Pulse

Chapter 3

Dahlia

“Home, sweet home,” I say, pressing the fob until my car horn beeps three times behind me.

A soft breeze blows gently across the driveway, bringing the sweet scent of flower blossoms with it. Blazing oranges, vivid reds, and majestic purples paint the early evening sky. Children laugh in the distance.

Rows of tidy homes, their windows reflecting the warm glow of the setting sun, line the neighborhood’s charming streets. Ferns hang from porches. Bikes lay unattended on front lawns. Nearly every address has a barbecue, something I found amusing when I moved in a year ago.

Now, I have one, too.

“There’s my girlfriend,” a voice calls from my left. I glance over my shoulder to see my neighbor Burt waving his wrinkled hand from his porch swing.

I laugh. “Hey there, handsome. How was your day?”

“It’s better now that you’re home. Need some help? You look like you’re about to drop all that stuff.”

Three takeout boxes fill my hands, and my gym bag dangles from the crook of my left arm.

“I don’t need help carrying anything,” I say. “But I do happen to have an extra hamburger from Hillary’s House if you’re hungry.”

His eyes light up so brightly that I can see them from my porch.

I open the front door, leaving it that way so Burt can enter behind me. I drop my bag onto a chair and carry the food containers to the kitchen. Last night’s stir-fry hangs in the air as I deposit tonight’s dinner on the counter.

The kitchen’s what sold me on this townhouse. A skylight allows so much sunshine into the space that it just feels happy. Whoever designed the room wasted no space, adding as much storage as possible. The refrigerator is also brand-new and almost too big for the space—which I love. It houses my collection of magnets dating back to my childhood.

I shake my head and grin, returning my newest additions to their spot in the top right corner. Morgan gave them to me as a joke for my birthday two weeks ago following a conversation about sex. They’re both circles with a water gun in the center, and the words I squirt are printed around the edge of one magnet, and Super Soaker is printed around the other.

Burt immediately noticed them and teased me about stories he could share if I wanted to hear them. I didn’t. Now he screws with me by moving them around my refrigerator from time to time.

“Hamburgers from Hillary’s House, huh?” Burt asks.

“And chocolate cake.”

“That’s pretty fancy for a Monday night.”

I smile at him. “We’re celebrating.”

“I’m all for a good celebration, but it helps to know the occasion. Should I have picked you some of the neighbor’s flowers? I could’ve blamed it on those boys across the street. The oldest one walked their dog this morning, and the little fucker shit in my yard.”

My giggle isn’t appreciated. “Did you make him clean it up?”

He waves a hand through the air. “Nah, I did it after he went home.”

My giggle turns into a laugh.

“But I am gonna tell him next time to bring a poop bag, or else I’m going to throw it in their yard,” he says, fighting a smile. “Now, what are we celebrating?”

“You’re looking at a girl who was able to run not four but five miles today after work. I thought that deserved a treat.”

“Doesn’t a burger and cake defeat the purpose of running five miles?”

“Absolutely not.”

His bushy brows tug together. “If you think about it, running five miles was a treat to your health. You don’t need a coffee or cake treat, too.”

“Sounds like you need a treat,” I say, winking at him.

He rolls his eyes.

“Besides,” I say, grabbing water for me and a sugar-free soda I keep just for Burt from the fridge, “you’re being awfully judgy for someone who’s going to partake in said treat.”

We sit at the small table near the window overlooking my backyard. Burt digs into his dinner before I get situated. I can’t help but wonder if he had lunch.

Burt and I have been best neighbors, as he calls us, since the day I moved in. It was his seventy-fifth birthday, and he spent it, much to their dismay, supervising the college kids unloading my boxes from a big truck. He raced across our adjoining lawns when they nearly broke my headboard and kept an eye on them. I introduced myself, he did the same, and we’ve been a dynamic duo ever since.

“Heard from Freddy?” Burt asks, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

My stomach tightens. “Yes, actually. He texted me today. A few times.”

“What’s he texting you for?”

“He thinks I have a pair of his sunglasses, but I don’t.”

“Does he really think that, or is he just trying to get your attention? Or is he trying to come over here to bother you?”

