Chapter 37
THIRTY-SEVEN
SIERRA
COLLEGE IS DREADFUL when lectures are three hours long and you spend them daydreaming about a six-foot-four hockey player.
Because Dylan Donovan’s dick is the nicest I’ve ever seen.
Not that I’ve seen many, but good God the man is beautiful.
Between Lake Placid and the locker room, my thoughts have been indecent this whole week of classes and practice. I think he’s rubbing off on me.
Despite all that, it’s the look he gave me the night he left my hotel room that hits me the hardest. I know that sex is different in college, and Dylan has had a ton of it.
From what I’ve gathered from Scarlett’s sleuthing, he’s never slept with the same girl twice.
For some reason, he’s letting me have more, but I refuse to make him regret it by letting my head get the better of me.
I’m inexperienced, not stupid. So, I promised myself I wouldn’t repeat what happened with Justin.
I could have fun, and I don’t need to put everything on the line for that.
My phone buzzes, and his name flashes on my screen as if he knows I’m thinking about him.
Dylan: Dale Thunderman is here.
Sierra: What?! How? He just posted that he’s storm chasing in Oklahoma.
Dylan: Jesus. I only said that so you’d come over. Do you actually follow him?
Sierra: Only for the scenic imagery.
Dylan: … he only posts himself.
Sierra: Exactly.
Dylan: Keep it in your pants, Romanova. The man is married. And if you want pictures, come over and you can take as many as you want of me.
Sierra: You already send me a shirtless picture every morning. I’ll pass.
Dylan: I’ll make you food.
Sierra: Fine.
Dylan already had sandwiches made by the time I got to the house. We had practice earlier, so the exhaustion is palpable between us. It got worse when Kian made us scroll through hundreds of kittens to help him choose the one he’s adopting. I think he’s lonely.
But once we got to Dylan’s room, he pulled me into his bathroom.
After my accident, I barely looked at myself in the mirror.
Now, he likes to watch me come undone in front of it.
In the shower, my back hits the tile, and he drops to his knees, kisses my scars, and whispers sweet words against my skin.
Goose bumps trail after his lips, and it feels like my body is rejoicing in the love I never give it.
I didn’t know it could get better, but with him my body sings, and I want to stay long after the water runs cold.
We exit the bathroom, and I can’t help but watch him. Dylan Donovan’s back is my undoing. The water droplets glide over his tan skin, tracing a slow path down his back until they disappear into the towel wrapped around his waist.
But my attention drifts as he pulls out a pair of shorts.
A lavender envelope slips from beneath the fabric, fluttering to the floor by his feet.
I slide off the bed, his oversize T-shirt brushing against my thighs as I crouch down to pick it up.
When I straighten, Dylan steps aside, his gaze following the letter now suspended between my fingers.
“You dropped this,” I say.
The relaxed expression on his face that settled there after our shower disappears completely. I want to retreat into the shower again to put the smile back on his face.
“What’s wrong?”
He cups my face and kisses the crown of my head. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
“Dylan.”
“It’s nothing, Sierra.”
“Then why do you look so upset?”
His thumb moves in a back-and-forth motion against my jawline. “It’s a letter from my mom. My dad gave it to me the day he came to visit. I haven’t opened it.”
That breaks my heart. I can feel his guilt when he talks about her. It hurts him to watch her be treated like that.
“You don’t care to know what she wrote? I’m sure it’s just everything she wants you to know before they have their ceremony.”
“I’m not going. There’s no point in reading it.” He moves to sit on his bed, still clutching the letter. “If I open this, I know I’m going to feel guilty enough that it’ll make me go to that hoax they’re throwing.”
“If you read this letter and you think you need to be there to support her, then that’s what you’ll do. Because despite anything anyone says, you’re a good son and a good person. Even if that means putting yourself first and not going. Either way, you have me right here with you.”
I sit beside him, watching the hard contours of his face fall into something softer. “Do you want me to read it?” I ask.
His throat bobs, and he hands the letter to me.
I pull the paper from the envelope and unfold it to reveal the neat cursive of his mom’s handwriting. There’s a faint smell of roses that floats away from the paper, and that’s when Dylan takes my empty hand and intertwines our fingers in his lap.
Then I read it aloud.
Kuzum,
I know it’s probably taken a lot of strength for you to even open this letter, and I want to thank you for giving me a chance, something I know I don’t deserve after what I’ve put you through.
Your father and I have been together since we were fifteen, and when you’ve spent more of your life with another person than you have alone, lines start to blur.
He’s done bad things, Dylan, but that still doesn’t make him a bad person.
I love him. I love you. You are both a part of my soul, and I can’t just break away a piece of it and continue living.
I may be naive for this, but he’s all I know, this life is all I know.
I still remember him as the man I married, and who I vowed to stand next to.
You may not understand this yet, but loving someone sometimes means loving all of them.
Every broken, frustrating, dark part of them.
Know that as much as I’d like for you to be present, I understand if you can’t be.
Love, Mama
Dylan blinks repeatedly, his eyes glistening as he fights to hold back tears.
The sight of his vulnerability tugs at something deep within me, and I let the letter slip from my fingers onto the bed.
Without hesitation, he reaches out, wrapping his arms around my waist to pull me into the space between his legs.
His head rests against my stomach, and I hold him tightly, as if it could somehow keep him from crumbling.
“I hate him,” he rasps, the words raw and frayed.
I run my fingers through his hair, offering the only comfort I can. “I know,” I whisper.
“I won’t go.” His voice is muffled against my T-shirt.
Somehow my hold on him grows tighter, like if I press hard enough, I can squeeze out all the pain in his voice. “You don’t have to,” I assure. “But I’ll be right there with you if you do.”
He lifts his head. “You’d go with me?”
“I’d go anywhere with you.”
Dylan’s eyes are drained of the light I’m so used to seeing. This isn’t the Dylan everyone thinks they know. It’s the one he keeps hidden behind closed doors and beneath the spray of water in his secluded shower.
“Will you stay here tonight?” he asks.
I run the pads of my thumbs over the tired lines under his eyes. “I wasn’t planning on leaving.”