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Rheumatoid arthritis. Medication reaction or side effect. Lyme disease. Acute sinusitis.
Lyme disease. That rings a bell.
I sit back in my chair. Isn’t that what Teo had? Caused by tick bites. From their garden. Could Dylan have gotten it too? He’s so strong physically he wouldn’t suffer as much, at least not at first—and knowing him, he’d probably attribute the symptoms to stress.
Of course, I saw no rash on his skin. Another check of the symptoms, though, tells me that there’s a pretty significant percentage of cases where patients do not display characteristic rashes.
Right.
And what—now you’re a secret agent and a doctor? Get a grip, Tessa.
Stress may well be the cause of Dylan’s symptoms. God knows it plays a number on many people. Or it could be the flu. Or just about anything else.
But what if it is Lyme disease?
I lean forward again and read on the long-term effects of the disease going untreated. It’s scary stuff. Arthritis. Meningitis. Facial paralysis. Heart problems.
Jesus. That’s it. I’m dragging Dylan to the doctor for a checkup, whether he wants it or not. I’m not a doctor, but only a doctor can reassure me there’s nothing seriously wrong with him.
In a hurry, I turn off the computer, grab my things and leave the office. The gym where Rafe works out isn’t far. I’ll just swing by before I head over to Audrey’s to shower and change, and then go convince Dylan to see a doctor. If money is a problem, I’ll have to call Mom and see how much I can withdraw from the account she set in my name, if needed. I wasn’t going to touch it, wanted to make it on my own, but this isn’t about me.
Not for me, I think as I cross the avenue and turn into a side street. For Dylan. I’d spend every penny in my name making sure Dylan is okay.
His words about fighting love and pretending it doesn’t exist come back to me as I spot the gym and head toward it. I try to imagine living in a home with a parent gone and the other sliding into depression because of love.
Isn’t my family the same? My mother, caught in a downward spiral over my father? All these years I saw it happening, right in front of my eyes. Only, she dealt with it differently. Dylan’s mom left, and his dad joined a cult. My mom clung to my father, ignoring the truth, until that perfect illusion shattered.
Am I clinging to Dylan the same way? Everyone seems to think so—my mom, my friends. But Dylan isn’t an illusion, a perfect ideal I cling to. God knows he has his faults and that he’s hurt me—but didn’t I hurt him, too? The more he flirted with other girls, the more boys I kissed. We hurt each other. And we need each other.
I recall all he revealed, after years of silence—why he broke up with me, why he thinks he shouldn’t love me, his doubts and fears. How he tried to turn off his love for me—and failed.
Maybe I’m not crazy after all, I think as I enter the gym. Because, while I’ve always had trouble believing any man wanted me, I believe Dylan does. And while I’ve always doubted my parents love me, I believe Dylan does.
I spot Rafe and head his way. The smell of pine from a cleaning product is strong in the air, overlaying that of sweat, and it makes me want to sneeze.
&n
bsp; Rafe is alone. I don’t see any of the other boys. He’s doing crunches on a machine, and wowza, the guy is ripped. I didn’t remember him so muscled. His chest is a work of art. His pecs bulge, and his abs form a sculpted eight-pack. Talk about a washboard stomach.
And all of it is covered in beautiful ink, skulls and wings, a scorpion and the requisite dragon all Inked Brotherhood members bear. Three names are inked on his side, on his ribs: a memorial to his dead family. On the other side, in big, black letters are written the words ‘mi ricordo.’
Meaning, ‘I remember.’
“Hey. What’s up?” I sit on the next crunch machine, and tear my gaze from his muscular chest. Work of art or not, I won’t be caught looking at a friend as if he’s eye-candy. “Going for the NPC competition or something?”
He frowns and says nothing.
A guy sweating on a bike across from us says, “He’s been training like the end of the world is coming.”
Rafe gives the man the finger. The man laughs.
But I don’t feel like laughing. On closer scrutiny, I see a bruise darkening one side of Rafe’s face. “Training for a fight?”
“For a war,” he says and then looks away, as if regretting his words.
“A war. Who are you at war with?”
He clamps his mouth shut and continues with the crunches. Sweat pours down his body. His muscles tremble. How long has he been at it?
