23. Dylan
twenty-three
Dylan
Izzy’s Family Games Night-turned-Izzy’s Living Room Spectacular takes place in front of the wide crackling fireplace in the Davenport living room. Like a true star, she keeps us waiting for fifteen minutes past the designated start time, the entire family squished onto sofas and armchairs rearranged to face the makeshift stage, flicking through the programs that Poppy designed, printed, and photocopied for the occasion, eyes darting toward the stairs every few minutes as we wait for Isobel Jacqueline Davenport to make her entrance.
“I’m so excited,” Violet, my brother’s girlfriend, whispers beside me. And though it’s not in her nature to be sarcastic, I glance at her to check she’s not pulling my leg. She’s not. A flush of anticipation paints her cheekbones, and she sticks her nose in the program again like she’s about to witness a world-class opera and not my little girl’s thirty-minute one-woman show. “I’ve missed Izzy these last few months. I can’t wait to see what she can do.”
On Violet’s other side, Chord scowls to hide the fact he wants to smile like it’s a secret my hockey-legend big brother is smitten with the woman who used to be his personal assistant. He sets a hand on her knee, and though Violet’s wide eyes remain on the page in front of her, her cheeks bloom brighter.
“Thanks, Vi,” I tell her. “I appreciate you guys driving in from San Francisco for this, and so does Izzy. She’s pumped to have all her family here for this.”
“Oh, it’s our pleasure. And thank you for inviting my dad too.” Violet nods where her father, Luke, is chatting with Charlie and Daisy on the other side of the room. “He’s so happy here at Silver Leaf, and we both appreciate you including him on nights like this.”
When Violet moved onto the ranch last summer to be Chord’s live-in assistant, she worried about her dad living alone in their city apartment because he struggled with depression. But then Chord found out, so he drove back to San Francisco, told Luke he was moving onto the ranch to be closer to his daughter, then set him up with a job so he could stay on even after Violet moved out to live with Chord in the city. He’s a good guy. Hardworking, easy-going, and always makes time for Izzy when she’s flitting around the ranch with Poppy or Daisy.
“Always happy to have Luke around,” I say. “We like him, so it isn’t hard.”
Violet smiles. “That’s very kind.”
“We wouldn’t have missed tonight for the world,” Chord adds. “Plus, I’ve got a trunk load of presents for her. She told me she needs more stuffies.”
Chord snorts at my horror, and I drag a hand down my face with an exhausted groan, thinking about the overloaded style of Izzy’s bedroom. I can barely walk in there without tripping over a fucking stuffed toy. “Come on, bro. She doesn’t need more shit—”
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Poppy announces from the bottom of the stairs. “Please take your seats. The show is about to start.”
It’s not often Poppy enters a room without me noticing these days, so the effect of her appearing when I’m not expecting it kicks my heart right up into my throat. In her torn blue jeans and white ankle boots, red-blonde crown of braids and cherry-painted lips, and a knitted yellow sweater that somehow manages to swamp her curves and cling to them at the same time, she does more to warm this room than the blaze burning in the hearth.
Poppy is careful not to let her gaze linger on me as she crosses the room to take a seat wedged between Daisy and Charlie, but I don’t miss the sultry tilt to her mouth—or the faint weariness around her eyes. We spend more nights out of our own beds than in them, but whenever I think about my five a.m. wake-up calls, the old exhaustion doesn’t last long. I don’t need more sleep. I need more Poppy.
Izzy descends the stairs with the kind of confidence I wish she had always, her plump cheeks rosy and her smile excited, wearing her favorite pink tutu, her new brown cowboy boots, a denim shirt, and the cat’s-ears headband Poppy bought her weeks ago. Beside her is Ethan, a shy blond boy with dimples and a lilting Irish accent, who Izzy tells us is her new best friend. Izzy leads him to stand in front of the fire as we welcome them with raucous applause.
For the first item, Izzy pulls out her trumpet while Ethan and hulking Uncle Finn back her up on their six-strings. As Izzy squeaks and squeals her way to the end of a never-ending three-song set, I throw out a round of silent thankyous for every tortured wince that somehow morphed into a rapturous smile.
Izzy shows off her new soccer skills next. Ethan blocks a plastic goal on the far side of the room as Izzy dribbles her miniature ball around the furniture, kicking at the net until she finally scores. This is followed by a Spanish poem that she recites from memory, and Ethan translates in live time beside her. And as Izzy gives us an earnest interpretation of every ballet move she knows so far, Ethan reads in a quiet voice from a piece of paper that names and explains every plie , jetes , sautés , and chasse .
My family and friends are freaking saints for the full twenty-six minutes, responding with oohs and aahs in all the right places, holding up their phones to record every moment, clapping and whooping at the end of each demonstration like they’re at one of Chord’s hockey games instead of our drab old living room.
