Page 97 of The Blue Moon Café & 24-Hour Occult Emporium

And I like you in every color.

“Thanks,” Talula said, blushing. “So, where to?”

Dahlia put the car in drive. “Comfort food, of course.”

Her thoughtfulness melted Talula. “Mac and cheese?”

“Close. Butter chicken.” Dahlia leaned across the console to whisper conspiratorially. “With cheese naan.”

Dahlia hit the gas and tore out of the cul-de-sac. Somehow, Talula was thinking about red lingerie again.

The Indian restaurant was about twenty minutes outside of Pine Hollow in a little town off the freeway. Inside, shimmery cloth draped from the rafters, and golden lamps gave the space a soft glow. The restaurant hostess, a young woman with smoky eye makeup and a streak of teal in her hair, guided Dahlia and Talula to a booth overflowing with pillows.

“Usual?” she asked Dahlia.

“Make it a double, Kanishka.” Dahlia looked over at Talula. “Wine?”

“Red, please. Whatever you recommend.”

Dahlia turned to Kanishka. “Two house reds, then.”

“Fine.” Kanishka rolled her eyes and walked off.

Talula laid a cloth napkin over her lap, pulse skittering with nerves. “When were you going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

Talula propped her elbows on the table, chin in her hands, trying to look forlorn. “You’ve been two-timing the Blue Moon with this place.”

“Listen,” Dahlia said, putting on her dramatic voice. “The Blue Moon is my wife, but once in a while, a café writer has to explore her options.”

“Now who’s being a rabbit penis?” Talula snickered and Dahlia gave one of her big, beautiful laughs, eyes on Talula. It wasn’t fair, Talula thought, the way Dahlia looked at her like that. Like the joke was only funny if Talula was laughing, too.

“I would hang out at the café all the time if it was actually twenty-four hours.” Dahlia scooched herself farther into the booth, leaning her back against the wall, legs outstretched. “But I also wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome so much that you get sick of me. I know I can be too much sometimes.”

There it was again. Dahlia thinking she was too much. She said it like it was fact, like it was common sense, like she’d been told that so many times, it must be true. It made Talula feel like someone had wrapped barbed wire around her heart and yanked. She knew there would never be too much Dahlia for her. In fact, she realized, there would never be enough Dahlia for her.

Instead of saying this out loud or acknowledging this revelation, Talula grabbed her napkin and chucked it at Dahlia’s face.

“Sneak attack! I’ve been hit, a fatal blow!” Dahlia flailed a little.

“There’s no such thing as too much Dahlia,” Talula informed her as Dahlia succumbed dramatically to her imaginary wounds. “And anyone who told you otherwise is just deeply insecure.”

“Even though I drunk snuggled you that one time?” Dahlia asked, abashedly covering her face with the napkin.

“Especially because you drunk snuggled me that one time!” Heat flashed over Talula’s body, but she pressed on. “You can stay at the café for twenty-four hours. You can stay forty-eight! I—” I’d love it. Talula swallowed. “I wouldn’t mind at all.”

“I might take you up on that. If only to protect you from evil blondes,” Dahlia said as she resurrected herself. “You’ve got to tell me that story, by the way. But also, no pressure.”

The wine arrived just in time. Talula turned to the waitress. “Thank you.”

“It’s literally my job,” Kanishka replied churlishly.

“Why are you lashing out?” Dahlia leaned forward. “Did Kyle screw something up again?”

“No shit! It’s Kyle.” Kanishka threw up her hands and stomped away.

“Kyle’s a moron, but he tries,” Dahlia explained. She sipped her wine. “Anyway. We were talking about hometown exes with petty vendettas. The blond she-beast.”