Chapter 25
After a shower and a wardrobe panic attack, Talula was ready for dinner.
She’d opted for simple but comfortable—a pair of jeans and a too-big mossy green sweater.
In an effort to not look like an awkward middle school boy out with his gorgeous babysitter, she’d added a pair of gold earrings and a swipe of her trusty lip balm.
Dahlia arrived not long after Talula was ready, texting when she was out front.
Talula stepped through the doorway and saw Dahlia’s cherry-red convertible.
Talula’s heart revved up. She wasn’t a car person, but there was something undeniably hot about being picked up by a beautiful woman in a bright red convertible.
Talula wished she had lipstick that color.
A dress that color. Lingerie that color.
(Talula pulled the mental emergency brake on that train of thought.)
She slid into the passenger seat, feeling the warm, nerve-spiked giddiness of being alone with Dahlia somewhere completely new and different.
“Hi,” Dahlia said. She cocked her head, taking in Talula slowly. “Wow. I really like you in that color.”
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.”
“She wasn’t always a she-beast.” Talula smiled a little wistfully. “Well, she was always ferocious. The first time she kissed me, I thought I was being attacked.”
“Seems on-brand. Then you guys started dating?”
“We started…something.” Talula’s mind sifted through Kristen’s late-night texts, their make-out sessions in the woods, tumbling in through Kristen’s window when her parents were asleep.
“I was pretty much her secret bisexual booty call. I was too stupid with hormones and loneliness to stand up for myself.”
“I’m sorry.” Dahlia’s warm eyes never left Talula’s face. “You deserve better than that.”
“I hate how she treated me then and how she’s treating me now.
But looking back, I kind of get it.” Talula shrugged.
“She has crazy conservative parents. She had to be pretty and perfect and prom queen, or they didn’t care about her.
She knew deep down that she didn’t fit into their dream daughter fantasy.
I think that fear of losing her family drove her to… act like she did. Maybe it still does.”
“First of all”—Dahlia held up a finger—“in the last thirty seconds, you said more kind things about your toxic ex who’s literally trying to chase you out of town, than you did about teenage Talula, who just wanted love and acceptance.”
Huh.
“Second”—Dahlia raised another finger—“you can have all the empathy in the world for people, and that’s beautiful.
But there’s a line you have to draw between understanding and making excuses so you don’t have to face conflict.
I don’t think you had it easy growing up in a small town with a single mom who’s a practicing pagan.
You didn’t turn into a nightmare person. ”
“Technically, she’s a casual Zoroastrian but heavily influenced by Wiccanism and various other occult belief systems.”
Dahlia gave her a look that asked, Do you think that disproves my point?
“But I had some friends in high school!” Talula argued.
“And where are they now?” Dahlia pushed.
“Most of them moved out of state for college.”
“You didn’t stay in touch?”
“For a while, I did.” When she came back home after college, she’d tried to sustain those friendships. But Talula, feeling so inadequate in sorcery, so behind in her Magical Destiny, never thought she’d earned the right to a social life.
Dahlia pressed on. “What about college friends? College romances?”
“I had them.” Talula swirled her wineglass, eyes transfixed by the ripple of crimson. “Great friends. And significant others.”
Talula internally grimaced at the short-lived romances she’d had in college.
She never wanted to bring romantic partners home for spring breaks or Thanksgiving and risk her mother thinking she wasn’t serious about her Magical Destiny.
Besides, her mom was known to serve mashed potatoes out of a literal cauldron, so. Yeah.
Talula tossed back her wine. “After I graduated, I came home and had to focus on the café.”
“Is that what you really wanted, though?”
Kanishka’s arrival saved Talula from having to answer. Their waitress unceremoniously dropped their plates on the table. A bit of curry splattered on the tablecloth.
“Voilà,” she said tonelessly. “Eat it.”
“Thanks! Tell your auntie it looks delicious,” Dahlia said sweetly.
Kanishka stormed off. She came back almost instantly with a whole bottle of wine.
“It’s on the house, ugh!” Kanishka stomped away again.
Talula managed an awkward smile. “Was that her apologizing?”
“That was her confessing her undying love and loyalty.” Dahlia lifted the bottle at Talula. “Want a top off? I’m driving, after all.”
“Depends. Are you going to ask me more intense personal life questions?” Talula tried to joke, but the words creaked a little.
“Not if you don’t want me to,” Dahlia said gently. “It’s just that…we’ve been hanging out more, and I realized how much I like getting to know you.”
In answer, a blushing Talula scooted her wineglass over to Dahlia, who added a few more splashes. Quietly, they dug into their food. The curry was creamy and richly spiced. Talula tore off a piece of cheese naan, dipped it in the curry, and took a bite. It was warm, melty perfection.
“I want to make a butter chicken mac and cheese one day,” Talula said with her mouth full.
“See, here’s what I don’t get.” Dahlia gestured at Talula with her naan. “You’re an incredible chef. But you don’t cook. You supervise a café that doesn’t serve anything besides bad coffee and one awesome cocoa. Is that what you really want?”
Dahlia’s voice was kind, but her words still sent a shard through Talula’s heart. Why did this question seem so hard? Why did the answer seem so buried? She chewed, not meeting Dahlia’s inquisitive gaze. “It’s my family business. I have to support it.”
“You don’t have to want what your mom wants for you,” Dahlia said quietly. “That’s not living your life. That’s living what someone else told you to want.”
Talula stilled. When was the last time she felt like she was living the life she wanted?