Page 75 of On Dry Land

I’m at the point where searching on foot has become less of a possibility and more of a certainty when my headlights flash on a spot of blue. I brake hard, barely glancing up in the rearview before I’m reversing just enough to put the arc of my headlights where I can see. He’s there, huddled under the striped awning of a barbershop—blue coat, yellow beanie, and a tan scarf wrapped around his throat. I put the car in park and open the door, squinting through the rain at the figure rising and walking toward me.

“Dry?” he asks, and I have to close my eyes for a moment against the raw relief. “I’m sorry—there were tons of people going in and out of the apartment building, and I didn’t want anyone to call the cops on me, and then it started raining, and I was thinking I’d sit somewhere dry and⁠—”

I reach for him, hands untethered from my body and acting of their own accord. My pulse thunders in my ears when he’s close enough for me to see the black eyes, the bruise on his cheek, and the absence of red straps over his shoulders. The beanie is damp beneath my fingers as I gently cup the back of his head and pull him in that last little distance. He makes a soft noise that sounds like heartbreak and wraps his arms around my waist. Rain trickles down my face, and I barely notice.

Chapter Twenty-Five

SPENCER

Dryden’s sweater is soft against my forehead as I press my face into him. He’s got one hand holding the back of my head and the other wrapped around my shoulders, and I’m so aware of this being the first time he’s held me that I don’t even care about the rain. A fine tremble runs through me, from the top of my head, down my spine, and all the way to my toes. He smells so clean.

Behind him, the Porsche makes a soft pinging noise to remind Dryden of the open door. He sighs, and I become aware of the cold rain trickling down the back of my neck. I’d like to stay here for the moment, just like this, suspended in time. No talking, no discussions of the past and planning for the future. Just this—Dryden’s hand cupping the back of my head, pulling me in instead of pushing me away, and the clean, spicy scent of him. He slides his hand down the nape of my neck, and I lift my head, resigned. Time is up.

“Go around to the other side,” he tells me, voice soft and beautiful and so much better hearing it in person than it had been over the scratchy pay phone line. I comply, sliding in and immediately reaching for the heated seat like no time at all has passed and this is still the same thing I do every day when he picks me up from work.

Dryden waits silently while I click the seat belt into place, wincing slightly as the strap tightens over my sore chest. My hand and face are aching fiercely, but it seems like such a small problem. Who cares about physical pain when the far more serious hurt has been soothed? Even if Dryden is angry at me, he’s here, and that’s not nothing.

“Thank you.” I glance across the dark car at him, but he’s looking out the windshield and not at me. “I’m sorry you had to come all this way.”

“I didn’t have to do anything,” he replies, a hint of a bite in his tone. “Tell me what happened to your face.”

He glances at me, dark eyes glinting before he looks down at his cell phone and types something in. I watch his fingers move over the screen, letting the weight of the past few days melt away by degrees. I had been telling myself things weren’t as bad as they seemed, and now I believe it. Aches and pains are nothing. Blowing out a deep breath, I relax, feeling the heat of the seat seep through my clothes.

“A group of guys robbed me,” I tell him. It should probably be an embarrassing thing to admit—that I not only lost the fight, but I tried to run from it. Survival instincts aren’t anything I’ve ever thought to be ashamed of, though. I watch Dryden’s knuckles clench around the steering wheel as he coasts the car forward.

“Are you okay?” he asks, voice deceptively calm. I watch him, free in my perusal since he’s not looking at me.

“Yeah.”

“We need to file a police report.”

I smile. We. “I already did. Although it won’t do any good.”

He looks over at me, expression inscrutable. I wonder if he’d be offended if I slept on the ride home. I’m so tired, and the car is so warm.

“Perhaps a hospital first and then hotel,” he says, which is confusing enough for my sluggish brain that it takes me a second to work out what he’s saying.

“I don’t need a hospital. I’m okay.”

“You look like you need a head CT.”

“Thank you.”

His lips tighten, and I smile again. I bet people think he never finds things funny, since he doesn’t show amusement with boisterous laughter but with micro-expressions. I love knowing I’ve figured out that piece of his puzzle.

“What do you mean, hotel?” I ask him carefully, worried, suddenly, that I’m about to be dropped off. I don’t want to stay anywhere but with him. I’ll sleep in the car or on one of the loungers beside his pool. I don’t care, as long as I can go back. Dryden stops at an intersection, the red light painting the interior of the car crimson. He looks over at me again, frowning.

“You need to sleep, and I need better lighting to see your face.” He pauses, eyes dropping below my neck before reaching mine once more. “And the rest of you.”

“I’d rather just go home.” My voice is barely above a whisper, and there is no hiding the plea in my voice. Please, let me come back. Please don’t push me away. Please.

The idea of home has always been hard for me. At one point, it was an actual four-walls-and-a-roof home. Then it was a car. And then it was…nothing. Home was a good pair of shoes and a backpack, grass and pine trees and stars overhead. Home was motels and hostels and a camper van. It was many things and nothing—as transient as I was and equally as hard to hold on to. Home was just another thing to think about while I walked. It was a pipe dream as likely as hitting a winning lottery number. Fun to imagine, but nothing to get my hopes up about.

But perhaps home is less of a place and more of a feeling. It’s warmth and safety and the security of knowing there will be something to return to after you run. It’s the person who treats you like an equal, who takes care of you and allows you the honor of taking care of them. It’s the person who answers when you call for help.

“It’s a long drive,” Dryden says, easing the car through the green light. The rain drums lightly on the roof, a low staccato rhythm to accompany the blast of hot air blowing through the vents. When we hit another red light, he leans forward in his seat to slip off his jacket. I watch as he tosses it to the back and rolls up his sleeves. He’s probably burning up but, like usual, won’t adjust the temperature. Yet another revelation: home is a person who doesn’t fight you for the thermostat.

“And we probably have a lot to talk about,” I counter, smiling when his mouth twists into a small grimace. Yeah, I’m not particularly looking forward to it either.