Something flashes behind her eyes. “I’ve been waiting to hear back from the Creswells’ lawyer first before I got rid of it.”
Rich people and their lawyers. While I might be one of them now, I’d never have one handle my personal business like that. My parents taught me people who want respect need to earn it first, and nothing says spineless quite like depending on a lawyer to do my dirty work.
“And what did this lawyer say?” I ask before I think better of it.
“I got the news an hour ago that I can do whatever I want with it.”
“How convenient.” My voice remains flat, although my words hits their target.
Her nostrils flare. “Are you insinuating that I’m lying?”
The silence following her question answers for me.
“You know what? I’m in the mood to prove you wrong.”
Some things never change.
While I’m busy remembering the countless times she tried to do that, she catches me off guard as she slides the ring up her finger and holds it out for me. “Here.”
I take a long step back. “What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Heck if I know, but I’m sure you’d be more than happy to get rid of the ring given how often you glare at it.”
Fuck. While I was busy cataloging her next move, she was busy doing the same.
Checkmate.
I reach for the ring without the slightest tremble, although my heart beats wildly as our fingers graze.
I pluck the ring from her grasp and assess the tacky display of wealth that fits anyone but the woman in front of me. Although Dahlia loves jewelry—that much is obvious based on her endless rotation of rings, earrings, and necklaces—she hates gaudy wedding rings that can be found at any local jewelry shop.
I want a vintage ring like Mom’s, she said once to her sister while they gawked over a cousin’s engagement ring during a birthday party.
No way! I want a ring like the mayor’s wife has. Lily beamed.
But it’s so basic. Dahlia’s nose scrunched.
Who cares so long as it’s big, Lily snorted.
Dahlia clears her throat, yanking me away from the memory.
“You want me to get rid of it?” I ask.
She nods.
I’d like nothing more. Although…
An idea hits me. A terrible, stupid idea that has me acting first and thinking about regrets later.
“Fine, so long as you join me in the process.” Getting her out of the house would probably do her some good. My dad always pushed my mom to do the same whenever she was deep in one of her depressions, so I know it works.
Plus, I have a feeling she will be more willing to agree to a working relationship if I play my cards right.
Her gaze bounces between me and the paused TV screen in her room. “I don’t know. I’m a bit busy at the moment.”
“Oh, my bad. Feel free to carry on with your pity party.” I make a show of glancing at the mess on her bed. The purple comforter can barely be seen beneath the mountain of used tissues and discarded chocolate wrappers.
Her eyes widen. “Excuse me?”
I tuck the ring into my pocket. “I’ll send you a video of what I end up doing with it. Hopefully you can make time to watch it in between binge-watching episodes of The Silver Vixens and crying your eyes out.”
“I am not crying my eyes out.”
My eyes flicker over her face for an extra beat before I turn around.
“You’re a real asshole sometimes,” she calls out.
“See you next Sunday. Or not. I’m sure you’ll be real busy and everything.” I don’t bother looking back, although I throw her one last goodbye wave from over my shoulder.
She mutters something inaudible before saying, “You know what? I’m going with you.”
Gotcha.
I kill my smile before turning around. “What happened to being busy?”
“Consider my calendar cleared.”
I hope this doesn’t blow up in my face.
Famous last words.
“You redid the interior.” Dahlia runs her hand across the leather dashboard of my dad’s old truck.
“Mm-hmm.” I place my hand on her headrest and reverse down the Mu?ozes’ driveway.
My dad was my hero, best friend, and future business partner, so I had no clue what to do with my grief when he passed. Restoring my dad’s truck was eventually was one of the best ways to process his loss, although it came a few years too late.
She brushes her palm down the smooth leather bench. “How many times did he say he was going to do it? A hundred?”
Maybe a thousand, but he never lived long enough to see it through.
My dad had many dreams in his short life, including fixing up his truck, but he died before he could make them come true.
The same dull ache in my chest reappears, like a wound that never fully healed. Thankfully, Dahlia stops talking about my dad, giving me room to think without his memory distracting me.
Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end, including her silence after five minutes.
“Wait! Stop!” Dahlia nearly yanks my hand away from the steering wheel.
“No.” I continue driving past the nieve de garrafa food truck located near the Lake Wisteria Park Promenade. Helping her get rid of the ring is one thing, but stopping for nieve along the way? Absolutely not happening.
“Please?” She actually presses her hands together. “I haven’t had Cisco’s in years!”
“It’s October.”
“So? There could be a blizzard outside, and I’d still want it.”
My muscles tense even more. “This wasn’t part of the plan.”
“So help me God, I will literally jump out of this car right now if you don’t pull over.”
“At least let me speed up first to make it worth the trouble of another police report.” I press the accelerator harder. Unlike my McLaren, my dad’s old truck whines as it switches gears.
Her glare quickly devolves into the worst kind of weapon she carries in her artillery.
Puppy eyes.
“Please, Julian. I’m not above begging you for Cisco’s.”
Fuck me. Every cell in my body lights up at the sound of my name in that voice.
“I’ll do anything. Please.”
Good luck saying no to her when she looks and sounds like that.
“Let’s start with shutting up.” I slow down and make a U-turn at the next median.
Nieve de garrafa: Handmade ice cream native to Mexico
“Yes!” She does a little victory fist pump.
I squash the urge to smile as I drive back toward the park and stop in front of Cisco’s. A few families sit on the benches while some kids run around, probably enjoying the last few weeks of decent weather.
“Make it fast.” I pull out my phone and begin reading through the thirty emails I’ve received in the short amount of time since I last checked.
She reaches for the door handle, only to hesitate. “Actually, you’re right. It’s too cold for Cisco’s.”
I stop my scrolling. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. Let’s just keep going.” She motions toward the steering wheel while scanning the park. The tension in her shoulders combined with her darting eyes gives her nerves away.
While Dahlia has always struggled with anxiety since we were younger, this feels different.
She is different.
With a sigh, I open my door.
“Where are you going?” Panic bleeds into her voice.