Dahlia

Dahlia has always hated the way I drive.

To be fair, I never learned how to park, and according to her, I have issues with speed control. And lane placement. And those five-point turns that could really be done in two.

But right now, Dahlia is hating me and for this, I resent her. I have been looking forward to this drive since my dad said I could take his old Silverado to South Beach. Michigan highways are a breeze compared to most other Midwestern states, and Dahlia has been going on and on about how sexy it is when I drive the truck. Yet even as she holds my free hand, I feel that she is scathing, scrutinizing every decision I make, her eyes glued to the highway ahead.

“Omigod, I can’t wait to have those onion rings from Caroline’s,” my little cousin, Skylar, gushes from the backseat in between fistfuls of Skinny Pop. I can tell she’s trying to diffuse the tension, but I have no idea how to reply, so I don’t. Dahlia picks up my slack.

“Me too. It’s been a year since I’ve had them.” She picks up my phone so that she can hear the music better. One of the drawbacks of the dated vehicle is its lack of both Bluetooth and an aux cord.

“Can you put that down? I need to see the map.” The words roll off my tongue more icily than I had intended.

She raises an eyebrow at me, coppery doe eyes fixed in a pointed glare. These eyes usually hold a sort of sparkle, some kind of untouchable mischief, but now they appear sharp to the touch.

“You’re going straight for another 28 miles.”

Now, it’s a control issue for me.

“It’s my phone.” She drops it on the center console like a hot plate.

I catch a glimpse of Skylar’s face in the rearview mirror. Worry paints her expression, so she ducks behind her pink acrylic sunglasses and redirects her attention to her phone. I don’t try to hold Dahlia’s hand again.

The tiny speakers pathetically pump the bass of some golden teen idol’s new album, but the synth is agonizing, like tiny fissures spurting through my brain. I consider this memory already ruined. No sense in taking down a white-hot record with it. “I can’t listen to this anymore,” I announce, and with no further explanation, switch the music to a playlist of somber ballads. I know I’m acting like a dick, but I don’t know how else to act. Dahlia rolls her eyes, and my anxiety heightens as she turns away from me.

Eventually, the horizon begins to melt over the water, and we approach Lake Michigan. I watch the tourists flock in front of the surf ‘n’ turf bistros and souvenir shops as a pit of realization settles in my stomach. I’m going to have to try and find parking in South Haven on a Friday evening in July. I look over at the passenger seat to see my girlfriend staring out the window with dread, arms folded over her chest.

I worry that this parking job will separate us for good.

I’m being as careful as possible, but spaces are few and far between. Even when I can find one, it’s too narrow for the Silverado.

“Let’s just park down by the beach,” Skylar suggests after my second lap up and down the plaza. “We can just walk to the restaurant.”

The parking lot at the beach isn’t much better; all we can manage to find is a spot next to a small posse of tailgaters. I slowly creep towards them, trying to stay out of their way, but they aren’t exactly moving out of mine. As a matter of fact, they’re staring. And I certainly can’t handle more of an audience. Dahlia is already looking at me expectantly.

“Forget it. I’ll find a lot uptown.” I drive away from the beach, and I can practically feel her boiling over.

As if by some miracle, I find a place to park in a church lot. I wedge my way in, and then back out to straighten the vehicle, and finally back in to park. I get out and lock the car with an anticlimactic click.

We make our way towards the restaurant as the sun warms our bare skin, the air smelling thickly of old-fashioned ice cream. I’m hoping that the tense portion of the evening has concluded. I reach for Dahlia’s hand, which she jerks away.

“Let me hold your hand.” She ignores me. Skylar treads several paces ahead of us.

“Dahlia.” Silence still. I see the bull horns splitting from her temples.

“You’re breaking my heart, here,” I offer as a last-ditch effort. She glances at me, but turns away. My rib cage tightens.

Caroline’s is surrounded by parties waiting for their names to be called. I go in to make our reservation while Dahlia and Skylar wait on the bench outside.

“How long is the wait for three?” I ask the hostess.

“We’re looking at about two hours,” she replies as she scrawls my last name in her little notepad. The blood drains from my face. It’s already six and I haven’t eaten yet today. I meet the girls outside, and suggest that we find a snack in the meantime.

This time, I just allow Dahlia her space. I hardly want to touch her right now anyway. It makes me feel so sour when she gets like this. Begrudging. Unmoving. I wish sometimes that she got angry more like me: volatile, yet brief. It’s not easy for me to tolerate someone disliking me for very long.

