Part Thirty Eight

You Will Find Your Way

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Part Thirty Eight of You Will Find Your Way
Dallas is really not having the best night.

Dallas makes no attempt to hide her thudding footsteps as she drags her sore and battered body upstairs, winces when, as she steps on the landing, the bed—well, it’s probably the bed—in Giselle’s room slams up against the wall.

“I hate everything,” she grumbles, rounds the banister and tucks up against the wall when she sees that the bedroom door is open.

She’s seen enough of the both of them, but also—

No.

With another sigh, she sidles up against the wall next to the door and probably smears some muck on the knock-off mahogany paneling, but whatever, she’ll clean it up when she world’s not maybe about to end.

Dallas smacks her fist against the wall a couple times, “Hey!” She snaps over the chorus of sounds inside. “Cut it out, you too! We need to talk.”

A muffled thump and a groan are her reply before, “Seriously Dallas? What the—“

“I have a problem,” Dallas cuts off Giselle before she can go all-in on a litany of impressive curses. “And you have a problem. And the world has a problem. But mostly you, because your problem is in your bed right now.”

“Go away, Dallas.”

She grumbles, “Can’t do that, lady. We need to talk about the cat that tricked you into dragging her home. Or whatever the metaphor is supposed to be. You dragged in a very problematic cat.”

“For the record,” the other voice, this one breathy and a little over-exerted, chimes in. “While I did know who Giselle was before I introduced myself to her, I did not do so with the intent you are presuming.”

Dallas rolls her eyes, “Sure you’re not.”

“I will have you know-“

“You know what?” Dallas cuts her off. “Put your damn clothes back on so we can talk about this.”

The other woman chimes in with a still-breathy laugh, “Or you could join us. That would be a lot more fun.”

“Sorry, but I’m not Giselle’s type,” Dallas snickers when the woman in question squeaks. “Sad, but true.”

But that finally seems to get Giselle back to the realm of relative sanity, as she scoffs, “Okay fine. Give us five minutes.”

“Don’t let her distract you.”

Another scoff, “I’ll be good.”

Dallas rolls her eyes and pushes off the wall, winces when the clothes on her right side peel away from it, “I’ll believe that when pigs fly.”

“Well, you know, there was that one-“

“Nope,” she calls over her shoulder and shuffles in the direction of the stairs. “That time does not count.”

As she drags her stiffing right side downstairs, Dallas overhears—and ignores—Giselle’s faint questions about what they’re talking about, what’s going on, and what’s—

Well, it’ll all come out soon.

It had better all come out soon.

——

Luke and Mathias are standing on opposite sides of the living room and looking distinctly uncomfortable when Dallas finally gets back downstairs.

“So,” she claps her hands together, but they stick, and Dallas has to remind herself to not breathe through her nose because she smells like a New York sewer on a hot summer day. “They’re on their way. Also Mathias, I hate you.”

“Really?” He fires back with a glare. “Couldn’t tell.”

Dallas is about to sit down on the armchair when she stops short, remembers that Giselle will murder her if she ruins one of their favorite seats in the house, and straightens back up in time for the echo of two sets of footsteps heading down to the ground floor.

“Why is this happening to me?” She asks, voice flat and devoid of most of the emotions swirling around inside her save a little bit of a whine. “What did I ever do to deserve this?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know.”

Dallas glances over her shoulder as Giselle and Hilda turn into the living room, and she levels a glare at them, “Hilda.”

“That’s not a proper hello, darling,” she says and drapes herself on the armchair, crosses one leg over the other like she’s not wearing little more than one of the oversized t-shirts Giselle liked to sleep in during the blistering summer months in Blythe. “Lovely to see you again, Dallas. It’s been too long.”

This is the worst night ever.

“Not even close to long enough,” she turns her glare back to Mathias. “I hate you so much. I can not even convey how much I hate you.”

He holds his hands up, “You have had a difficult night. Perhaps we should take a break,” he offers with a nod to the staircase Giselle and Hilda came from. “Sleep and regroup in the morning.”

Dallas seethes, and everything goes red and she counts ten pieces of fringe on the afghan draped over the back of the couch, “I know you did not just tell me to go to bed like you did when I was basically a child. You did not do that.”

“I,” he clears his throat. “Definitely did not?”

She looks at Luke, who crosses his arms over his chest and shakes his head, and then to Giselle, who looks confused and incredibly uncomfortable as she curls up in a small, tight ball on one side of the couch, “Are you doing to enable me or what?”

“Hey,” she snaps, but not with much heat, a sign she’s definitely been drinking. “I was having a terrible night because of you. And then I was having a slightly less terrible night, also apparently because of you, and don’t think that I don’t want answers about that. Get yourself out of your own mess and give me the answers I need. That we need.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” Dallas whirls to one side and demands from Hilda. “How much did she have to drink?”

Hilda looks up from her intent inspection of her fingernails, hums with a half shrug.

With a muffled screech, Dallas throws her arms in the air, “You know what? Screw this. I am covered in gunk and I am going to take a shower,” she glares at Hilda. “And you are not invited!”

“What a pity,” she says, unbothered.

Dallas stomps her foot, and yes, she probably looks like the small child she doesn’t remember being, but whatever, “I am a thousand percent done with this,” she stalks out of the room, but when she’s in the foyer, she stops, tilts her head at Luke, “You are invited, if you want.”

And then she’s gone.

Luke looks at the messy footprints Dallas left behind, scrubs a hand through his hair, “I should maybe,” he shrugs, waves a hand.

Giselle snorts before he can dig himself in a deeper hole and waves him away, “Just go,” she turns to Mathias. “I’ve heard stories of you. Most of them unflattering.”

“So I figured.”

“Tell me everything you know.”

You Will Find Your Way continues with Part Thirty Nine

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A life-long college sports fan and forever bitter about the country’s east coast biases, Kathryn, the Fake Redhead, graduated from the University of Arizona with a BA in Creative Writing, emphasis in poetry because she felt the fiction studies emphasis was too pretentious. She is currently helping other writers hone their craft while she pursues her dreams of becoming a published novelist.

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