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With paper cups in hand, we had left the store. Peter had texted me, letting me know he was in the middle of a nail-biting Dungeons & Dragons campaign and he wouldn’t be picking me up for another couple of hours at least. It was an exciting and welcome turn of events, opening the night up to more possibilities.
As we drove aimlessly, Dylan asked, “So, you were a fan for a long time, right?”
I nodded, squinting outside toward Islip’s quaint Main Street. “About twenty years,” I said.
“So, since the beginning,” he accurately assessed, and I replied with another nod. “So, back when you were just a fan, what’s something you wished you could do but couldn’t because you didn’t know me?”
The question inspired a snorted laugh. “Well, I mean, we’ve already done that, so …” I quelled my laughter, making way for an awkward discomfort. One that said I would do it again, if I could, and my soul ached for a time when Peter hadn’t been in my life.
God, shame on me.
Dylan inhaled sharply, tensing behind the wheel as he cleared his throat. “Besides that,” he replied, voice gruff, like he hadn’t spoken in days.
“Um …” I chewed at my thumbnail, contemplating the question, then said, “Actually, I always wanted to see where you lived. It intrigued me that you were local and you didn’t grow up in the lap of luxury, so I guess I always felt you were relatable and”—I swallowed, acutely aware of what I was about to say and the irony of it—”normal.”
He glanced at me for a moment, and then as he turned his eyes on the road, he asked, “So, you wanna see my house?”
“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “I’d really like that.”
After a moment of consideration, he replied, “Sure, I guess we could do that. My parents are home though, so if you mind them being there …”
“No,” I said, all at once excited that I was going to see his home and also meet the people who had raised him. “I don’t mind at all.”
***
On a quiet dead-end street I’d passed a thousand times on the walk to and from Reade’s, we pulled up to a Cape Cod-style house with two front dormer windows and a beautiful garden in the yard.
It was about as normal as I’d thought it’d be.
It was perfect.
The stoop was decorated in potted flowers, every step bordered in two plants with full blooms. A summery wreath hung on the stained-glass door, and before Dylan could get his key out, an old man opened the door.
“Hey, everything okay?” the man asked before he could acknowledge my presence.
“Yeah, I’m good. Why do you ask?” Dylan replied, pulling his hand from his pocket to push the door open further.
“Well, you usually come through the garage, so I just—” His eyes looked over Dylan’s shoulder, landing on me. “Well, hello there.”
“Hi,” I said, offering a smile that I was sure edged toward maniacal.
It was nice, meeting someone who actually looked happy to meet me.
“Dad, this is Lennon,” Dylan introduced casually, walking past him and into the living room. “Lennon, this is my father, Marty Pierce.”
Marty extended a hand as I approached. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Lennon. Are your parents, by any chance, Beatles fans?”
I laughed, accepting his rough hand in mine. “What was your first clue?”
“Isn’t that funny?” he mused, a warm smile on his mustached face. “That really is something, isn’t it, Dylan?”
Confused by his reaction, I looked to Dylan as I shook his dad’s hand. Dylan could only shrug, and his dad scoffed before laying his other warm palm over my hand.
“Bob Dylan, whoourDylan is named after, wrote a song about John Lennon on his albumTempest. They had an odd relationship, those two, but it’s a great song. Very sad,” Marty explained before looking at his son with a teasing expression. “Just funny that Dylan would bring home a gal named Lennon.”
“Hilarious, Dad,” Dylan muttered, clapping a hand against his father’s back.
“Funny that you’d bring home a girl at all actually,” Marty commented quietly, looking at me a little more studiously now, as if trying to figure out what was so special about me.