Really, I feel more like a wounded animal than I ought to. At what point in the mauling does the archer shoot out of self defense? It’s not like I had been patient with her on the drive up. It’s easier to act vicious when I’m vulnerable.

And of course, once we finally find a candy store, there’s a credit minimum. I tell my girls to grab whatever they want as I select a chocolate bar. After I pay for it, along with a bag of gummy pizzas and saltwater taffy, we walk outside. The chocolate melts over my trembling fingers as I tear open the wrapper and devour the candy as quickly as possible. I take a few sips of water, and a few deep breaths.

I look at Dahlia. Her lips are so pink, her eyes are so soft. Her brows are still lightly knitted in frustration, but the frazzled energy around her has dissipated. I step closer to her. “Can I have a hug?”

She looks me up and down as if she were considering whether I’m worth holding. Truth is, I don’t think I am. But she pulls me to her chest anyway, because Dahlia is kind and good and forgiving. Two little tears squeeze from my eyes, and I know she feels my breath shaking. “I’m sorry,” I squeak. I try to hold my body still, and I tuck my reddened face into her shoulder. She doesn’t reply, but she rubs my back gingerly with her open palm. She presses a small kiss to my cheek.

“Thank god,” Skylar groans. “You guys were totally stressing me out in the car! Come on, let’s go to the rock shop.”

I pull away from Dahlia and hastily wipe the moisture from my face. We follow Skylar into the store and past the tables full of calcite and quartz. This time, Dahlia grasps my hand tightly.

We stroll through a few other boutiques until at last, our table is ready. Dahlia slides into the glossy wooden booth next to me, and rests her hand on my knee. A waiter comes by to take our orders. Dahlia and I order the same entrée, pepper jack alfredo penne, and a gargantuan stack of onion rings for the table.

I don’t feel like she hates me anymore, but the anticipation of our meal is undulating through us. Each wave is tinged with anxiety, because I can sense that time is passing much faster than usual these days. “I’m sorry, Dahlia,” I say once again. “I don’t want to fight with you. I know we don’t have much time left.”

She almost seems to melt at the mention of it.

“I just want to make memories with you for as long as I possibly can,” she replies, and the tears that she refuses to cry manifest in her watery tone.

“When do you go back to Iowa?” Skylar asks her.

“The morning after Cameron moves into the new apartment.”

“But she’ll be back in three weeks to visit,” I chime in, trying now to make up for the negativity I elicited in the car. “Right before classes start.” She takes a few sips of her water, and a few deep breaths.

At long last, our waiter bestows upon us our bounty: deep-fried, golden onion rings accompanied by saucers of buttermilk ranch. Dahlia’s face illuminates with unadulterated thrill, and Skylar and I cannot help laughing at just how lovely she is.

-

The sky has faded into deep shades of navy and plum blossom wine; a gentle mist veils the orange sparks of light that are the city of South Haven; over the western horizon is the final wisp of halcyon fuchsia. The three of us, hair soaked from the lake and wrapped in sandy towels, walk down the pier towards the lighthouse as the sun slinks further into the glimmering water. To our right is the North Beach pier, at the end of which stands a smaller lighthouse with a flashing green light.

Dahlia is taking pictures of Skylar, who is strutting down the boardwalk. I try to etch this memory permanently into my brain, begging all my future selves to always think of her softly. Even when the music isn’t right. Even when she won’t hold my hand.

By the time we reach the lighthouse, the gradient of purples has made way for velvet black, pierced only by the intermittent shocks of emerald. The light casts on to her glittering hazel eyes, creating the illusion of a rainforest gaze, and I have never been more in love.

“I’ll just give you guys some privacy!” Skylar teases, and ducks behind the lighthouse. I know that she’ll peek out at us.

Dahlia turns to me with a smirk. “Am I your green light at the end of the dock?”

I laugh. “I’ll always be reaching out for you.”

She grins, and leans in toward me before abruptly pulling away. She throws her towel over our heads, as if shielding us from the watchful eyes of Dr. T.J. Eckleburg. I try to suppress a smile.

“Don’t you think this makes us even more conspicuous?”

“I don’t care,” she replies, giggling as she presses her nose against mine, extracting the joy I can no longer hide. So I kiss her, my Daisy Buchanan, my beautiful fool, as the sailboats drift towards the dock, beckoning us ever forward.