Wild Thing

42. Forty-Two

Forty-Two

DYLAN

T he airport lounge was quiet.

I sat on a two seater lounge in front of giant floor to ceiling windows that faced the runway.

It was late afternoon and the sun had just sunk beneath the horizon bringing to a close another hard day. I pursed my lips together and cooled my peppermint tea while I waited for Taylor to arrive.

I was finally on my way home.

My fingers gingerly touched the wound on my head. It was sore as hell. I winced, wondering for the hundredth time how everything had spiraled so out of control. I stared out at the airplanes taxiing on the tarmac, my thoughts swirling. My life had already been a giant clusterfuck before the Steven incident—now it was a raging dumpster fire. My career had a giant question mark over it, so did my self worth and moral compass.

What was left of it anyway.

And to think I thought I was fucked up before this trip.

I’d give anything to go back to the days when my biggest worry was my relationship status with Zack.

“Hey, girl,” Taylor said as she arrived, tossing her tote bag on the floor and lowering herself onto the lounge beside me. “How are you doing?”

Earlier, I'd called her and filled her in on everything that had unfolded the night before.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Numb, I guess.”

She gave me a pitying look. “How’s your head?”

“Sore as hell.”

“You might end up with a cute little Harry Potter scar,” she teased.

A small laugh escaped me. “I’m more of a dementor lately.”

She smiled sadly. “What's the update with Steven?”

An announcement paging a passenger blared over the speakers. I waited until it was over before I continued.

“He’s being charged with aggravated sexual assault. Obviously, he's been fired too.”

"God, I can't believe he did that to you. Fucking jerk."

I nodded in agreement, sighing. I didn’t want to talk about Steven anymore. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his dead ones.

Maybe it was a trauma response—I didn’t know. What I did know was something awful had nearly happened to me. Something that would have changed me forever.

But wasn't I already changed forever? I'm going to need a lot a therapy.

“Have you spoken to Zack?” Taylor asked, breaking my thoughts.

“Yep,” I said, shaking my head. “I called him to tell him what happened. The first thing out of his mouth was that I shouldn’t have been drinking with Steven, that I must had sent mixed signals.”

Taylor's jaw dropped open. "What the fuck?

"Doesn't surprise me.”

“Did you tell him about Brax yet?”

“No,” I said softly. “No, he doesn’t know.”

We fell into a comfortable silence, watching as a large passenger jet took off from the runway into the open, clear skies above.

“Dyl, are you okay?” Taylor asked eventually.

I shook my head. "No," I said flatly. “I’m a homewrecker. A whore. I was nearly raped. My career is in the bin. My life is falling apart…"

“Dylan, the assault wasn’t your fault.”

“Everything else is.”

“Steven didn’t attack you because you had an affair. He attacked you because he’s an opportunistic predator, a psychotic loser. It wouldn’t have mattered if you were having an affair or not. He saw a chance, and he took it. This wasn't the universe punishing you. C'mon girl, you're smarter than that.”

I appreciated her rationality—I really did. Maybe one day I’d agree. But right now, all I could think was that this was karma. There's no way this wasn't the universe's way of saying 'fuck around and find out'.

I just didn't think it was a coincidence the worst thing that had ever happened to me, took place in the middle of some of my worst behaviour.

“So, what’s the status with you and Brax?”

“It’s over.”

My eyes glazed over as I watched a young couple take a seat near the viewing platform. The man lightly stroked the back of the women's neck.

Fuck, everything reminded me of him.

Taylor shook her head and let out an exasperated sigh. This is the sound she made when she was getting sick of my shit.

"I love you, but you’re so frustrating.”

I frowned. “Why?”

“You’re always finding something wrong, or some way to leave or run away. You don’t tackle the hard stuff, which is a shame, because it’s only by going through the shit that you get to the good.”

“That’s not true.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Taylor, now is not the time to be cryptic.”

“Listen,” she said, her tone shifting to something firmer. “Here’s some tough love and hard truths. You’re a runner. Out of you and Brax, you are the runner. And it’s because you’re scared. You’ve convinced yourself that you don’t deserve happiness or that depriving yourself of a happy relationship makes life more exciting. But you know what I think? You’re a little girl, Dylan. You make impulsive decisions because you’re addicted to the drama. You haven’t loved Zack for a while, but instead of ending it, you ran into the arms of your ex. You complicated everything when you didn’t have to. And now, you’re about to run from the man you just spent the past week running towards.”

Her words stung—truth has a way of doing that.

“He was engaged, Taylor.” I finally said.

“Yeah, but now he isn’t. That has to mean something, right?”

“I just feel like I’ve really fucked up this time.”

“Maybe if you’d let that ten-foot wall of yours down and compromised, you’d find that life isn’t so bad after all.”

The intercom roared to life again calling for all passengers on Flight 168 to make their way to their departure gate. It was my flight.

I stood, shrugged my bag over my shoulder and pulled the handle up on my carry-on.

Goodbyes sucked.

Taylor stood and draped her arm over my shoulders. “You need to do some soul-searching, my girl," she said, pulling me close. "If everything turns to shit at home and you need to get away, you know you always have a place to stay with me, right?”

I nodded, leaning into her. “Thanks, Tay.”

"Call me when you get home.”

We hugged goodbye and I made my way to the departure gate. I wheeled my carry-on throughout the terminal and thought about what Taylor said.

She was right. I had a talent for overcomplicating my life. I wanted to unfuck it, but wasn't sure if it was possible.

First, I'd need to work on myself.

It had only taken me one week to become someone I hated. I wanted to peel the skin from my bones, that's how much I loathed myself.

My mind had become a dangerous neighborhood, and I hated wandering it alone.

I promised myself right then and there that I would get the help I needed.

But first, I had to go home and face the Zack-shaped music.