Creative Writing

Jo’s rumbly old truck met the stony mountain road with some resistance. The dusty hula girl on the dash had been through hell on this trip - baked in the sun all these hours, and now she was flailing around like a toy boat in a choppy sea. Boxes and suitcases were piled in the bed of the truck, tied with fraying rope, bouncing right along with Jo and the girl. 

Jo’s cheeks were pink and sore from grinning. She had been watching mountains sprout from the familiar flat horizon all day, and now she was in the middle of them on a dusty country road, its unremarkable turn off marked simply by a boulder you just had to know. 

The early September wildflowers had nothing to lose. They were a fire across the valley to her right, its center marked by a summer green vein of river suckling cottonwoods. The air was sweet and clean, sparkling along her bare arms and across the nape of her neck. Jo’s age spotted fingers drummed along to the patchy radio, watching for signs of rooftops around every bend. 

The cliff towered to her right, and the road sharply dropped to her left, and the rush of it sparked a kind of reckless, girlish thrill. She was a lone cowboy, one with the wild, unforgiving land. She chuckled at the idea and glanced over to the passenger seat at the photo of Marcus, which was framed by a depressing vignette and followed by Romans 8:38. She smiled at him, thinking of the day they had taken that photo, how the evening light had bounced off the park pond and across his sharp blue eyes. She had made him remove his glasses for the picture, but his eyes were usually framed by silver wire and buried under thick brows. He was grinning from some joke she had told, probably more inside than clever, his lips spreading across a wide mouth of straight teeth, gray whiskers curling over his lip. 

She laid her arm on the passenger armrest, allowing herself to feel fifty years of heavy, empty space between her fingers. Somehow it was just Jo bumping along the road that Marucs had taken solo every hunting season. She wished she would have made the drive with him at least once, but her many commitments— the church, her sister, her reading group—had always kept her in Dallas. She knew he would’ve loved to hear about the Willie Nelson statue that greeted her in one of the little towns on the way, but he’d probably already seen it last year. From the looks of it, it’d been up for a while. 

The cliff was becoming less dramatic as Jo leveled with the broad-leaved trees along the valley’s edge. The front left tire lurched over another large stone and bounced Jo fully off her seat as she rounded an especially sharp curve. She gripped the wheel with both hands and gasped. Finally, there were the little houses, nestled in the glen below. They were set in a wide semi circle, each of the five connected to the dirt road by a gravel driveway. Their gardens, fenceless and whole, expanded into the flowered meadows all around them, and all of this was set in front of the cottonwood river. The towering cliffs behind them looked painted especially for this scene, as if some giant puppet master might roll the background away and pluck all the little houses off the grassy carpet when the show was all over.

Jo knew Marcus’ hunting cabin was the third one down, dirt red and peeling. The first couple houses looked in worse shape than hers, their flower beds empty and sidewalks overgrown. The fifth, well kept but unintriguing, had a faded American flag flying by the porch. But the third house made Jo’s heart swell. Painted yellow and overflowing with flowers, with a pink bike leaning against a large cottonwood in front. Its stone chimney stood firm and friendly, breathing a thin stream of smoke into the evening sky. The wide door of its disconnected garage was painted to match the meadows, wildflowers and butterflies against a summer green.

Jo reached the final stretch of road. As she passed the houses, she was suddenly aware of the wild pile of luggage tied in the back and the deafening crunch of the gravel road. She parked in the fourth drive, which ended in cracking concrete in front of the little garage, and sighed, the pounding in her ears in sequence with the evening crickets’ symphony. She untied her scarf, long white hair falling over her shoulders. She pressed her palms to burning cheeks, burying her head on the steering wheel. The house in front of her was solid and true. Jo lifted her head and let out a sigh. She cut the engine and fumbled for the cabin key. 

It was really nothing special inside, Jo thought, kicking the front door closed with a bare foot. The last few bags, precariously balanced against her cheek, wobbled and went tumbling. Jo tripped and landed spread eagle in a pile of duffels, a black cat streaking out of the front hall. Jo sat up just in time to see it squeeze through the open kitchen window. 

