I've posted two others today, so please don't miss them, and don't forget to show some love and support for those as well!
I hope you enjoy the chapter! Let me know what you think!
1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111
"I don't want you doin' more'n just breathin' down my neck an' shit," Daryl said. "Wouldn't want you to inconvenience your ass or nothin'."
Daryl carried the wooden box to the truck and carefully placed it on the old sheet he'd put there. He wrapped it in the other sheet he'd brought out, protecting it from damage, and started to arrange bungee cords to keep it in place.
Merle snorted and walked around near him, smoking a cigarette, wearing his ridiculous green tartan bathrobe.
It was late on Friday night—at least, it was late for them, though Daryl knew that there were plenty of young people who would consider the night barely beginning.
"I didn't wanna help you, brother, so you don't get dependent on it," Merle said. "Won't do you no fuckin' good when you get that box where it's goin' if I ain't there to help you get it down."
"Ain't you damn near a saint?" Daryl mused.
"Glad you finally recognized it. I'm sure it's only a time 'fore the Vatican gives my ass a call."
"Why the hell you sniffin' around my ass, anyway?" Daryl asked. "It's Friday night, Merle. Ain't—you goin' to Andrea's or she's comin' here or somethin'?"
"Ridin' the cotton pony," Merle said.
"So?" Daryl asked.
"So," Merle said, not really making it clear how he expected Daryl to respond.
"So—put on a wetsuit an' get swimmin'," Daryl said with a snort. "A damn preacher of pussy such as you can be, and you're scared away by—what, Merle? A little blood?"
"Hell, no, brother," Merle said. "Ain't me. It's her. Said she was horny as fuck. Hell—I offered to go vampire, if that was what the hell she needed, but she says that shit makes her self-conscious. Then she fuckin' cried about it. You know I can't handle the tears an' snot shit."
Daryl laughed to himself.
"Sometimes—the tears an' snot ain't so bad, Merle," Daryl offered. "You find out a lotta shit among all of that. And when you get to the end of it—it ain't so bad. Stayin' for the tears an' snot mighta got your ass a ticket to stay for the rest of it."
Merle smirked at him.
"You proposin' to give me advice on women, now, lil' brother?" Merle asked.
"Call it what you want," Daryl said. "But—you're standin' in the yard in your bath robe, brother, and I got an overnight bag in my car packed for the whole damn weekend."
Merle laughed quietly to himself.
"Good luck, brother," Merle said. "Hope she loves the hell outta your box."
"What'cha gonna do all weekend, Merle?"
Merle shrugged.
"I'll think of somethin'," he said.
"If it matters to you," Daryl said, "they really like chocolate when they raggin'. And one of them good movies might go over all right with a lil' bit of bein' nice to her an' lovin' her soft like."
Merle nodded his head. He laughed to himself.
"Relationship guru," he mused. "I'll keep it in mind. Go on. I'll close up out here."
1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111
Daryl carried the box inside, still wrapped in the sheet. It was as close to wrapping paper as he could come for the small trunk. He ignored, as best he could, that he was so nervous that his breathing was involuntarily shallow and he felt slightly dizzy. He could feel his own muscles tensing up, and parts of him felt like they shook with anticipation.
Carol followed behind him in her pajamas, closing the door and locking it. She'd put the tailgate on the truck up for him without him asking. She followed him to the bedroom where he rested the box—sheet and all—on the floor.
"Is this the box you were making?" She asked.
"Finished it," he said. The last accounts she'd really had of the box was his original plan—just a box to be shoved in a closet somewhere. He'd told her he was taking the stuff home to work on it, mostly so he could sand it down and treat the wood, but she had no idea that he'd created what he had.
He was nervous and excited for her to see it, the two emotions blending and battling, simultaneously, inside him.
"Why don't you—unwrap it?" Daryl asked.
Carol looked at him with a look of confusion and slight amusement on her face.
"The box?" She asked. He nodded. "OK," she ceded. She walked over and Daryl backed up to give her space. He'd wanted it to be bigger, but he hadn't wanted to make it huge—if it was too large, she might not want it. She might not want it to be a display piece in her room. She might prefer that it go in a closet or tucked in a corner. He'd made it the right size for tucking in a corner—just in case. Carol pushed the sheet back. It didn't take much for it to fall around the box and puddle on the floor.
