16. Dylan #2
“You missed one hell of a night, man,” Kyle says, returning to the room.
Instead of beating a hasty retreat like I was just about to, I grab the controller I’d dropped and resume the game.
I don’t even care if Jax’s character is standing there, primed to die.
I need the distraction. I need to get myself under control.
I need to find wherever the hell my sanity ran off to so I can scream at it for letting me do something so reckless. So dangerous. So…fucking stupid.
Haven’t I learned from my past mistakes?
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Jax and Kyle’s conversation is white noise as I stare fixedly at the screen.
Focused solely on shooting zombies like it’s the only thing that matters right now.
That is until Kyle steps directly in front of me, blocking my view.
Frowning, I snap my gaze to him, barely noting the pointed sip he takes from a mug before I lean to the side to see around him.
My gaze snaps immediately back to him. “What are you doing?” I demand, my grip on the controller going slack and the game all but forgotten as I dart my gaze back and forth between the smug look on his punchable face and the mug in his hand.
The mug that is supposed to be on a shelf in my bedroom, along with all the others.
“What are you doing with that?” My voice is a little higher-pitched than usual. My heart beating just a little too fast—and not in the fun, exciting way it was a moment ago.
No, this is pure panic.
Fear.
Terror.
“This?” Kyle holds up the mug like he’s showing it off. “I found it. It’s nice, right?”
My breathing starts to change. “Why do you have my mug, Kyle?” There’s a firmness behind my words now, but he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
“What’s going on?” Jax interjects, looking between us in confusion.
“That’s my mug,” I tell him, not once taking my eyes off the bright yellow-and-orange mug with the words San Francisco and a painting of the Golden Gate Bridge. “I… Kyle’s not supposed to have it. I keep it in my room.”
“It’s just a mug,” he retorts, rolling his eyes like I’m being dramatic.
“You went into her room?” Jax accuses, sounding peeved as he glares at Kyle.
“It’s mine, Kyle,” I demand, getting to my feet and holding out my hand. “Give it back!” I just… I need it out of Kyle’s hands. I need to know it’s safe.
He smirks, fingers flexing around the handle, but he makes no move to hand it over.
“Just give her the mug, man,” Jax urges. “There are plenty of others in the kitchen.”
“Yeah, but I like this one.”
“I’m not playing. Hand it over!” I sound nearly hysterical now, and Kyle’s flash of victory lets me know I’m playing right into his hands, but I don’t care.
“Jesus, fine.” He rolls his eyes. “If you’re going to go all psycho, you can have it.”
He thrusts the mug out toward me, and I grasp for it, but just as my fingers brush the ceramic, he lets go.
I inhale sharply as the mug slips through my fingers.
Wide-eyed and with a silent scream, I watch as it seemingly falls in slow motion, hitting the edge of the coffee table with a dull thud before crashing to the floor… where it shatters into pieces.
For a moment, the world is still. I stare at the broken shards, my chest tight, unable to breathe.
“Oops. Butterfingers,” Kyle mocks with a sly grin.
Jax shoves him out of the room, his voice low and furious, but I don’t hear the words. I can’t hear anything. All I can do is stare at the broken remnants of the first mug my dad ever brought home.
The memories wash over me, consuming me.
“I’ve got a gift for you, Princess.”
The excitement I felt as my tiny little fingers wedged open the box before Dad helped me lift out the mug, warning me to be careful because it was breakable.
Breakable.
And now it’s broken.
I sink to my knees, tears streaming down my face as I reach for the scattered pieces with trembling hands, then hesitate, afraid to touch them. My chest feels like it’s caving in as a sob is wrenched from my throat.
It sounds ridiculous, but I feel as though I just lost another piece of him.
My mugs are all I have left of my dad, and now one of them is gone.
How long until none of them remain and all I’m left with are faded, distant memories?
Ones where I can’t recall the exact baritone of his laugh or shade of his eyes.
A hand brushes my shoulder, and I instinctively flinch away.
“It’s okay,” Jax murmurs, voice low and smooth as he lowers himself to the floor beside me—close, but not touching. “Kyle’s gone. It’s just us.”