 She shook her head, considering the cozy absurdity of the moment. She wondered who the cat belonged to. A neighbor? Maybe it was the interesting neighbor, with the mural on the garage and the adorable bike. She pulled herself out of the pile of bags, groaning, and went to the window. The cat sat licking its paw in the pretty yellow house’s yard, illuminated by a warm porch light. Its eyes glinted against the haze of dusk. 

The rocking chair on the porch felt like it had been formed to Jo’s ass. She sat balancing a bowl of chicken noodle in her lap, reading under the porchlight. Moths swarmed above her head. She pulled the quilt tighter around her shoulders as the night grew colder, realizing how dark the night had gotten. And suddenly, there were stars, hundreds of them, dense and singing. 

Jo stood, entranced, and leaned against the porch rail, her face peeking through the quilt, her eyes reflecting the thousand stars decorating the New Mexico sky. The stars presented themselves fully, more authentic than she had ever seen them, gifted prominence by the new moon. She kept her eyes to them and rounded the railing. The sky opened above Jo, and the wind slowed. 

Jo forgot to be cold, laying there on the quilt in the yard. She thought about the years she had spent in the false brightness of the city, windows and street lights and headlights and lone stars that were just airplanes.

“We’re so blessed here.”

Jo’s heart leapt across the yard. She gulped, wrapping the quilt around herself again, looking around for the source of the voice, zen and femme, not so out of place against the chirping of crickets and the rustling of leaves. “What?”

The voice chuckled, “Our view of the stars is so intimate, don’t you think? We’re so lucky to witness the sky this way.” 

Jo looked to her right, at the beautiful yellow house, at the wild figure nestled under the tree in its front. “ Um, yes, we are.” She considered the pounding of her heart, fidgeting with the torn edge of the quilt. 

“I’m Dahlia, by the way, I’m your neighbor.” Dahlia turned to face Jo, gesturing at her home. 

“Jo.” 

“Nice to meet you, Jo.” Dahlia nodded, a cloud of thick, curly hair waving behind her. 

The women turned their attention back to the skies, Jo feeling the presence of Dahlia in the other yard. She hadn’t been lonely in the company of the thousand lights, but the silence in the valley deepened as she felt the echo of Dahlia’s voice. 

“So, how long have you-” Jo’s voice trailed off as she realized that Dahlia had disappeared from her nest under the cottonwood. The late summer air nipped at her skin, and Jo remembered that she was cold.

Sleep came easily that night, and Jo woke to gold light streaking across her bedroom. She took her tea to the yard and stood in a patch of sun, warming her face and scrunching her toes into the grass. It was a pleasant day, she thought, watching a flock of birds swirling, just black dots high above the cliff. 

“Warm today,” said Dahlia, walking across the yard to Jo as she wrestled her wild gray curls into a bun on top of her head. Her white linen shirt was clasped with one button, wide pants cuffed, feet bare. 

Jo, startled, crossed her arms over her chest and tucked her hair behind one ear. “Dahlia, good morning.” She fingered the lace collar of her nightgown. “It is warm today. Beautiful.” 

Dahlia, satisfied with her bun, shoved her hands in her pockets, rocking back and forth, following Jo’s eye up to the birds. “I’m going swimming today.” 

Jo looked over, noticing Dahlia in the daylight. A few curls fell around her creased face, especially around the eyes, which were gray blue and soft. A gold ring decorated her freckled nose, and her lips were full and rested in a slight smile. “Swimming sounds nice.”

“It would be a shame not to. At this point in the year, every warm day could very well be the last.” Dahlia reached down into the grass and picked up a ladybug, holding out her palm to Jo. “Good luck.” Jo met her eye and blew the red bug out of her hand. It tumbled back into the grass. 

“Oh,” Jo said. 

Dahlia laughed heartily as the ladybug walked away, seeming to shake his head. “A little grumpy, isn’t he?”

Jo grinned. “Not much of a sense of humor.” 

“Not everyone knows to blow ladybugs for good luck,” Dahlia said. 

“It was my mother who taught me,” Jo replied, watching the bright red bug make its way across a blade of grass. 

