Chapter 6
Six
“Got something for you.” Alex hands me a dandelion before strapping in, and the Uber takes off.
“Stop.” And just like that I’m more distracted than a squirrel with two piles of nuts. “Where. How?” I twirl it between my fingertips. “It’s January!”
Dandelions don’t grow in January. Not in Philadelphia. Not in freezing temperatures and snow.
But here it is.
Perfect. Golden. Impossible.
Like the one from the playground when we were twelve. When we both wished for a best friend and the universe delivered.
“Right. I found it in this alley.” She leans in conspiratorially while my heart forgets how to beat.
An alley.
No. Please no.
“I met this guy and I let him rail me in the alley.”
I bite down on my cheek. Because I can smell the vodka on her breath. And the sex on her skin.
My mind does this thing where it puts her in Dahlia’s place. Where instead of a stranger, it’s Alex and he is—
Alex fits his type. Blonde, blue eyes, petite. She could have been any of the women he was hunting tonight. Could have been Dahlia.
Alex. In an alley. With a man. Alone. At night.
In the exact scenario that got Dahlia murdered.
What if she’d asked the wrong man for a cigarette? What if she’d followed the wrong man into an alley? She fits his victim profile perfectly.
And I wasn’t there. Couldn’t protect her. Didn’t know.
No. I do not need my anxiety supplying more nightmare fuel.
But my hands are shaking.
And I can’t tell her. Not like this. Not when she’s drunk and won’t remember in the morning. Not when she’s happy and safe and I’d be destroying that.
Tomorrow. Somewhere public—loud enough that our conversation disappears into background noise, quiet enough we can hear each other. Somewhere Dom doesn’t have cameras or connections. We’ll talk tomorrow.
“Did you use a condom?” I hiss, because that’s what normal-Dylan would say. The Dylan from yesterday, before I knew my boss covers up serial killings. The Dylan who worried about regular things like STDs and pregnancy instead of whether her best friend matches a killer’s victim profile.
Fuck. Did I really just think that?
“Girl.” Alex blinks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
I have, of course.
“I know.” I look down at the dandelion. “An alley?” I ask, my voice hoarse.
“Yes.” She smiles. “That Chinese restaurant—”
“The one with the good egg rolls?”
“You know it,” she finishes. “They have this planter outside their back door.”
“The one the neighbor guy keeps pouring bong water into?”
“Yep.” She nods, her movements dramatic. “It’s huge and there are all these dandelions at the bottom. I stuffed a few in my purse so I can dry them out later.”
“Bong water dandelions.” I nibble on the same spot on my cheek. The one that will never heal because I chew it like it’s my job.
Dandelions growing in impossible places. Through concrete. In January. In bong water.
Beautiful. Resilient. Unstoppable.
Just like Alex.
Because she’s my dandelion. And dandelions don’t die easily.
The driver pulls up to our apartment and we get out. I already know Dom took care of payment.
I follow Alex slowly as she chatters about her newest boy obsession. I nod along as she unlocks the door. While I look around and wonder if we need a security camera.
Dom knows where we live. He’s been here—sent those puppy packages for my fictional dad. He could send him here. Or come himself.
I need to keep Alex safe. Cameras. Better locks. Something.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll figure it out.
Luckily she’s pretty drunk. She falls up the stairs once, twice.
We are not having this conversation tonight.
“I love you.” She kisses my cheek when I help carry her up the steps. “You are the best husband a girl could ask for.”
I laugh at that. “No man will ever compare to this. To what we have.”
“Duh.” She leans in and plants a sloppy kiss on my cheek. “My dandelion,” she whispers.
“Keys.” I try to hold her up and get the keys, but alas I am not that talented.
“Here.” She holds them up, still too close, exhaling vodka with every breath. “We should make a pact.”
“Alex.” I kick open the door. “Let me remind you we already have a few dozen of those.”
“A new one,” she says.
I eye the bedrooms, knowing damn well when she’s this drunk she’ll just crawl into bed with me anyway. So I head towards my bed because it is far superior.
“Good choice,” she mutters. “I think that last shot was a terrible idea.”
“Don’t puke.” I get to the bedroom and keep going to our Jack and Jill bathroom. Where I gently help her to the floor.
“No promises.” She gags.
I barely get the toilet seat up in time before she begins to puke.
“Shit.” I reach over to the door handle where we always leave a few spare hair ties and begin to pull her hair back. It’s near her ass, so it takes me a minute as she’s vomiting. Finally I get it into a messy bun, all strands protected.
It’s girl code.
“Thanks.” She rests her head on the toilet, facing me.
As fucked up as it sounds, these are my favorite moments. It’s not about the puke, though I do flush the toilet. It isn’t about the sweat, or Alex being drunk and me sober.
It’s so much more than that.
And it’s hard to explain unless you’ve been there. Unless you’ve sat on a bathroom floor at 4 AM with your best friend.
It’s a moment I savor, one where I imprint every detail to memory. Alex dressed like a fucking queen in hot shorts, boots, and a crop top. Her eyes looking at me with so much trust—that I will make sure she won’t wake up with a hangover, that I’ll be here as she needs me, that I won’t leave her.
It’s so much more than just a simple moment.
“The pact,” she says, just as I’m about to get up and grab her some electrolytes and Advil. “Marry me.”
