Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
SIERRA
DYLAN WAS RIGHT.
It brings me a great deal of pain to admit that. Simply thinking those words leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. After Ajay parked in front of Iona House last night, he asked me on a date.
I told him I needed to check my schedule, but even my subtle rejection left me tossing and turning.
I couldn’t figure out why I even rejected him, but deep, deep down, where the Mariana Trench probably is, I knew that spark of attraction that flared in my belly disappeared as soon as Dylan Donovan exited the car.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the hug, how gentle he was, his words whispered in my ear.
I don’t hug people. Every time it’s happened it’s been wholly unpleasant, but with him it didn’t feel that way. Not even a little bit.
I spent most of the night knitting. I felt myself spacing out, ping-ponging between the oversize Dalton Hockey hoodie drying on my desk chair and the memory of the heated look Dylan shot me before I sat in the passenger seat.
When I did finally fall asleep, I dreamed of him.
And for the first time since I moved into Iona House, I slept through the night.
“So, are you ever going to tell me what’s going on with you and Donovan, or should I guess?” Scarlett asks from her place on the floor when I step out of my room. “Because my guesses include rope, more rope, and a blindfold. Possibly a gag.”
I plop down next to her textbooks, clutching the purple gift bag in my hand. “None of that. But …” I can barely say it. “I kissed him.”
“Was it good? That’s rhetorical.” She’s not even remotely surprised, and I feel attacked. “What? It’s Dylan fucking Donovan, and you haven’t been with anyone in over a year. It was inevitable.”
“Hey! I’m not that touch deprived.” She gives me a look. “Fine, a little, but that was all that happened. We’re just partners.”
She snorts, eyeing my jacket. “And where are you going on Sunday night? A just-partners booty call? Do you have toys in the bag? Whips?”
“Yeah, everything I’d need for my sex dungeon,” I say flatly. “I just have a last-minute errand to run. Besides, I don’t even own a vibrator, Scar, you know that.”
“That’s gotta change. I think I’d go a little crazy if, on top of all that stress, I couldn’t get a proper release.”
“I’m doing fine. No need for releases here.” Except for the fact that I might start whistling like a pressure cooker any minute. Scarlett tells me to use protection when I walk out.
When I get to the hockey house, I’m fidgeting with the handle of the gift bag as I wait for someone to answer the door. The wind nips at my ears, and I hope it masks the way my body shakes from the dull feeling of anxiety.
Kian Ishida opens the door, and country music plays from a radio on the entry table. He tilts his head, assessing me carefully. “Sierra,” he says.
“You know my name?” I didn’t even think Dylan talked about me.
“Of course. We don’t get nearly as many girls at our door anymore.
The ones for the rest of us usually text rather than ringing the doorbell, and Dylan’s been awfully busy skating lately.
And since you’re here, dressed like that”—he takes in my tight black leggings and Dalton Athletics half-zip like they’re a clear giveaway—“it was only logical.”
“Well, then, Nancy Drew, can you get your friend? I need to give him something.”
His bright smile makes me give him one in return. “You know, if you ever want to talk about how irritating Dyl—”
He’s yanked away from the door, swinging it open wider to reveal an annoyed Dylan. When he sees me, his entire demeanor changes. He stands up straighter and steps forward as he closes the door, shutting us both in the darkness that shrouds the front porch.
“Hi,” I say, suddenly feeling exposed.
“Sorry about him,” he says, hitching a thumb to the door.
The porch lights flicker on, and I finally see Dylan’s face. It should be a crime to look this good at every hour of the day. His black T-shirt is tight, making his biceps the center of attention, and the gray sweats he’s wearing try to hypnotize me into looking down. I don’t.
“I wanted to give you this,” I say quickly, shoving the bag in his hand.
“What is it?”
“That would defeat the purpose of a gift bag, wouldn’t it?”
He watches me in amusement. “Never going to give it to me easy, are you?”
The comment isn’t intended as a jab, but it still cuts. I’ve never been easy, I was always reminded of that. Suddenly, I feel stupid for being here and barely getting the words out when I practiced them on the way here. Even when I’m trying, I come off as cold, and I don’t know how to fix it.
Dylan doesn’t take his eyes off me even as he takes the tissue out of the bag. He pulls out the red gloves and stares down at them for a long minute.
“Gloves,” he says.
“You never wear anything on the ice, so I thought you could use some.” I take a step back, feeling claustrophobic with him so close. “I guessed the size, so if they don’t fit, I can remake them.”
“Does someone care if I’m cold?” He coos, as if I’m a child giving my mom a shitty hand-painted photo frame on Mother’s Day.
“You know what? Forget it.” I try to snatch the red gloves, but Dylan grabs my hand. I glare up at him, and he smiles. It’s like staring at those bus stop ads for teeth-whitening strips.
Then he blinks like he’s just realized something. “Wait, wait, wait. Did you make these?”
I nod.
“With your hands?”
“No, with my feet,” I say dryly. “Yes, I knit them. It’s not a big deal.”
He stares at me like it’s a very big deal, and I want to snatch them back and pretend like this never happened.
Maybe incinerate them in a nearby tire fire, because Dylan’s whole face lights up into the cockiest smile I’ve ever seen him wear, and I close my eyes for a brief second, knowing that he’s going to fucking gloat about this.