“Mine too,” Dahlia replied. “So, shall we?” 

“Shall we what?” Jo looked over at Dahlia. 

“Go for a swim.”

“Oh, I-” Dahlia was already making her way up to the yellow porch, and gave Jo a thumbs up on her way through the white screen door, which slammed behind her. Jo smiled and took her cold tea back inside, shaking her head slightly, considering an outdoor adventure with a strange woman she just met. Well, she thought, I have come out here to expand myself. 

How do I dress for swimming? Jo wondered, staring down at the mound of clothes she dumped from her suitcases. She considered the last time she had been swimming, probably more than thirty years ago. She had worn a two piece, and had been insecure! She chuckled, catching a glimpse of her body in the bedroom mirror. Age had ripened her, leaving behind its spots and folds.  “I should’ve appreciated what I had!” Jo said to herself in the mirror, doing a spin. She was grateful for the spin, that her body allowed it. She pulled on a summer yoga set, the one she never had the courage to wear (it was just so young), and her overalls, slipping into garden sandals on her way out the door. 

Dahlia was waiting with a backpack and a quilt under her arm. “Ready to go?” 

“Yes,” Jo replied, reaching for the quilt. “I’ll carry this.” 

Dahlia handed it to her, the creases around her eyes deepening. “I have a spot in mind.” 

The women made their way behind the houses, heading for the line of cottonwoods. Dry and thorny plants scratched at Jo’s exposed ankles as she stepped in Dahlia’s tracks. She clutched the quilt to her chest and studied Dahlia’s red hiking pack, which was decorated and well worn. Iron-on patches and embroidery, a plastic dinosaur keychain. “Cute keychain,” said Jo. 

“Thanks, lady,” Dahlia replied. “From my son, years ago.” 

“It’s sweet.” Jo considered Dahlia, who she knew nothing about. A son. Jo never had a child. She had thought of it, but it just never happened. Her chest tightened, as it always did when she thought of this, and her eyes dampened. Marcus was a good man, he never brought it up. They had only slept together a handful of times over the decades they were married. She had never mentioned children to him, and he had never to her. They had plenty of other things to talk about, to occupy their time with. It wasn’t as if Marcus had to go without sex, she reminded herself. She knew about the affairs, and he knew that she knew. But she didn’t mind, genuinely. Marcus was her best friend, and she loved him. There were just some things they didn’t talk about. But she wondered what it would have been like to be a mother, sometimes. 

The grasses had engulfed them, reaching their hips and becoming difficult to trek through. Dahlia looked back at Jo, who was studying the dents and paths Dahlia had made, placing her feet where Dahlia’s had been. “Take a look,” Dahlia grinned, gesturing at the river, offering itself before them. Her fist was full of yellow flowers.

There was a break in the treeline, and Jo could see the water, clear and green, a dense canopy of leaves reflected on its surface. The riverbed was sandy and clean, decorated by a few smooth stones. The grasses thinned as Dahlia led Jo to the sandy bank, which leveled out beautifully into the still river. Dahlia kicked her boots off and waded into the water, wetting the very bottom of her cuffed pants. Jo spread the quilt across a patch of sunlight on the bank and sat, looking around. The city’s voice had been growing quieter every minute since she arrived, and it was finally silenced by the smell of wet earth and the dancing light. Dahlia joined her, sticking her sandy feet off the edge of the quilt. She sat the bundle of long-stemmed flowers in her lap and began weaving them into a train. 

“We are so lucky,” said Jo. 

“So lucky.” Dahlia smiled. “Did you have spots like this where you’re from?” 

“In Dallas?” Jo scoffed, “Hardly.” 

“Wow, big city lady! How long were you out there?”

“Forever, since I was a kid.” 

“So really, forever,” Dahlia chuckled, nudging Jo with her elbow. 

“Apparently so, huh?” Jo laughed, “My old ass is so happy to have some fresh air.” 

“Your ass isn’t so old,” said Dahlia, smirking playfully over her shoulder. Her eyes were dancing. She turned and placed the finished flower crown on Jo’s head.