My heart does something complicated. Not quite stopping. Not quite racing. Just—caught.
“Marry you?”
“Yeah, we are nearing thirty.” She sits up, which she instantly regrets, and begins to puke again.
“Stay. I’ll be right back.” In a daze I walk to the kitchen, get her drink, and Advil.
Did she just propose to me?
Impossible.
I get back to the bathroom where Alex is still curled around the toilet and hand her the Advil and the drink before settling in beside her in the corner between the toilet and the wall.
“So you proposed?” I ask as she downs the Advil and half the drink.
“What if I never meet a man that will compare to you?”
“You won’t.”
“Exactly.” She counters. “So by thirty-five, we just get married. You can be my platonic soul mate.”
“What do I get out of this deal?”
“Free food.”
“You’re right, your dad would keep us well fed.” He owns a Greek restaurant in Manayunk.
“I’d even get you a ring.” She says on a hiccup. “It would be green and a princess cut like your favorite Disney princess. Tiana.”
“I’ll have to find a Rapunzel ring.” If they even exist.
“You get it.” She weeps. Tears and all.
“You need to brush your teeth and get into bed.” I flush the toilet again and slowly get up.
We will have to talk about our boss tomorrow. Somewhere no one can listen. Somewhere safe.
Because if Dom finds out I know, I’m dead.
If he finds out I know, I’m dead.
This secret could kill us both.
We take this to our graves.
But right now, Alex doesn’t even know there’s a secret. She’s drunk and happy and planning our platonic marriage while a woman’s body rots somewhere in this city.
How do I tell her tomorrow? How do I destroy this innocence?
“Must I?” She sits up and promptly falls over.
“Yes.” I sit her up and position her against the sink, grabbing her toothbrush and some toothpaste. “Remember when you refused to brush your teeth for that one week three years ago?”
She shudders. “I needed a root canal.”
“Here, brush your teeth.” She pouts and closes her lips. “Fine. Root canal.”
“You run a hard bargain.” She grabs the toothbrush. And I do the same. “I want kids.”
I pause. This usually isn’t a conversation we have. I mean we have had it in the past, but it isn’t one we dwell on.
“I’m going to get a donor.” She glances up at me. “A sperm donor.”
“I think you have some on your shorts.” I point out, trying to keep my voice light.
Normal.
She looks down to a suspicious stain. When she doesn’t deny it and shrugs, I know it is definitely cum.
“Not breeding material,” she says around her toothbrush.
I swallow bile. She’s joking about a man whose name she doesn’t know. In an alley. Tonight.
No. I can’t think about that. Not now.
I spit and walk into my bedroom, grabbing jammies for both of us.
“Face wash or no?” I toss her her jammies as I change quickly. Who knows if she will bother with hers.
She does. She slips her shorts off while still sitting and brushing her teeth. It’s definitely an Olympic sport.
“No.” Now kneeling, she spits into the sink. I can see her slowly coming back online. No longer too drunk to function. She gets dressed quickly. “Not worth it.”
“Let’s get some sleep before the sun comes up.” I turn the lights out and help her into bed. Where she steals my good pillow and I let her have it, of course.
I’m not a monster. Besides, I have two.
I curl into bed beside Alex. In the darkness, the city breathes. In the distance I can hear sirens. A bus. A honk. Somewhere a dog barks.
White noise.
I close my eyes, only to open them when I see him choking Alex behind my lids.
Her eyes are open and she’s staring right at me.
“What do you think happens to us when we die?” she asks.
“What?”
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Drunk thoughts are bad thoughts, Alex.”
“No, no, hear me out.” She rolls onto her back, a soft smile on her lips as she closes her eyes. “I think our bodies are just flesh.”
“A meat suit.”
“And inside our soul lives.” She rolls back over, scooting closer. “I think we become that soul.”
“When we die?” I ask, and my voice cracks.
And all I can think is how he turned a woman into nothing tonight. Dahlia. Her body is meat now. Disposed of. Gone.
But maybe Alex is right. Maybe the soul—the energy—that’s what matters. That’s what can’t be destroyed.
Maybe Dahlia is still out there. Somewhere. Not gone. Just—changed.
Maybe that’s the only justice I can give her. Believing she’s more than a body in a dumpster.
“Yes, we become energy. Pure energy.” She whispers like it’s a secret.
“Conservation of energy. You’re talking about physics.”
“Yeah, but can’t you feel it?” She presses her hand to my heart. “Right here. Can’t you feel it hum?”
“I feel your hand.” I thread her fingers through mine. “And you are all I need.”
“You’re all I need.” She yawns. “My dandelion.”
“My dandelion.” I whisper back, but somehow she’s already asleep.
If we make it to thirty-five, I think. If Dom doesn’t discover what I know. If we survive this.
But I don’t say any of that.
Instead I just whisper, “Deal.”
I don’t fall asleep. I can’t.
Instead I exhaust myself watching her breathe until the sun comes up.
In. Out. In. Out.
My breathing matches hers. Synchronizing. Like if I breathe with her, she’ll stay alive. Like I can keep her here through sheer will.
But somewhere in this city, a woman’s body is being disposed of. A murderer sits at Denny’s, eating pancakes. Dom is cleaning evidence.
And Monday, I have to go back to work and pretend I know nothing.
Monday, everything changes.
But tonight—tonight I just watch her breathe.
And hope that’s enough.