Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
Predictably, brunch had turned into a complete clusterfuck.
Dylan had tried to get them to go out of town, maybe call a Lyft and head to a nice little roadside diner off the interstate, frequented by truckers too tired to notice Jack and Carrie in all their glory. But no, they’d barely turned onto Lake Street when Carrie spotted Pierce Apothecary, a nice restaurant that did brunch every day in the summer until three p.m.
So now here Dylan was, sipping on Bellinis while every single eye in the place stared at them, along with a constant stream of patrons stopping by and telling Jack and Carrie how much they loved their music and how Citrine —Evenflow’s debut album, which rocketed the band to fame in the early nineties—changed their life or saved their life or made their life worth living or some shit.
Then they had to fawn over Carrie next, who of course came second after the Jack Monroe, and people always had to mention something about how hard it must’ve been raising a child back then, and how lovely Dylan turned out, and Dylan wanted to scream Fuck you at the top of her lungs, both for Carrie’s sake for always being seen as a mother first and a serious musician in her own right second, and for the fact that it had been so hard to raise a child back then her parents essentially didn’t , and Dylan hadn’t turned out lovely at all.
She’d turned out a complete dumpster fire who had to literally sink her teeth into her lower lip to keep from cussing out her parents’ adoring fans in the middle of a small New Hampshire town.
Add all this together with leaving Ramona in her bed and not knowing Ramona’s number so she could text her from her mom’s phone, and it amounted to Dylan polishing off an entire bottle of prosecco—very little peach juice added—all by her lonesome.
“Maybe you should slow down, darling,” Carrie said during a rare lull between adoring fans.
“Slow what down?” Dylan said, topping off her glass with the last of the wine. Her head was already fuzzy, and she knew, way back in the tiny corners of her brain, that her mother was probably right, that she didn’t make the best decisions when intoxicated, but the numbness felt goddamn great right now, and if she didn’t embrace it, she’d feel way too much and probably end up on top of the table shooting finger guns with her middle finger at the entire town of Clover Lake anyway.
She was a mess sober, and she was a mess drunk.
How lovely she’d turned out indeed.
“So, Dill Pickle,” Jack said, shaking some hot sauce onto his now-cold egg white omelet. “Tell us how the film is going.”
“Oh, swell,” she said, letting the wine’s bubbles pop down her throat. “Just swell.”
“How’s Blair?” Carrie asked, tearing into a piece of bacon with her teeth. “She’s so beautiful, that girl.”
“That she is,” Jack said. “We always thought you might end up with her, the way you two danced around each other during Spell Locked .”
“Spell what?” Dylan asked.
“Spell Bent , sweetheart,” Carrie said.
“Sure, that’s what I said,” Jack said, then winked at Dylan, who decided not to correct her parents on either of their completely wrong points. Not like she’d spent six whole years on Spellbound or anything. No big deal.
The server put down another bottle, which Dylan immediately tipped into her glass, sans any peach juice this time.
“Dill,” her mother warned. Her mother, who’d learned her lessons the hard way and who only ever drank club soda with blood orange slices and coconut water.
“I’m fine ,” Dylan said.
“Oh my god, Jack and Carrie,” a voice said.
Dylan looked up, recognized the woman standing at their table with her phone in her hands, coppery hair and too much eyeliner.
“Hey there,” Jack said jovially.
“Penny,” the woman said, sticking out her hand. “I write a small blog called Penny for Your Thoughts here in Clover Lake.”
“Oh, how adorable,” Carrie said.
“Thank you!” Penny said. “We’ve so enjoyed having Dylan in town. She’s very exciting and we just love her and Ramona together.”
“Yes, Ramona ,” Carrie said. “Tell us more about her. Dylan is very mum about the whole thing.”
“Mother,” Dylan said, teeth clenched.
“I have some pictures here!” Penny said, swiping up on her phone.
“What?” Dylan said. “I don’t think that’s—”
“Lovely,” Carrie said, angling to see now, as though Dylan weren’t even there. As though she’d disappeared, nothing but Jack and Carrie’s daughter now. Nameless and invisible, just some tiny girl falling asleep on an open box of half-eaten pizza.
