Page 2 of Rogue's Path
“You’re right. I should do it. Or at least try it out.”
Do it? I sink down onto my bed and tug the straps of my suit up. What have I done? “How do you try a bachelorette party?”
“What if I invite a whole bunch of friends and we bar hop with a dare list?”
Dahlia has gone off the deep end. I kinda love it. “When do you want to try this?”
“This weekend.”
“Like in two days?” How does she plan to get everything done in time?
“Yeah.”
There’s only one thing to do. “I’ll book a flight for tomorrow.”
“You don’t think I’ve gone crazy?”
“Absolutely. And I’m thrilled.” Not to mention it will get my mind off my release and other things.
“Okay. I’m going to go call everyone else and see who can come.” Dahlia hangs up.
I click the phone off and toss it back on the bed.
Life just got interesting.
***
I run out of the pool, pull on my robe that was on the heated drying rack, and make a dash for the sliding glass doors to get inside. Getting out of the pool is the worst part of swimming in the winter. Skip cold plunges. Who needs them when it’s fifty out and the pool is in the eighties?
Slippers. Next time I need to remember slippers. The pavers are like ice.
The warm air hits me as I step into my kitchen and my toes sink into the quick-drying rug I stuck there to prevent any pool water from hitting my wood floors.
As I run towards my bedroom, the doorbell rings. That’s odd. I live in a gated community. The only time someone comes to my door is when I get food delivered.
Food sounds good. But it needs to be something light for my rumbly tummy. Maybe soup and a sandwich.
Do I want to cook?
I check the security camera.
Flowers!!!
Someone sent me flowers. Probably Dahlia. I rush to the door, pulling it open to reveal a massive vase full of vibrant colors.
“Flowers for Dylan Oliva.” The florist pokes her head to the side.
“I’m Dylan.”
She quirks an eye at me, which is a response I get all the time. Why did my father have to give me a boy’s name? “I can get my identification if you would like.”
“No, that’s alright.”
She clearly wants me to get it, but also doesn’t want me to complain either.
“There are more bouquets in the truck.”
More? Who would send them? I set this one down on the end table and pull out the card.
