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I wanted to protest, like I knew more than her. But I also knew better. I wasn't stupid, and it wouldn't surprise me if, days or months or even years down the road, the truth slipped out with a found receipt or a moment of unguarded honesty. But by that point, it would hardly matter. He'd know it had been innocent, that nothing had happened, and we'd move forward. Hell, maybe he'd even waive the restrictions he had against Dylan, and we could both be happy again.
I am happynow, I felt the need to remind myself.Peter makes me happy. We're good together. He's stable, he's normal, he's …
Then, all sequence of thoughts ceased to exist as the screen door opened, and in walked Dylan freakin’ Pierce, wearing his Foo Fighters T-shirt and a pair of dark jeans that hugged him in all the right places. He shook my father's hand, expressed his joy to see him again and the hope that everything was going well. It was the most talkative he'd ever been in the presence of my parents, the most personable. Dad noticed with a smile and happy replies.
Hell, even Mom stood from the couch to offer a hug and asked how he was.
“I gotta tell ya,” he replied, stuffing his hands into his jean pockets, looking more like a rock star now than he ever had in the time I'd known him, “I'm doing better than I've been in years.”
“Is that so?”
God, even his nod was cool.
“Life seemed to be working against me for a while there, and I really let it get the better of me,” he replied. “But I'm doing good now.”
She smiled at him, and for maybe the first time, it was genuine. “I'm really glad to hear that, Dylan. Good for you,” she said before turning to me. “So, where are you guys headed?”
I still couldn't find the ability to use my tongue as I watched him. He looked just like that rock star I’d loved years ago. Well put together and casually cool, in the way only he could be. After his accident, I had been afraid I’d never see that guy again, let alone in my presence, but there he was. Standing in my parents' living room and staring right back with a soft, hungry gaze that spoke more than his words ever could.
I never should’ve called him.
“Uh …” I cleared my throat and diverted my attention to the bag in my hand, rifling through like I needed something inside that second. “I think maybe we'll go to the bookstore.”
“That's a good idea,” Dylan replied. “I could use some books for the road.”
That got my attention. “Wait, you're still reading?” I asked, remembering we’d never gotten the chance to get him a book last time we were at Reade's.
I looked up to watch him nod.
“Turns out, I actually like it a lot,” he replied, lifting one side of his mouth in a smooth half-smile.
“See?” I said, already heading toward the door. “I knew I could change your mind.”
He muttered something beneath his breath, something I couldn't hear.
I looked over my shoulder and asked, “What was that?”
But he just shook his head and sniffed a small, melancholy laugh.
“Nothin',” he replied, reaching over my shoulder to push the door open. “You ready?”
As I looked up at him then—his bearded jaw and long, shaggy hair, standing in the doorway of my parents' house—it struck me, like a flash of lightning, how good and right this felt.Always good and right. It could be the remembering of an old tradition, similar to the way it felt to walk down the halls of your elementary school, but I had missed it. I missed how much I liked it, the excitement of being with him. The fun we had together—all of it. It had been denied to me for too long, and knowing it would be months before I would maybe see him again made me mad. I had wasted so much time, keeping Peter happy, keeping him from leaving, but what about my own happiness? When did that matter? And why did it take Dylan leaving for me to remember I had to think of me sometimes too?
But no amount of anger could grant me the power to hit rewind and get that time back. Right now, we had this night, however much of it we had, and it would have to be enough.
It could never be enough.
“Yeah,” I replied, nodding, “I'm ready.”
***
It was a perfect night.
A heavy paper bag, filled with books, rustled on the floor between my feet as the SUV rumbled down the street. My stance mirrored Dylan’s—one elbow on the center console, the other leaning against the window ledge. The radio blared as we drove—”Bullet” by Steel Train—while my arm brushed comfortably against his. The sun was setting behind us, the road ahead darkening beneath a layer of heavy clouds.
Dylan had asked me to pick out all my favorite books at the store to give him something to do on the road, and I had asked him to pick out a book for me, judging it only by the cover. It was a fun game, one that led me to being the proud owner ofSharp Objectsby Gillian Flynn while he left the store with the entire Odd Thomas series by Dean Koontz along withOutlanderby Diana Gabaldon andThe Lostby Jack Ketchum. It was an impressive bounty that I doubted he’d get through in a few months’ time, but he wanted them anyway.
“Just to have,” he’d said as he paid for everything, including my new paperback and vanilla chai.