“Goodness, our daughter is gorgeous, Jack,” Carrie said.
“She is that.”
“And this Ramona!” Carrie said, tilting her head and slipping on her reading glasses to look closer at Penny’s phone. “Not your usual type, but she’s really love—”
“That’s fucking enough!”
A yell.
A bit slurry, but still, the volume was there, the scratch in Dylan’s throat evidence that she’d said it out loud, not just in her head.
And this time, it was enough to make her parents stop.
“Dylan,” Carrie said. “You’re being very rude.”
“Oh, I’m being rude?” Dylan said, then stood up. The room spun, and then spun a little more. Dammit, she loved bubbles, but they did not love her. Ever. “I think you’ve got that backward, Mother.”
Carrie frowned, sent a confused look to Jack, a pause in their constant and dizzying combo of fawning all over Dylan and ignoring her completely. The silence was long enough for Dylan to realize just how silent it was—the entire restaurant quiet and staring at the family with interest, tiny holy shit smiles on their faces, cameras out.
Always the fucking cameras.
“Goddammit,” Dylan said, just as loud. Her mouth felt dry, her head already ached. She pushed her chair back so she could dig herself out of the seat by the window she’d been stuffed into when they’d arrived. The chair felt extremely heavy, and she fumbled with it enough that she fell against the window, her shoulder pressing into the cool glass.
She cursed, then lifted the chair into the air and above her mother’s head as she stumbled-tripped around the table.
“Dylan!” Jack said sternly, standing up too.
The restaurant patrons gasped.
Phones were everywhere.
In the back of her fuzzy brain, Dylan knew this was all wrong, very wrong, so wrong she’d hate herself in about six hours’ time, if not before, but right now, it felt like the only thing she could do. She had to get out from behind the table, had to get out of this restaurant, and this was the only way to do it.
Simple as that.
“I just need some air,” she said.
Or maybe yelled.
She couldn’t quite tell. Didn’t care.
“Sweetheart,” Carrie said. She was standing too. Following Dylan as she headed toward the front door, dragging the chair behind her.
“Don’t call me that,” Dylan said, hand on the heavy oak door.
“What?”
Dylan paused, turned around. “I’m not your sweetheart, Carrie. I’m not your perfect little daughter and I’m not swell and the show I played a lead on for six years is called Spellbound . Spell. Bound .”
Carrie blinked at her, hurt filling her expression.
“No,” Dylan said, leaning against the door with her back, then pointing at Carrie’s face, the same ice-green eyes as Dylan’s tearing up. “You don’t get to look like that. You don’t get to look all—”
But she never got to finish her sentence, because the door flung open then, someone out on the street trying to get in, and Dylan went flying backward as all her weight had been resting against the solid wood. She stumbled, tried to catch herself, but she also had a chair in tow, and she ended up hitting the pavement hard, her ass first, but then she felt the skin of her elbows scrape, the chair landing perfectly upright and in a way that caged her in.
And that’s when it hit her.
It was official—she’d truly gone and lost it, Killin’ Dylan done in by a cute girl, great sex, and brunch with her too-famous parents. She felt her eyes fill up as she stared into the blue summer sky. She didn’t want to move. Wasn’t sure it was even worth it.
“Oh, honey,” she heard Carrie say, disappointment lacing her mother’s voice.
And then, another voice.
“Dylan?”
A face, replacing the cerulean sky, freckled and beautiful and perfect.
“Ramona,” Dylan managed to say. It wasn’t a question. A lament, maybe.
“God, are you okay?” Ramona bent down, her hands going to Dylan’s face—cradling it, really. “Did you hit your head?”
“That was a spectacular fall,” someone said. April maybe. Though when Dylan angled her neck to see, there was a third person there she’d never seen before. At least she didn’t think she had. Head full of dark curls, large black boots, definitely queer. A half-bored, half-curious expression on their face as they looked down at Dylan.