She looked at him, and he couldn't read her expression. It looked, though, like she might not be sure of the emotion she was even trying to put behind it.
"Daryl it's…beautiful."
"You think so?" Daryl asked.
She ran her hand over the wood. She traced the carving with her fingertips. She moved the metal latch that kept it shut and looked inside before she closed it and caressed it again. Then she straightened up to face him.
"It's incredible," she said. "You made this?"
Daryl nodded.
"Yeah," he managed to get out.
"Why?" Carol asked. "I mean—it's too much."
"I told you I was gonna make you a box," Daryl said.
"This is too much," Carol said again.
Daryl laughed to himself. She looked a little overwhelmed and he caught her arms, squeezing them in his hands.
"It's just a wooden box, Carol," Daryl said. "A little hope chest—or trunk—or whatever you want to call it."
"But it's beautiful," she protested.
"I'm glad you think it's beautiful," Daryl said. "I wanted you to think it was beautiful. The whole damn time I was makin' it, I was half-excited you would like it and half-terrified you'd hate it."
"Why would I hate this?" Carol asked.
Daryl shrugged his shoulders.
"I'm no artist."
"I think you're wrong."
"Figured you'd think—the carvin' looks like a kid done it."
"It's amazing. And it's even more beautiful because—you made it for me. Nobody's ever made me something so beautiful before."
"Can you—tell what it is? The carvin' I mean?"
Carol looked at it. She looked back at him and smiled.
"It's—a Cherokee Rose," she said.
Daryl nodded. His stomach violently knotted itself. He could back out. He could close his mouth right now. He could just accept that she liked his gift, and he could leave it at that. She was almost off her period—practically off of it. It wasn't even really messy anymore. She'd be more than happy to just curl up with him and love with him in the bed or on the couch. Maybe she'd tell him they should select something from the bags—which would soon be transferred to the box—to play a little before they turned in for bed.
Daryl could leave it as it was and enjoy her company without risk of pushing her or alienating her in any way.
But he wasn't sure that he could stand not telling her his truth. He was honest to a fault, after all, and part of that was because he'd never been very good at living with things that he couldn't simply say out loud and into the air around him.
"Do you know—why it's a Cherokee Rose?" He asked.
Carol looked at him with a quick look of concern or confusion. Her smile wasn't as sincere as before.
"Because—it's the state flower?" She asked.
Daryl shook his head.
He'd been thinking of this speech for days—every time he worked on the box, he thought of what he would say. If he said this—she might tell him to go home. She might not invite him back. She might think it was too much, and far too soon. If he didn't say it, he wasn't sure that he could breathe normally for much longer in her presence.
"Is something wrong, Daryl?" Carol asked.
"Sit down," Daryl said, directing her toward the bed. She obeyed him very quickly, and he wondered if he'd put a little too much force behind his words. He persevered. "The legend of the Cherokee Rose is about the Trail of Tears. Mothers on the trail were cryin'. Weepin' because—as they went, starvin', and sufferin', and leavin' their home behind, they were losin' their little ones along the way. So, the elders—they prayed about it. Prayed that the spirits would give the mothers somethin' to lift up their spirits. Give 'em hope—to keep on goin'. Next day, these Cherokee Roses started springin' up, everywhere the mothers' tears fell. Gave 'em hope that…maybe it weren't all lost. Maybe they'd find their little ones someday."
Daryl had only meant the legend as background information, but Carol was wiping at her eyes when he finished it.
"I didn't know that," she offered softly. "Daryl—that's beautiful."
He nearly laughed.
"I've always loved the legend," Daryl said, "but—it weren't my point."
"Oh," Carol said. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be," Daryl said. "Shit—honestly—I oughta thank you. I'm feelin' a little better now."
"Better?" Carol asked.
"I got to tell you something," Daryl said. "The reason I—put that flower on there."
Carol nodded her head gently.
"Go ahead," she offered.
Daryl sucked in a breath, held it a second, and blew it out. He stilled himself.
Carol was beautiful. She was everything he'd ever dreamed a woman could be—imagined she could be. But, unlike the women on movies that didn't exist—or even the ones in the books she let him borrow that weren't real—Carol was real. She was a flesh and blood woman. He could hold her. He could feel the warmth of her body. He'd almost memorized how parts of her felt underneath his fingertips and palms. He could smell her. He knew that different parts of her smelled different ways—even fresh out of the shower. He knew what she tasted like. He'd tasted every part of her.
