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I hoped I could know them forever too.
“I can't believe I'm talking to a real-life author,” Angela said to his father, her voice tight with an excitement so genuine that it brought tears to my eyes.
“It's very impressive,” Marty said in agreement.
“Well, I mean, it's notthatimpressive,” I replied, brushing the compliment away. “It's not like an overnight success or anything.”
Dylan shifted in his seat on the other side of the car and leaned closer, over the detached prosthetic propped up between us, until his shoulder brushed mine and the scent of cologne, sweat, and leather permeated the air around us.
“You know, one little post on Twitter, and I can change that for you,” he casually mentioned in a low, gruff voice.
“I would never expect that of you,” I replied quietly, meeting his eyes with a hard, affirming glare.
“I'm not saying you would,” he said as his hand traveled from his thigh to mine. The warmth of his palm searing through the fabric of my jeans reminded my body of what it was like to be touched by him. “I'm saying Iwantto.”
“You've already done enough.”
It wasn't just a line to convince him to drop the subject. He truly had. Just a few months ago, he had transferred ten thousand dollars to my bank account—double what I had asked for. He told me to put the rest toward advertising, the next book, or whatever I needed to kick-start my career as an independent author while I insisted that, one day, I'd pay him back.
But the gesture had been more than just a loan from a friend. It was a testament of his belief in me. An unspoken thank-you for my undying faith in him. It was the proof I'd needed to know that he truly cared, and regardless of how scared I'd been, he could never fully understand how much it had meant to me.
“Maybe, according to you,” Dylan replied, squeezing my thigh gently, “but, baby, I'm just getting started.”
Then, he winked as his lips lifted in a suggestive half-smile, and my body shivered beneath his touch. In the darkened car, lit only by the passing streetlamps and surrounding headlights, I could hardly see that tattooed hand, but I felt every inch of his palm and the pressure of his fingertips. The heat. The need. The months of desperate longing.
My thoughts were quick to plummet into a dirty abyss, reminiscing on the fervent passion that only seemed to come alive when we were together. All I could think was, if it wasn’t for his parents in the front seat, I didn’t think we would've made it to his house before I was clawing at his jeans.
But then the car turned a corner, and the hand on my thigh clenched tightly, tensing until his unyielding grip hurt. He was going to leave a mark, and I was about to protest when I looked at him and saw the firm set of his jaw and the heaviness of his chest rising and falling with every quivering breath. His wide eyes weren’t on me but beyond, looking toward the window as he swallowed repeatedly at the uprising of clear panic.
With a quick glance outside, I couldn't read the passing road signs, but I saw the telltale barrier wall, adorned with seagulls.
We were on the Long Island Expressway.
“Hey,” I whispered, folding my hand around his and gently removing his rigid fingers from my leg. “Dylan, look at me.”
He hesitated for a moment before his eyes flitted toward mine. He didn't say anything; he simply stared. Waiting for me to say something while his breathing quickened.
“Dylan?” Angela asked, turning in her seat. “You okay?”
Again, no response. He only stared. Pleading with frightened eyes.
“I wish I had seen you tonight,” I said, saying the first thing that popped into my mind to distract his from the traumatic turmoil. “You have no idea how much I wanted to be there.”
He swallowed again, then said in a raspy voice, “I think I have an idea.”
“I wanted to remember what it was like to see you perform,” I went on, moving my hand to interlace my fingers with his.
At the intimate contact, his eyes briefly dodged from mine to our interlocked hands, then back to my gaze. Holding and staring with a frantic plea and hope.
“But I also wanted to see if it had changed, you know? Like how listening to your music is different for me now, I wanted to see if seeing you live would be too. I mean, it has to be, right? Nobody can go through what we've been throughwithoutsomething changing.”
His Adam's apple bobbed with a hard, deep swallow as his breathing gradually slowed, stepping away from panic and into a more controlled territory. With my heartbeat blasting against my eardrums, my hand tightened around his, and he mimicked the gesture.
“What do you think would've changed?” he asked, whispering below the music from the car speakers.
There were a number of answers to that question. Many things were different now since I had last seen his band perform live—not including the obvious physical changes.
I had been nobody then, and I couldn't have imagined any reason why he'd ever want to know me.