Maybe Dylan had hit her head. And if she didn’t, perhaps she needed to. Because she was lying on the sidewalk underneath a chair, drunk off her ass and wishing for a meteor to land on her right the hell now.
Except a meteor would also hit Ramona, and she liked Ramona.
“God, I like you,” she said, lifting her hand to touch Ramona’s face. “So much.”
“She’s drunk,” someone else said. Definitely April this time.
“Dylan, my darling,” her mother said, though there was no warmth in the term of endearment. “Why can we never have a simple conversation when you’re upset?”
“Holy shit,” April said. “I didn’t see you there. Carrie Page. You’re Carrie Page.”
“There she is. The Carrie Page,” Dylan slurred. “Jack’s around here somewhere too, so don’t worry about me. Nope. I’ll just lie here in the middle of the street while you all lose your fucking minds over the two worst parents on the planet.”
A beat of silence.
Long enough for Dylan to wonder if she’d said that out loud, and fuck, the silence must mean she had. She wasn’t sure she’d even meant to, but there it was. The truth. Fine. Great. Let it fly.
“Help me get her up,” Ramona said.
“Not sure that’s wise,” said Curls.
“We can’t leave her here,” Ramona said, picking up the chair and handing it off to someone.
“Sure you can,” Dylan said, but Ramona was already hefting her upright, hands under Dylan’s arms. The world tilted, as did Dylan’s stomach, her brain, everything.
“I got you,” Ramona said, circling one arm around Dylan’s waist and looping one of Dylan’s own arms around her shoulder.
“Mona, you can’t walk with her like that all the way back to your house,” April said.
“We’ll call you a car,” Carrie said flatly.
“No,” Dylan said. Her head felt so heavy. “Wanna walk, fresh air.”
“Bad idea,” Curls said.
“Dylan, for god’s sake.” This from Jack, who’d just come outside with his hands on his hips.
Her father . Authority figure and everyone’s hero. Oh, wait, formative hero. Can’t forget how formative he’d been for everyone.
“You’re being extremely rude and hurtful,” he said firmly.
“Oh,” Dylan said, squinting at her dad. She thought she might be getting drunker by the second. “Did I say that out loud too?”
“Uh, yeah,” April said. “Awks.”
“Super awks,” Dylan said, then shot a finger gun at April.
“We really need to get her somewhere safe,” Ramona said, still holding tight to Dylan.
“Oh, oh, Mom and Dad,” Dylan said. “This is Ramona. Isn’t she pretty?” Dylan leaned her head against Ramona’s.
Carrie pressed her mouth together. “You need to get to bed. And drink some water, take some ibuprofen.”
“Second that,” Curls said.
“They’re a doctor,” April said, motioning to Curls. “Dylan’s in good hands.”
“Righto,” Dylan said. More finger guns. God, she couldn’t stop shooting finger guns at everyone. Her mother was right. She needed to be put away, hidden, the shameful only daughter of icons.
“My car isn’t too far,” Curls said. “Left it downtown last night.”
“Perfect,” Ramona said. “Thanks, Leigh.”
“Fine,” Carrie said. “Thank you all, so much. Dylan, we’ll call you later.”
“Oh, can’t wait for that,” Dylan said, sans finger guns this time, because she was very suddenly and very violently not feeling awesome. Her stomach crawled everywhere, jittering up her throat and then into her arms, fingertips, then back again. She felt herself swinging away from Ramona, stumbling down the cobbled sidewalk as people watched. Or, rather, as they watched through their phones, cameras recording.
Laurel was going to kill her. Rayna was also going to kill her, then find a witch to resurrect her just so she could kill her again. Gia, god, who the fuck knew what Gia would do? Fire her, probably. Fuck. She was a mess. Made terrible decisions. How did she always make such terrible decisions?
“I think she’s going to puke,” Curls said.
“Am not,” Dylan said.
“Do it now, rather than in my car, please.”
“Am not ,” Dylan said again, but then she froze on the curb, pressed a hand to her stomach. And as it turned out, Curls was right.