“Maybe not.” Jo’s stomach flipped. What?

“So, are we going in?” Dahlia scooched herself to the edge of the quilt and unbuttoned her shirt. The white linen collar slid down her bare back, revealing a constellation of freckles and spots across tan skin. A few curls had escaped her wild bun, hanging elegantly at the nape of her neck. 

She tossed the shirt and looked over her shoulder to Jo, who was staring at a single, trembling leaf across the river. “Uh, yes, let’s do it.” Jo unclasped the straps of her overalls and stood, allowing them to fall to her ankles. She stepped out of them and kicked off her sandals. Dahlia was waiting, ankle deep in the river, wearing only a pair of old school swim trunks, the kind Marcus had worn in Hawaii on their honeymoon. Her breasts were sunken and heavy. Proud.

The women stood together at the edge of the river. “The water’s still this warm?” Jo walked further in, grazing the water with her fingertips. The sand beneath them was warm too, and as Jo submerged herself further, the aches in her body loosened. 

Dahlia’s head popped out of the water in front of her, her curls plastered to her cheeks and forehead. “It’s a hot spring,” she smiled, spitting river water. 

“Wow.” Jo looked around and swelled with the joy of the moment, smiling back at Dahlia, blue eyes meeting brown. She watched a drop of water trail down the bridge of Dahlia’s nose, dripping onto the pillow of her bottom lip. She was beautiful, Jo thought. She watched Dahlia float on her back in the warm pool. And still a mystery, Jo reminded herself. Dahlia had been so immediately herself that Jo had easily forgotten that they’d just met. Maybe authenticity was enough. Dahlia’s hair floated around her face like algae. Jo adjusted her crown.  “So, Dahlia, how long have you lived out here?” 

***

It was snowing. Jo’s windshield wipers threatened to fly off the truck, fighting against the flurries as she squinted and leaned over the dash, following the tracks of the car in front of her. The afternoon sun eroded the landscape, leaving Jo stranded in a liminal expanse of New Mexico highway. She was going 15, and the only radio station she could reach was playing a Beatles marathon. “Blackbird” gently escaped the radio, and a dried crown of flowers hung limp from the rearview mirror. The hula girl swayed gently on the dash. Jo smiled, thinking about getting the girl a coat. This was the first time in decades that Jo was attending family Christmas as a guest and not a host, and now it seemed like she was just going to miss it entirely. Dahlia warned her about the blizzard, but the meteorologist on the radio had predicted clear skies. 

Jo sighed, glancing at the pile of gifts in the passenger seat. They were wrapped in brown paper, with sprigs of juniper tied with twine. She and Dahlia had wrapped them, promising to exchange gifts when Jo returned after the holiday. Dahlia said they could make their own holiday. “Christmas is too secular,” she had said. “We’ll have a ceremony when you get back.” Jo wondered what her family would think of the quaint wrapping style. Last year, she had gone gaudy, decorating her gifts with embossed paper and gold ribbon; big fluffy bows and little red glitter ornaments at their center. They sparkled under the tree in her sitting room. 

Last Christmas felt like a lifetime ago. It had been her first holiday without Marcus, and she had poured the grief into holiday preparations. Her house was straight from a Hallmark TV movie, but her heart had been back in the hospital waiting room. Over a year later, the ache in her chest had softened from its initial sharpness, and now, whenever she thought of him, it was replaced by a warm, lingering fondness. Jo squinted at the road. The snow had stopped pelting her truck, but the sun’s reflection on the pure white landscape made her eyes water.

Over the past few months, she and Dahlia had become inseparable. “You make me feel like a girl again,” Jo had said after a fit of laughter, her head in Dahlia’s lap. Life had turned into one big slumber party, and the fall months had been spent in exploration of the land. Jo told Dahlia about Marcus, and Dahlia told Jo about the string of men from her twenties, and her son, James. Dahlia had lived many lives, exploring the world, experiencing heartache and joy and freedom in ways Jo never had. She admired Dahlia for this, but the ache of regret had lodged itself in her chest. Every day she spent with Dahlia was an adventure, and Jo lived vicariously through her memory. 

