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She knew about his accident. She had to remember the tears I’d shed, the worry I had felt in those days of waiting for the band to release any news regarding his condition. How she could bring it up now, to his face no less, was an embarrassment.
“I'm the last guy you gotta worry about that with,” he replied, stiff and chilled.
“Oh! Oh God,” Mom said, and I bet she was blushing with humiliation. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean—”
“It's cool,” he interrupted with haste. “Come on, Lennon. Let's roll.”
I closed the door behind me, and we walked together from the porch and to the car. He made sure to open my door first, like a gentleman, and I thanked him with a forced smile, still too appalled by my mother's forgetfulness.
“I'm sorry she said that,” I quickly said the moment we were both seated and buckled up.
“Lennon,” he said before inhaling deeply, “The Guitarists Gazetteliterally called me a washed-up cripple a few months back, okay? Your mom forgetting about my fucked up leg for a couple of seconds isn't going to hurt my feelings.”
My eyes misted with empathic hurt, and for the first time since we had met, I wanted to tell him everything there was to know about me. About my eyes and how my own family sometimes forgot. About my life and that I'd received the same type of hurtful comments from strangers and family and friends. I wanted him to know all the things I was afraid for him to know, fearing that he'd suddenly not want to see me anymore. For the first time, I thought that maybe, just maybe, he'd understand that we were on a more level playing field than we’d initially thought.
But before I could say anything, the reminder that he thought I wassomebodycame to mind. How would he take it when he realized I was quite literally nobody? How would this night be different when all I really wanted was to go to a wedding and have a nice time with this devilishly delicious man on my arm?
“I'm sorry,” I repeated, biting back everything else. Everything that truly mattered.
“I don't want your pity.”
“You don't have it,” I replied with a clipped laugh, as I thought,And I don't want yours either.
***
“So, how do you know these people again?” Dylan asked, as the parking attendant drove off with his car.
“I've known Cassie since middle school,” I informed him, smoothing the dress down over my thighs. “And Steven was this guy I had a crush on in Science for, like, two years in high school.”
His brows lifted at the mention of my innocent thing for a skater boy in high school. “A crush, huh? Am I gonna have to beat him with my leg?”
My laugh erupted and echoed beneath the brick carport as I shook my head. “Oh God, no. I mean, never mind he's getting married, but he got so …” I squinted my eyes, searching for the right word.
“Fat?”
“No,” I said with a snort, pulling a compact out of my clutch to check my lipstick. “Um …”
“Smelly?” Dylan wrinkled his nose.
“You're an idiot.” I laughed easily, running my black-enameled nail along the edge of my bottom lip. “No. He just … changed, I guess. He's still a nice guy, but he's not my type anymore.”
“And what exactlyisyour type, Lennon?” he asked, slipping an arm around my waist.
I turned from my reflection to glance at his eyes, and then he curled his lips into a salacious, smoldering smile. My heart tripped over itself at the sudden re-realization that this man was here, with me, and I still couldn't understand why.
“If you still have to ask,” I replied, wetting my lips with the tip of my tongue, “then I'm not sure you'll ever know.”
“Maybe my ego needs a little stroking,” he said, lifting a brow and broadening his grin.
“Oh, Dylan.” I scoffed, snapping the compact shut and slipping it in my bag. I took his hand, interlacing our fingers and swooning at how nicely they fit together. “You and I both know your ego will be getting stroked.”
He chuckled, then cleared his throat as the parking attendant returned to his station. “We’d better get in before we're late,” he said, leading me inside.
Past the heavy glass doors, the light from sparkling chandeliers overhead bounced off the pale-colored marble floor. I stiffened as what little clarity I had was washed out, blinded by the overall brightness of the room. My hand clenched tighter around Dylan's, halting him from leading me farther toward what looked like stairs ahead, and he glanced over his shoulder.
“What's wrong?” he asked, concern heavy in his voice.
“It's really bright in here,” I told him, knowing how little that would mean to someone unaware of my condition. “I'm really sensitive—”