I smile at the concern in Burt’s big brown eyes. “Who knows?” I stand and head to my bag to retrieve my phone. “If I were a betting woman, I’d say he pawned them.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. I’m glad you woke up and got rid of that boy.”

While I read Freddy’s last text, Burt continues his monologue, detailing all the reasons Freddy was a bad boyfriend.

Freddy:Just let me come by and look. I know where I would’ve left them. Besides, you don’t need to waste your time looking for them, baby. I know how busy you are.

“Dating you was a waste of my time,” I mutter, returning to the table.

Me: They aren’t here.

He wastes no time in responding.

Freddy: I just want to see you.

I groan, turning my phone face down next to my food.

“You texted him back, didn’t you?” Burt asks.

“Yes. In my optimistic brain, I could tell him the glasses weren’t here, and he’d go away—at least for a while. But he moved right into I just want to see you,” I say, mocking his tone. “It’s been six weeks. When will he get the picture that we’re done forever?”

“Probably never. Face it—you’re a catch. Any young man with half a brain inside his head would want to date you. Hell, they should want to marry you, but you kids these days aren’t into marriage like we were back in my time.”

I nibble on the end of a fry. “I want to be married someday.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

It surprises me. I pop the rest of the fry into my mouth.

As I grew up, marriage was never an aspiration. I saw my single mother navigate her life without a man. She worked two jobs, raised me, and seemed content. All I wanted in life was to be her—independent, strong, and happy.

It was only after her death that I began to understand the truth.

And now, armed with this information, I crave the happily ever after Mom didn’t get. I don’t want to grow old alone. I don’t want to fall asleep by myself every night. I want to know what it’s like to be loved by someone fully and completely.

I also want to love someone back.

“What kind of man could you see yourself marrying?” Burt asks. “I’m guessing I’m too old.”

I laugh. “Well, I do hope to have kids, and I think you had a vasectomy, so …”

He laughs, too, lines crinkling around his eyes. “Yeah. That’s the problem—my vasectomy.”

“Can’t blame that on me.”

“Can’t blame that on me, either. When you’re an over-the-road trucker and want to be sure you don’t knock someone up in your travels, you do what you gotta do.”

We chuckle softly.

“I don’t know what kind of man I’d like to marry,” I say, lifting another fry. “He’d have to be smart. Funny. Someone who could be strong enough to protect his family but gentle enough to hold a baby.”

Burt grins.

My brain immediately envisions Troy with a baby, and I try not to swoon at the table. That would be too hot to be safe. I don’t think I’d survive that reality.

“He’d probably be six-three or so,” I say, picturing Troy standing in the doorway to my office. “Dark hair cut close to his head. Gray eyes. Heavy brows. He’d look just as good in an expensive suit as he does in sweats and a T-shirt.”

“Sounds mighty specific.”

“I’m building an imaginary boyfriend. I might as well get what I want, right?”

“Might as well.” He nods toward my food. “Eat up. I’ll get forks, and we can dig into that cake.”

I nod as he leaves for the kitchen. “Don’t bother my magnets.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

I breathe and try to settle the thudding of my heart.

Troy’s smirk blazes through my mind, sending heat waves pulsing through me.

Our exchange this morning left me thrown off all day. I kept thinking I heard his voice in the office. I smelled his cologne down the halls. Every ping of an email or text message had me racing to see if it was him.

It was ridiculous.

It was the reason I ran five freaking miles. I needed to work that shit out of my body and clear my head.

Troy Castelli is my co-worker. Period. End of. He may be the object of my dreams, but he has to stay in my dreams. That’s unfortunate and unreasonable, but it’s also the way things are.

“Here’s a fork,” Burt says, handing me the utensil. “Do I have to wait on you, or can I go ahead and celebrate now?”

I push the cake to him. “Celebrate away.”

“I saw your daddy on the news today,” Burt says, taking a slice and putting it in the top of his takeout container.

“Fantastic.”

“For the record, I think it’s all a bunch of bullshit. Unpopular opinion, I know.”

“You could say that. But I do appreciate you giving him the benefit of the doubt.”

He shoves a forkful of cake into his mouth, watching me warily.

A lump settles at the base of my throat. I stand, ignoring another incoming text, and gaze out the window.

Being the daughter of Joseph Dallo still takes some getting used to. The mere fact of having a father for the last year and a half after not having one for twenty-four years was jarring in and of itself. But it’s more complicated than that. He’s also a conundrum.