“I remember the last man I slept with,” Dahlia had told her, kneading dough one day in her kitchen, “before I realized I wanted nothing to do with them. I was twenty seven, and tired. My son was in school by then, and I would meet this guy on my lunch break.” The dough thumped onto the counter. “I remember one day, when he was inside me, I just… woke up. I realized that sex, this sacred merging of energies, I realized it had become this dissociative act. I never slept with a man again.” Dahlia smiled, heaving her weight into the dough. “Women, however,” she looked over at Jo, “were a whole other story.” 

“Women?” 

“Women.” Dahlia leaned against the counter to face Jo. “Dating women was the best thing I ever did in my life. My partner Claire was the love of my life. She and James were everything good.” Her son had died young, she had told Jo, in a car accident. “When I lost Claire, there was a time that I was lost, myself. That was ten years ago. But I got almost thirty years with her, and every day was a gift.” 

The snow on the road had become slush, and sunlight was diffusing from behind broad clouds. Jo turned off her windshield wipers and settled back into her seat. Women. Dahlia’s voice had been ringing in her ear since the day they baked that bread. Dahlia being gay wasn’t really a surprise, now that she thought about it, but Jo had never met a lesbian in real life, and had even been raised to disagree with it completely. She’d grown past the learned disgust, and had even become somewhat of an ally. But there weren’t gay people… her age. Her chest pinched at the thought. Apparently there were gay people her age. Dahlia… 

“Woahhh!” Jo slammed on her brakes, screeching to a stop inches from a teenage fawn, motionless, its huge ears like open palms beside wide, black eyes. Jo’s heart pounded, and she checked the rearview mirror. Clear. The fawn blinked and bounded away, and Jo slowly got back up to highway speed. “Holy crap,” she breathed, rubbing her chest with her palm. The shock settled in her stomach, and she made the last few hours of the drive in silence, leaving the snow behind when she reached North Texas. 

Her sister’s house was new, part of a development in a suburb of the DFW. Jo squinted at house numbers, creeping down Mesquite Trail. She shook her head at the absurdity of it. There wasn’t a single Mesquite tree in any of the identical lawns, and it looked like the road had been paved yesterday. Some trail. A year ago she would’ve been quietly seething, she had always wanted to trade up her house for something newer. But now, the infinite sprawl of lifeless houses made her skin crawl. There was no reason the grass should still be green, she thought. It was December. 

217. She parked her dusty truck across the street, familiar vehicles had already taken up the driveway and the front curb. Her back ached from the drive, and her neck had settled down into her spine. There was an inflatable nativity in the front lawn, threatening to blow away in the North Texas wind. The neighbors were flying a flag from their front porch, Donald Trump in a Santa hat, giving a thumbs up. 

“Well!” Startlingly southern, Ruthie called Jo from the porch. “Joanne, I’ll be damned! Look atchuh!” 

“Ruthie, hey!” They hugged, floral perfume bursting from Ruthie’s cardigan sweater. Jo stepped back. “How’ve you been, sis?” 

“Better’n you! Look at your nails!” Ruthie grabbed Jo’s hand, inspecting her weathered fingers as she led her through the front door. 

“Aunt Jo!” Jo’s great grandniece, Judy, ran up and gave her a big bear hug, her face squished against Jo’s stomach.”

“Hallie! I missed you, sweet girl!” Jo squatted down to look at her sister’s daughter’s daughter, her bright blue eyes peeking through blunt, blonde bangs that desperately needed a trim. “Third grade?” 

“Yes!” 

“Look at you, little lady! I can’t wait to hear all about it.” Jo greeted the rest of the family, looking around the house, Hobby Lobby decor hardly masking its blandness. It was definitely new, no scratches on the door frames or dust on the ceiling fans. 

“So, New Mexico,” Ruthie squeezed on the couch next to Jo, an hour later, sloppily cradling a glass of wine. “What’s that like?” 

Jo held her mug of tea in both hands, but its warmth had left. “It’s definitely different. The land is beautiful, and the change of seasons…” She knew there was no way to describe the valley to Ruthie. “It’s nice to have some peace and quiet, you know, away from the city.”  

