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But now, I was a published author, with many thanks to Dylan. And maybe I wasn't an overnight success, but I was on the right path. I could feel it, and I was prouder of that than anything I'd done in my life thus far.
For the first time in my life, I felt I was someone worth knowing—and heknewme.
His number was the second-most used in my phone, and I considered him one of my greatest friends. He had seen me naked; he had been inside me. And still, nothing had filled me up more than the swelling of my heart when I was in his presence.
And that …
That was the biggest change of all.
“Ithasto be different,” I said, in a volume to match his, “when the man you once loved the idea of”—my breath tripped with the imperfect beating of my heart—”has become the man you actually love.”
My senses dulled to everything but Dylan and his hand clenched around mine. The music faded along with the muttering of his parents, and the outside world had all but disappeared. It was just us, alone in this moment of great affirmation. A moment I had dreamed of, a moment I was never destined to have with anyone but him, no matter how hard I'd tried.
“What about Peter?” he asked, and I was reminded that I never told him we'd broken up.
“Oh …” I worried my bottom lip for a second before I said, “We, uh, we broke up that night before you left.”
Momentarily taken aback, Dylan widened his eyes. “And you were just, what, gonna hide that from me forever?”
I shrugged and offered an apologetic grimace. “It didn't matter at the time. I was busy with the book, and you were on tour, so …”
He nodded, and then his lips quirked slowly into a lopsided smile as the calloused pad of his thumb began a slow circuit against the side of my hand. “Well,” he rasped before clearing his throat, “you know what this means, right?”
A little giddy, snorted laugh burst from my nose, and then I replied, “That my mom was wrong when she said there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell of me ever being with a famous rock star?”
His laugh was low, rumbling from his chest, as his smile broadened, and his gaze dropped to our conjoined hands. “Oh, she was definitely wrong about that,” he said, nodding. “But, no, that's not what I meant.”
“Then, what?”
His eyes lifted back to mine, full with a cocktail of possession and joy, as he replied, “There goes any hope of having a normal life.”
“Yeah, well”—I rolled my eyes to the ceiling of the car and lifted one hand in a nonchalant shrug—”we're not normal, so …”
“No, we're not,” he replied, gruff and choked. “But—”
We were jostled in the backseat, and the prosthetic between us fell against Dylan's left knee. Our surroundings came back into focus, and his attention was pulled out the window as his father took the ramp off the LIE.
“Sorry about that,” his father said apologetically. “Almost missed our exit.”
Recollection furrowed Dylan's brow while his thumb continued its soothing circle. “I didn’t even notice,” he muttered beneath his breath, sliding his gaze back to mine.
He could've been talking about his father's brush with forgetfulness. He could've been talking about the prosthetic leaning against his leg.
But I knew better, and a touch of pride tugged at my heart. Not just for him and his ability to travel down that damn road without succumbing completely to a blind panic, but for myself too.
I had been there for him, and I had helped. Was there any better feeling than knowing you could be there in such a prolific way for the person you loved more than anything?
“How you doin' back there, Dylan?” his father asked. “You okay?”
“Yeah, Dad,” he said almost absentmindedly as he lifted a hand to rest his palm against my cheek. “Believe it or not, I'm good.”
EPILOGUE
Dylan
“This is the last of it, man,” Simon said, hoisting the box from off his shoulder.
He dropped it unceremoniously into the middle of the room, as if there wasn’t already a neat stack of boxes mere feet from where he stood. I sighed, resisting the urge to narrow my eyes at my friend.
