m being honest. They thought I was just being difficult.”

She breathed deep and I could hear the sadness in her voice. It mirrored my own. Her experience mirrored so much of my own. No wonder our connection formed so easily.

She leaned up and kissed my cheek. “I still want kids, Wyatt. I don’t care if they come out with ADHD or dyslexia or anything else. Because the thing my parents taught me? They taught me how I want to treat my kids. How I want to love them and help them and support them and give them all the tools they need to succeed in life.”

Her words vibrated through my mind, sank into me like a warm caress. But she turned and walked away.

I’d fucked up again.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Dahlia

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