“Sounds nice.” Ruthie swirled her wine, which was white, but definitely not dry. “I’m glad you like it… out there. You know I don’t quite get it, why you’d go out to New Mexico on purpose.” She chuckled. “But I’m glad you’re doing somethin’ for yourself,  you know, after…” 

“He always loved it out there,” Jo smiled. “Being in the cabin, it’s like getting to know him all over again.” 

“I’m glad honey. You know, I never understood y’all’s marriage. It was so, you know, like, platonic.” Ruthie took a big gulp of wine. 

“Platonic?” Jo looked over at Ruthie, who had dribbled a bit on the front of her top. She wasn’t drunk, just clumsy. “What do you mean, platonic?”

“You know,” Ruthie dabbed the wet spot with the sleeve of her cardigan. “You loved each other, that’s for sure, but there was just never any chemistry.” 

Jo looked into her mug. The dregs looked like a crescent moon. She swirled them back into the tea. “I don’t know, I guess I didn’t think too much about it.” 

“Well, you two just kept your sex life so private, never even held hands. I wouldn’t’ve even pegged ya as husband and wife.” She took a last swig and slapped her free hand on her thigh. “Welp, time for supper. I better get out the fixins, since somebody went and moved away and made me into some kinda host.” She bent down and whispered to Jo, “Am I doin’ alright? You know, hostin’?”

“Yeah, of course Ruth.” 

“Great. See you at the table, country mouse.” She patted Jo’s shoulder and left. 

Platonic. Jo shook her head and followed Ruthie to the kitchen. 

Christmas came and went, and Jo found herself back in the truck, back on the highway, seeing everything pass by all over again, in reverse. The last time she’d driven this way, she had all the luggage strapped in the truck. She gave Willie Nelson a wave when she passed into New Mexico. The sun was especially yellow, and the day was warm. She hummed along to Tom Petty on the radio, thinking. 

She hadn’t been able to shake that conversation with Ruthie. Jo knew she didn’t mean anything by it, but hearing how she and Marcus were perceived was shocking. She never realized how strange their marriage really was, but when she thought about it, it really had been like a friendship. They slept together on their wedding night, and on his birthday, and their first anniversary, and then really, she realized, never again. She never wanted to, and he would have never asked her for sex. And she witnessed his affairs- they had that unspoken rule. She practically lived in her reading room half the time. Platonic. Wow. She couldn’t believe she’d never questioned it herself. She’d just gotten married like she was supposed to, like everyone did. And Marcus was a great man, he really was. But Ruthie was right, they might as well have been roommates.

She stopped to pee at a gas station a little while after Willie. There was a display of flowers inside. In December? This must be a fancy gas station, she thought, stopping to look at the flowers. They were tacky, wilting red roses and spray painted daisies. She smiled and turned to go to the bathroom, noticing a blur of yellow in the corner of her eye. She looked back at the only pretty bouquet in the bunch. Yellow chrysanthemums. Her chest tightened, and she stared at the flowers. They were so similar to the ones Dahlia had woven into a crown for her, the first day they spent at the river. 

She’d thought of Dahlia often during her stay at Ruthie’s. Little things had brought her to mind, really random things. The cherub statues in Ruthie’s flower bed, with their pouty cheeks. Their stupid wings. She smiled. Dahlia had the same ones in her garden. They guarded the tomatoes, she said. All the tomatoes had been stolen off the vine before they turned red. Some guards, Dahlia had said, laughing. Jo’s stomach sank. She reached out and touched the yellow petals. And the chamomile tea she’d had before bed, it was the same brand as the one Dahlia brewed for her when she stayed at her house. Jo blinked, and a tear fell across her cheek. Tear? She wiped her eyes, her heart beating and expanding, trapped inside her ribs. Her breath caught in her throat. 

