Her pull is too strong, and I capitulate to my weakness, staring at her. When our eyes lock, the world disappears. Everything else ceases to matter.
My sister clears her throat, and that pulls me out of my Dahlia-induced spell. It’s a clear warning flashing in her eyes. As she glances from me to Dahlia, her face clears of any doubt, from suspicion to certainty.
Drinking from a glass of wine, Calla places her palm on Enzo’s. I don’t know whether to distract him or simply support him.
I want to confess. I long to profess my love to her.
That I would die for her.
That I wish to grow old with her.
That I hate how we started, but I can’t regret loving her.
If destiny exists, then she is mine.
“I’m out,” I say and stand up.
“To the club?” my sister asks, and I nod in confirmation.
“Could you bring me home first, please?” Dahlia asks, her eyes just as pleading as her soft tone, rooting me in place.
I can’t say no to her, even if it ends me. “Sure.”
“Enjoy your night,” Dahlia says and kisses them both on their cheeks.
My jaw clamps, pushing my molars together and causing a grating sound as jarring as my troubled mind. “What are you doing?” I whisper snarl.
Why the fuck are you punishing me like this?
“Losing it,” she whispers.
Instinctively, I place my palm on her back and lead her to my car.
Opening the door for her, I wait for her to get inside.
I can control myself. The drive is short, and after I bring her home, I will work, fight, and drink enough that I forget to be coherent. In that specific order.
Once she’s buckled in, I close the door and drag in a lungful of air, hoping the fresh air will blow away the poisonous desire.
My hand hovers over the start button when she says, “I miss you.”
“You miss me?” I grumble, my voice ringing with incredulity.
She casts an angry look my way.
“What, Dahlia? What do you want from me now? A quick fuck because apparently that’s what I’m good for,” I snap.
She gasps. I don’t think I ever raised my voice or lost my temper with her.
But I am sick. Sick with a love I will never be cured of. Perhaps my death, but I doubt it. Sick with dreams I’ve neverdared to dream, and now they taunt me, play on repeat scenarios that won’t ever become real.
She fidgets with her fingers in her lap. “You’re mad at me.”
A statement. Not a question.
Raking a hand through my hair, I suck in a lungful of air to ground myself. “I’m not, baby girl. I’m sorry.”
Her well-being will always trump mine.
