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DAHLIA
Full moonsin the fall always raise the hairs on the back of my neck.
But fear isn’t always necessarily a bad thing.
Sometimes, it’s a good thing. Or at least, an important survival instinct. Fear of the dark, way back when, led to us discovering fire. Fear of the unknown teaches us to conquer it, and fear of death makes sure that we look both ways before crossing the street.
A healthy respect for fear goes a long way. My problem—at least, for the last six years—is that I flirt with fear just as much as I’m afraid of it. It’s like I’m drawn to a tightrope over an abyss I know damn well I’m supposed to stay far away.
Deep down, I think that’s why I like it, though. It’s that ambiguous, swirling, intoxicating mix of excitement and genuine, actual fear. That frenzied, buzzing, chaotically blurred space where the rush of adrenaline that you might get from watching a scary movie bleeds into the bloodcurdling scream of your psyche’s survival instinct, as if you’re milliseconds away from being run down by a freight train.
It’s not that I’m a danger or adrenaline junkie—far from it. I’ve never been one to go out and actively put myself in harm’s way chasing a brain chemical high. Base-jumping? Skydiving? Shark-caging? Yeah,hell-to-the-fucking-no.
But the fluttery, heart-stopping thrill that I get from that forbidden in-between is fantastic. It’s why I love horror movies, but hate big crowds. Why I’ll listen to a blood-soaked true-crime podcast till the cows come home, but warily side-eye every stranger I pass on the street. Considering that I live in New York City, that’s alotof side-eyeing.
Of course, there’s a second reason full moons in the fall raise the hairs on the back of my neck and make my pulse skip a little faster.
Him.
My villain. My darkest fantasy. The one who shattered me. The devil of the darkness who sent me running six years ago.
Blood on his hands.
A body at his feet.
And the threat spilling from his perfect lips.
“Are we doing another?”
I pull myself from my thoughts as I glance across the small candlelit table at Raph. Raph, to whom I’ve spoken about my oddities—at length—and who calls me “a conundrum of the human mind”. Which I suppose is his very polite way of calling me a fucking weirdo.
We’re notbest-best friends, and we sometimes drift apart. But we always drift together again, and after knowing him for seven years, I consider Raph one of my closest friends. So, he can get away with it.
“Dahlia? Are we doing another glass?”
I clear my throat and make a face. “I’m gonna go with…yes?”
“Was that a question?”
I grin. “Erase the question mark. Yes. I’ll do one more quick drink, but then I have to jet.”
My stepbrother rolls his eyes and dramatically lifts a wrist to a cute passing waiter.
“Deux de plus, s’il vous plaît,” Raph purrs in an overly-emphasized French accent—something he can get away with, considering that heisFrench. The waiter, who’s been eye-fucking my stepbrother about as hard as Raph has been eye-fuckinghimall evening, blushes a little and grins before he nods and scurries off.
I roll my eyes as I watch Raph’s gaze follow him to the bar.
“Down, boy.”
“Oh,what,” he sighs, smirking at me. “He reminds me of the one who got away.”
I snort. “And who might that be?”
“Oh, who can even remember these things.”
My eyes roll again as Raph exhales and reaches across the table to take my hand in his, shaking it a little. “But enough about me and my wandering libido. How are you doing?”