Jo sat in her truck in the gas station parking lot, stuck. She stared at the bouquet of mums lying in the passenger seat. Her heart rang in her ears. She bit the corner of her thumb cuticle, which Ruthie had just insisted on smoothing. Her hands shook as she picked at the flap of skin, peeling back a painful length of it. Dahlia. She put her thumb to her mouth, sucking on the exposed layer of skin. Metallicy. She peeled off another piece with her teeth. I wouldn’t’ve even pegged ya as husband and wife. The lump in her throat was impossible, her eyes still wet and wide. She couldn’t blink, or speak, or breathe, or she would cry. What is even going on? There was no reason to even be crying. She bit her thumb again, hard this time, and pierced the tender part by accident. She gasped at the pain, and started to sob. Loud, heaving sobs. Snotty, shaking sobs, her arms crossed on the steering wheel. There aren’t gay people my age. Jo’s head pounded behind her eyes. Dahlia.

The final stretch of highway was over before Jo knew it, and soon she was turning right after the big boulder, the truck rattling down the dirt road. Her heart was still racing, cheeks tingling by her ears. The passenger seat was full of scattered bits of flowers, her attempt at a crown. She didn’t know how to form one, and had tried to remember how Dahlia had done it. Her hands shook as she got closer and closer to the final turn. What the hell am I going to say?

She put the mum crown in her lap, fiddling with one of the leaves. “I’ll say, uh, Dahlia, I’ve loved the time we spent together. And it’s made me realize something, about myself, about uh,” the truck lurched over the large stone, and she could suddenly see the houses. “About us. Dahlia, I-” Jo slowed the truck to a creep. There was a state trooper parked in the driveway of the yellow house. 

She parked her truck and stepped out, making her way across the yard to Dahlia’s house with the flower crown in her fist. A few yellow petals floated to the ground as she walked, brilliantly yellow against the soft brown of the winter grass. The black cat was there under the cottonwood tree, sitting upright and looking at the house. Jo walked past him. “What’s up with the cop, Juni?” Her chest had tightened even more, differently than it had been already. Her pounding heart slammed against the bars of her ribs.

She skipped the loose second step on her way up to the porch. The door was cracked. “Dahlia?” She called, creaking the door open and stepping into the entryway. There was a rustle of paper from inside the house, and loud footsteps on the hardwood floors. Masculine footsteps, the stomping of boots echoing through the house. 

“Ma’am?” A sheriff walked out of the sitting room, holding a clipboard. 

Jo’s throat tied into a noose, slipping around her words. Her fingers were numb. She looked at the man’s face, his stubble overgrown, his mustache scraggly. He reached up and scratched his cheek. “Ma’am, do you know a woman named Dahlia Aldridge, here at this address?” 

Jo stared. She had become the host of a burning, stinging, pounding being, and it could not escape her. Do I know? Her head buzzed with static. The cop released the top few papers from under the clipboard, and they flipped back with a satisfying rustle.

“She called in yesterday,” the sheriff skimmed his notes, “Heart attack. EMT came out, and now I’m here looking for any possible contacts. She didn’t have any on file.” He looked up from the clipboard. “Are you like a… neighbor or something?” 

Jo’s fingers released the flowers, and they fell to the floor, scattering yellow petals everywhere. “Dahlia,” she croaked, “had a heart attack?” Her empty hands shook at her sides, and the lump of a sob threatened to escape her throat. 

“Are you alright?” The sheriff stepped toward Jo, who stepped back, bumping against the front door frame. “Hey now, it’s okay,” He dropped the clipboard to his side. “She’s still at the hospital, she probably just got out of bypass surgery. Recovery, you know,” He scratched his cheek again. “Takes a while.” 

Still at the hospital. Jo finally allowed herself a breath. “Oh,” she pressed her palm to her chest. “So, she’s alright?” 

“Yeah, far as I know.” The sheriff tilted his head. “Are y’all close?” 

“Yeah,” Jo breathed, her chest opening with relief. “She’s the love of my life, actually.” Jo smiled slightly at the words, hearing their reverberation through the silence of the house.

“Well, damn,” the sheriff raised his eyebrows, “I’m sorry for giving you a scare like that. I’ll let you know where she’s staying.”
“Yeah,” Jo shook her head. “Fuck you, honestly.”