I don’t look his way. I can’t. Can’t do anything but stare at the shattered remnants of my mug. Tears track silently down my cheeks, warm against skin gone numb.
Jax doesn’t speak. Doesn’t rush me. He just sits there, close enough for me to know he’s here, but still allowing me the space I need to process. The only sound is my sniffles, the occasional sob of devastation.
Eventually, his voice breaks the solemn silence, raw and pleading. “Please,” he rasps, like he can’t stand another moment of seeing me upset, “Just let me hold you.”
It’s the kindness in his tone that undoes me. The gentle way he asks. The quiet care in every word.
Still crying, I nod.
He exhales, then wraps me in his arms, slow and careful like he’s afraid I’ll shatter next. I fold into him, burying my face into his chest, and the sob that leaves me is sharp and broken. His fingers slide tenderly through my hair, his voice low and reassuring in my ear. “I’ve got you.”
Only when my tears have dried up, leaving a hollow vessel in his arms, does he speak. “Talk to me, Little Menace.” He pulls back so he can see my face, puffy and red from crying. “This wasn’t just any mug, was it?”
I shake my head, inhaling the hint of his aftershave. “No.” My voice cracks, and I press my hands against my face, trying to stifle the shuddering gasps that follow.
When I finally feel like I have myself under control, I lower them and meet his gaze. I’m sure I look like a complete mess, but Jax just swipes my tears away with the pad of his thumb, his eyes filled with nothing but concern.
“My dad gave it to me,” I confess, throat scratchy. “He used to travel a lot for work, and he’d always bring me a mug from whatever city he was in… It was our thing.”
“Used to?”
“He’s dead now,” I admit, the words hollow.
Jax releases a harsh breath. He doesn’t say anything; he just holds me tighter. I lean into him, my body shaking, and he doesn’t let go.
It hits me then, how long it’s been since I let someone hold me like this. Since I let myself fall apart. Even at the funeral, I had to keep my shit together—for Mom. I’ve never, not once, let myself give in to those emotions .
I’ve never had a shoulder to cry on. Someone to ease the burden. To share the load.
And now I’m buckling beneath the weight of it all.
I’ve been moving forward, pretending I’m fine when I’m anything but.
For what feels like a long time, we simply sit there. Jax doesn’t rush me, doesn’t tell me to pull myself together or stop crying. He just holds me, like he’s afraid I’ll break if he lets go.
Eventually, he shifts, rubbing a hand in slow circles along my back. “Come on,” he murmurs gently. “Let’s get you off the floor.”
I let him help me up, my legs shaky as he steadies me. He keeps his hand on my elbow as we move toward the stairs, guiding me up them and along the hallway to my room.
“The mug,” I start, not even wanting to say the words but knowing we can’t just leave it there. If one of the others comes in after too many drinks, they might hurt themselves.
“I’ll sort it out,” Jax promises as I lower myself onto the edge of the bed. “And I’ll bring you some tea.”
“Do we have hot chocolate?” I ask, feeling like a boulder has replaced my head as I lift it to meet his eyes. It did help after the party that night, so I’m hoping it will work its magic again.
“I’ll find some,” Jax declares, sounding like he’s about to go off on a mission. “You just get into bed, and I’ll bring it up.”
He turns toward the door.
“Jax,” I call when he’s standing on the threshold. He doesn’t look back, but he stops, waiting. “Thank you.”
His shoulders visibly drop, the dark hair on the back of his head bobbing before he ducks out the door.
When he returns, he’s carrying a steaming mug topped with cream and marshmallows. I blink at it, surprised. It’s possible there could have been a tin of hot chocolate powder buried at the back of a drawer, but there is no way we had marshmallows and cream in the house.
“Where did you find those?” I ask, giving him a skeptical look.
“The girls across the street.”
My eyebrows jump up my forehead, and I can’t look away from his face as I take the drink from his outstretched hand and bring it to my lips. “Mmm, delicious. Thank you.”
It tastes like heaven, and I sink back against my pillows as I sigh. Hot chocolate might not fix everything, but it helps. And so does the way Jax sits with me until I finally fall asleep.