“You knit me gloves.” He says it with a sort of awe that makes me feel patronized.
I look at anything but him. “You never wear them to practice, and I know how hard it gets to do all the lifts if your hands are frozen,” I explain.
“You care if my hands are cold.”
“Dylan—”
“You care about me.” He pulls the gloves onto his hands. “It’s a little creepy that you have my hand size memorized though.”
I hold back from rolling my eyes. “It’s pretty universal.”
“I’m sure.” He’s not even trying to stifle his chuckle. But I know behind that stupid smirk, he sees the gloves for what they are, an olive branch. “Do you have matching ones? We’ll be the cutest couple on the ice.”
“Can’t you just say thank you and not make this weird?” I mutter.
“No way. You knit me gloves and you think you’re going to get off easy?” he says. “Miss Rot in Hell but Do It With a Pair of Gloves So Your Hands Don’t Get Cold.”
Suddenly, a man dressed in a red Uncle Frank’s Pizza windbreaker walks up the steps and interrupts our conversation. “Pizza?”
Dylan looks confused, but he pulls out his wallet anyway and hands the man some cash.
The front door swings open again, and the bright light from inside makes me squint.
The rest of the team and their friends are in the living room.
There’s some reality show finale playing, and half the school has been obsessed, so there are watch parties across campus.
Scarlett went to part one of the finale last week at Porter’s when they did trivia and played the show on the big screen.
She invited me, but I opted out to spend extra time on the ice instead.
“Thanks, Jesse, you the man!” Kian shouts, clearly on a first-name basis with the pizza guy, as he relieves him of the weight of six boxes of pizza. The smell of pepperoni puffs around the patio. “You staying?” he asks me, and I falter.
Dylan’s expression gives away nothing. Does he want me to stay?
“I should get back,” I say, lacking conviction, but Kian doesn’t push.
“You sure?” Dylan asks just as a bout of laughs from inside steals my attention.
There’s a warmth that emanates from the house, and that’s the last thing I expected from a place that has frequent parties and sweaty grown men.
I spot a massive bulldog head, like one of those mascot costumes, sitting on the floor by the living room.
“Is that a bulldog costume?” I ask.
Dylan rubs the back of his neck. “Long story, but I can tell you all about it if you stay.”
“They’re your friends. I don’t want to impose.”
“Pretty sure you know some of them. Even if you don’t, you know me.” His smile is almost convincing. Almost.
I let myself imagine what it would be like to have a big group of friends like that.
With Scarlett I feel fulfilled, and we’re more sisters than we are friends, but sometimes I worry I’m holding her back from meeting more people.
I made an effort to go out with her this year, but I’ve never clicked with anyone the way I’ve seen Dylan and his friends behave. They’re a family.
But when you let people in, you let them see all of you. All the heavy, inadequate, complicated parts of you.
With that cold thought seeping into my bones, I step away from Dylan, not letting myself dwell on the way his smile falls.
“I’ll see you at practice,” I say.
“Hell no, Romanova.” Dylan places the gift bag by his feet and holds out his hand to me.
I blink at him, a confused laugh escaping. “What are you doing?”
“We’re dancing.”
I look around wondering if he’s lost his mind. Maybe those brawls are finally catching up with him. “On your porch?”
“Yup. If this is your way of calling a truce, I need to believe it.”
I furrow my brow, trying to make sense of him. “I literally made you gloves. It took me all night and this morning!”
“And I appreciate them, but I want more.”
My stomach dips. “Greed is a sin, Donovan.”
“Then you’re my temptation, Sierra,” he says. “Come here and dance with me.”
“I don’t dance.”
“You dance on the ice all the time.”
“I dance to win gold medals.”
“Will a gold star work? I’ve got two, I’ll put them anywhere you want.”
My unamused expression must convey my answer. I look at him, a beat of silence between us, and the pull in my chest grows stronger.
“Dance for you this time,” he says softly.
It’s a simple sentence, one that shouldn’t have my heart flipping on its side.
I take a tentative step closer. “There’s no music.”
Suddenly, a radio crackles, and “Wondering Why” by The Red Clay Strays plays. The window curtains move, and I spot black hair, and the radio is now by the open window.
The soft strum of the guitar grows steady, and this time instead of staring at his hand, I take it.
His smile is unforgettable. The way his warm hand completely engulfs mine; the effortless tug that pulls me flush against the solid planes of his body; and the crisp, intoxicating scent of him wrapping around me like the lyrics.
Dylan sways, with my hands on his shoulders and his pressing into my waist. He’s so effortless in his moves, so fluid, I melt into him like butter on hot toast. The song slows, and the lyrics of the chorus do nothing to drown out the way my heart beats against his.
Dylan pulls back, and his eyes roam my face with such tenderness that it almost physically hurts to stand here and let him look.
Dylan draws a featherlight path to my jaw, dusting his thumb over my lips.
I imagine how the tiny quirk of his lips would feel against mine.
He looks like he needs this, like I’m giving him something he’s never had before.
Then as the music feels louder in my ears, he wraps me in his big arms and leans in so his head is buried in the crook of my neck.
When he inhales, I can’t help but do it too.
We’re dancing on his porch, with the cold fall air not even touching us.
The hum of a guitar and a deep voice serenade us while we hold each other like we’re not two complicated people with bad luck.
Like we’re just two college kids, dancing on a porch.