To me, he’s been nothing but kind, considerate, and thoughtful. I’ve found him to be wildly intelligent, well-mannered, and respectful. But, to the rest of the world, he’s everything but those things. That can be very confusing.

“I talked to him last night.” I cross my arms protectively over my midsection. “He said he had court this morning but was upbeat about it. He seemed certain things would go his way.”

“This isn’t his first rodeo with the law, sweet pea. He knows what he’s doing. And he has a hell of a good troop of attorneys around him. He’s in good hands.”

I hum, not convinced by Burt’s words. But what do I know? It is my first rodeo.

“Do you know what bothers me the most about this whole thing?” I ask, facing Burt again.

His forehead wrinkles, but he says nothing.

“I hate that you’re the only one who gives him the benefit of the doubt.” I take my seat again. “It’s probably because I’ve only known him for a year and a half, and I’m not exactly well versed in the recycling business or really understand money laundering. But I believe him when he says he’s innocent.”

My cheeks burn with embarrassment. I’m foolish to admit that out loud because I’ve read the reports in the papers and online. The case against my father for laundering money for the Magne, a rising cartel based in the Upper Midwest, is strong. He looks as guilty as sin. Logic says he’s guilty, too. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to think I’m the child of a man that dirty, but when he tells me he’s innocent, I don’t think he’s lying. Even if I hate admitting that because I know I sound naive. And even though I know liars are really good at pretending they’re not one.

“Then you believe him,” Burt says. “But please be safe. Regardless of whether he’s guilty or not, the man has connections. He has business dealings. His industry isn’t filled with nuns and holy water, you know?”

I give him a half grin.

Burt sighs, laying his fork on the edge of his plate. “You didn’t eat your celebration cake.”

“I know. I’ll eat it after my shower. I have five miles of sweat on me, and I’m beginning to stink.”

I glance down at my phone.

Freddy: Dammit, Dahlia. I just want to talk to you. I need you, baby. I can’t live without you.You know that. You’re my entire world.

Right.

“Promise?” Burt asks.

“Promise.”

We clean up quietly. Burt carefully places my cake in the refrigerator and throws away our garbage. I wipe down the table.

“Thanks for dinner, sweet pea,” Burt says. “Can I do anything for you?”

“I’m good. Your presence was all I needed.”

He chuckles, tossing up a wave, and lets himself out.

I pick my phone up off the table, intending to shove it in my pocket on my way upstairs. But as I turn to the staircase, I stop and glance at the screen.

A slow smile stretches across my lips.

Troy: I just got a confirmation text from Dr. Manning’s office.

I bang out my response.

Me: I’m glad that worked out. smiling emoji>

Troy: Settle down.

Me: confused emoji>

Troy: You abuse emoji.

I snort. Whatever.

Me: How else will you know what my face is doing? Texts are so easily misconstrued. I like my messages to feel personal and clear.

Troy: Trust me. I know what your face is doing.

Me: Well, I can’t trust you because I can’t read your face. You could be typing that angrily or cheekily or flatly or conversationally. How am I supposed to know?

Troy: What did people do before emoji?

Me: Lived very boring, muted lives.

Troy: Yet they survived.

I laugh.

Me: There will come a day, Mr. Castelli, when you use an emoji.

Troy: Unlikely. What time does my truck go into the shop tomorrow?

I lean against the wall, smiling as I type.

Me: By nine. That’s on your calendar, you know.

Troy: Yes. It’s on my calendar for midnight. My assistant’s getting rusty.

Me: gasps> Your assistant’s probably just overworked.

Troy: My assistant’s many things. Overworked is not one of them.

Me: I beg to differ. But you’re right when you say I’m many things. I’m basically a Renaissance woman.

Troy: Have you been drinking?

Me: Not yet. Have you?

Troy: It’s Monday.

Me: And your point … confused emoji>

Troy: I’ll see you tomorrow.

“I’ll be looking forward to it, Mr. Castelli.”

Me: Can’t tell if that’s a threat or a promise.

Troy: That will give you something to ponder.

Me: See you tomorrow. Good night. moon emoji>

Troy: Good night.

I smile all the way up the stairs.