She was under his skin in the best way possible, and she was a woman of flesh and blood.
And he knew, at that moment, he'd get on his knees and beg her not to turn him away if she tried—pride didn't matter at all.
He resolved himself to tell her his truth.
"I gotta tell you—my truth," he said, giving word to his thoughts. "I—never told my whole truth to nobody."
She looked at him, brow-furrowed and wide-eyed.
"I'm listening," she said.
"You know—I've told you—what I always wanted," Daryl said. She nodded her head, just barely. "Like them movies and all. A home. Warm and—warm and full. Of love. A family. A woman. A wife. Someone I could love like they seem to love on them movies. Someone who—who could maybe love me back like that."
Her chest was heaving. He could see the rapid rise and fall. Other than that, though, she kept herself still and appeared to be almost stone as she listened to him and gave him space to say what he needed to say.
"I'd really given up. If we're bein' honest. I mean—maybe I didn't wanna tell myself I'd given up, but…I had. Resigned myself to the fact that it was all fairy tales and make believe anyway. Especially for me. I mean—I'm a Dixon. I come from shit. Honest to goodness shit. Everyone in Livin' Springs knows it. Grew up knowin' I weren't worth my own salt."
"Daryl…" Carol said. Daryl held his hand out to her.
"Please? If I don't finish it, I won't."
"OK," Carol said, nodding her head and settling back into her spot where she'd started to rise.
"I started to believe it weren't real and it weren't gonna happen for me. Just weren't—meant to be. Figured—I'd have to learn to be content to stay my ass in a house with Merle forever and ever. Resigned to my fate. Figured—he'd die eventually. Leave me good and alone. End of story. And nobody would give a shit, no way, because who the hell mourns you when you're dead, especially when nobody even cared about your ass alive?"
"Daryl…" Carol breathed out. But when he shook his head at her, she closed her mouth, and held her spot.
"My point is, I'd given up hope, Carol. I was just gonna live—day to day—'til there weren't no more livin' to do. Just like that. Hell—I don't even know what I was doin' at Salty's that night. I don't go to Salty's. I don't like one-night stands, and I don't like what the hell I knew was the normal clientele of the bar. Went to have a drink and listen to music. That was it. Didn't expect to meet nobody. Sure as shit didn't mean to meet you. But I did meet you. And then, instead of just wakin' up to get to the next time I was goin' to sleep, I started—lookin' forward to something, Carol. First, it was if you was gonna call. Then it was a text. Then it was seein' you. Now it's—always seein' you the next time. Whether that's a week away, or just the next time I open my eyes and you're there. My fuckin' point, if I can ever get to it, is that—you give me hope, Carol. You give me hope that—maybe it ain't all fairy tales and make believe. Maybe—I get a chance to get what I want. Have what I want and—be what I want. I'm tryin' to say you've been my Cherokee Rose. A sign to—keep goin'. Keep hope."
"Daryl…" Carol said again. This time, though, she didn't let him shush her or urge her to sit. She practically launched herself at him and wrapped around him. She held him hard—harder than he thought she'd be capable of doing. He wrapped his arms around her and held her back.
"You can ask me to leave," he said. "And I'll go if you want me to. Hell—I know it's fast. Way too fuckin' fast. And I know—you're prob'ly scared. I'm scared. And I meant what the hell I told you before, Carol. We can go as slow as you want. Crawl if that's what makes you happy. But—I love you. I can't help it. Even if I don't say it, I love you."
Carol pulled away. Her face was streaked with dampness, and droplets were suspended in her lashes.
"Will you hate me if I tell you—I can't help but feel scared?" She asked.
Daryl's chest tightened. He hugged her, gently, and kept his eyes on her.
"I wouldn't even hate you if you told me to get the hell out forever," Daryl said. "I could never hate you."
"I'm scared," Carol said.
"It's OK," Daryl said. "I am, too. But whatever you need to—feel less scared? We'll get it for you. We'll figure it out."
She laughed to herself.
"What about you?" She asked. "Shouldn't we get you what you need to feel less scared?"
"You're all the hell I need, Carol," Daryl said.
"Daryl?"
"Hmmm?"
"I love you, too."
