Delirious by Suzannah Daniels Page A

mother was loading the dishwasher in the kitchen. “Hey, Mom.”
    She turned and smiled. “Hey.”
    “Are you doing okay?”
    “As good as can be expected, I guess. It just worries me, you know?”
    “I know, but at this point, it’s out of our control.”
    “I hate him. Like really, really hate him.”
    I blew out a breath. “I get it, Mom. Believe me. But he’s Dara father, and I love Dara.”
    “I love her, too. In fact, I think you should tell her.”
    I shook my head. “I can’t. I just can’t do that to her.”
    “Then I hope he doesn’t come back. I hope she never finds out.”
    “So do I.” I stood silently a moment, hoping that he didn’t make an appearance at the wedding. He’d threatened to cause a scene, which would be embarrassing enough, but he’d also threatened to tell lies, lies that wouldn’t put me in a favorable light, lies that would embarrass my family, lies that, due to my past, I was terrified everyone would believe. Actually, I wasn’t worried about whether everyone would believe his lies. I was worried that Dara would believe them, and since they would be coming from her father, I feared that part of her would want to believe him. Even if she did believe me, the situation would still be painful for her.
    My mother watched me a moment more, then turned back to the dishes.
    Frustrated, I went to take a quick shower. Thir ty minutes later, I carefully navigated my motorcycle over Dara’s gravel driveway and parked it in the yard.
    I pulled my helmet off, glad to be rid of it. Even though the sun was no longer directly overhead, it was still quite warm.
    I strolled up the steps, my booted feet thudding against the wooden planks, and let myself in. She was sitting on the couch, the TV playing in the background. Her foot rested on the edge of the cushion, her arms wrapped around her bent leg as she diligently painted her toenails hot pink.
    Glancing at me, she smiled, “I’ll be finished in just a minute.”
    “Take your time.” Not wanting to mess up her paint job, I sat in the ch air across from her and watched. “Where do you want to eat?”
    “How about that little country café? I would really love a slice of buttered cornbread and some vegetables.”
    “Works for me. ”
    “There,” she said, tightening the lid on her nail polish. “Crimson gave this to me.” She held the bottle up. “You like?”
    “ That could quite possibly be the most beautiful color I’ve ever seen in a nail polish.”
    She put down the bottle of polish and tossed a throw pillow at me. “Smart aleck.”
    I grinned. “ Babe, I’m a guy. I can appreciate the fact that you look beautiful with your tanned legs and your painted toenails, but I don’t really care whether you’ve painted them with Poppy Red or Cotton Candy Pink.” I pointed at her. “That’s why you have Crimson and Scarlet.”
    She rolled her eyes. “Remember that the next time you want me to listen to the difference between a two-streak engine and a four-streak engine.”
    “Stroke ,” I stressed. “It’s a two- stroke engine and a four- stroke engine.”
    “Whatever,” she waved her hand in the air as if it were of no significance. “Red. Pink. Streak. Stroke. It’s all the same.”
    I grinned at her. “You’re pretty when you pout.”
    “I am not pouting.”
    “ Fine.” I stood and picked the bottle of nail polish up off the table. I flipped it over and read the name of the color. “Are your Watermelon Wench toes ready to climb on the back of my motorcycle with its powerful four-stroke engine?”
    “Absolutely.” She slid on her sandals, being careful of her freshly-painted nails.
    When we were settled on the bike, I started the engine and slowly navigated my way through the gravels. Once I hit the smooth pavement, I accelerated, smiling when I felt her grip tighten around my waist. Riding with her on the back of my motorcycle could very well be my favorite pastime. Okay, maybe not my favorite, but it was