Until finally, the kids dash into the kitchen with Poppy hot on their heels, the three of them reappearing with plates of the no-bake chocolate squares Izzy and I whipped up as her grand finale. As they circle the room to offer everyone a piece, Poppy clucks like a proud mother hen to make sure everyone knows that the wonky, glossy blue-and-yellow plates that Izzy and Ethan balance on their careful upturned palms are products of Izzy’s ceramics class.
It’s hard to take my eyes off Poppy as she shepherds the kids from person to person, gently encouraging Izzy to explain how she made the plates and the dessert and resting a reassuring hand on Ethan’s slender shoulder so he doesn’t feel uncomfortable or alone. She’s bubbly and friendly, leaving everyone with a smile as she bounces from conversation to conversation.
And I don’t know why it’s this moment that hits me harder than the hundreds of others that have occurred over the last six weeks, but I suddenly can’t breathe. All I want to do is close the distance between us, gather her in my arms, and kiss her stupid so the whole world knows what she means to me.
About half an hour after the show ends while we’re all licking melted chocolate off our fingers, Ethan’s mom arrives to collect him. I’m making parental-brand small talk as everyone moves into the kitchen for coffee, leaving the living room empty. Or so I assume, until I wave at Ethan’s car as it disappears down the driveway, close the front door, and turn around.
The fire has died a little, someone has turned down the lights, and Poppy sits with her back to me on the edge of the sofa, tucking Izzy into a makeshift bed. There’s a cushion under her head and a knitted blanket tucked up under her chin; her cowboy boots and tutu are tossed onto the floor, and her bunny is secure under one arm. The picture is so perfect that I move back into the hallway so I can watch without being seen.
“You did so well tonight,” Poppy murmurs. Her gentle hand brushes the hair back from Izzy’s forehead, and the maternal touch has Izzy’s eyes drooping closed. “Your daddy and I are so proud of you.”
The way she says it like she and I are something —a team—cuts behind my ribs, and my mouth turns dry.
“Poppy?” Izzy mumbles, her voice soft with sleep.
“Yes, Little Bee?”
The cut in my chest opens a little wider at the way Poppy uses my nickname for Izzy. I don’t remember telling her, but somehow Poppy knows the story behind it—that I called Izzy my busy little bee because since she was born, she’s buzzed from one colorful thought to another, collecting answers and talents and laughs and memories—and it puts a lump in my throat.
“I love you,” Izzy confesses with a sigh, and the lump damn near strangles me.
I stay long enough to see Poppy drop her forehead onto Izzy’s and murmur back, “I love you too, kiddo.”
As Poppy gives Izzy one last hug before she moves into the kitchen, I retreat into the shadows of the hallway, needing a minute to steady my racing heart. And I stay there until I know I can join everyone else without looking like I’ve been hit by a runaway train.
Not hit. Picked up and whisked away so far and fast that my head is spinning, and I can’t catch my breath, and I don’t know my way back.
I was supposed to shield Izzy from more pain, not let her get so close to Poppy that she’d fall apart when she lost her. And here Izzy is telling Poppy that she loves her. It was my job to protect her and guard her heart. Guard both our hearts. And I’ve failed on both counts.
By the time I wander into the kitchen, I’m more in control. I help myself to a mug of the hot cocoa simmering on the stove, skip the marshmallows, and take a seat at the table where everyone’s already nursing their own drinks with cold hands wrapped around warm mugs. I do the same, sipping the milk to soothe myself, and weirdly enough, it helps. A little.
It’s been a long time since so many chairs around our dining table were occupied like this. Poppy sits between Finn and Daisy, cocoa in her hand and an ease in her energy, and it’s obvious that she belongs here. At this table. In the family. With us. With me.
The conversation is upbeat but hushed, everyone knowing without my having to say it that Izzy is asleep close by. It’s little things like this that remind me Izzy has more than me in her life, and for a moment, I try to convince myself that her loving Poppy is no different from her loving Charlie or Finn. But it’s impossible to believe with this sense of vulnerability heavy in my chest.
“Hey, Vi.” Daisy sets her elbows on the table, hands wrapped around her mug, and leans toward our brother’s girlfriend. There’s an excited curve to Daisy’s lips and her eyes sparkle with the gleam of gossip. “Is it true?”
Daisy’s question is followed by a lull in the conversation, and Violet flushes pink at the attention. “Is what true?”
“That you’re designing Rosalie Thorne’s wedding dress?”
Finn launches into a coughing fit, fist thumping his chest as he sets down his mug.
Poppy hands him a napkin. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Fine. Thanks.” Finn wipes his mouth and clears his throat one more time. “Cocoa was a little hot.”
“Rosalie Thorne?” I ask. “ The Rosalie Thorne?”
“Yes,” Daisy confirms. “ The Rosalie Thorne. There’s a rumor on social media that our very own Violet here has been hired to design Rosalie’s dress for her wedding in the fall.”
“So…” Poppy mirrors Daisy’s eager posture and leans into the table. “What’s she like?”
“I’m not supposed to talk about it,” Violet says quietly.
“Oh, come on.” Daisy wiggles her eyebrows. “We won’t tell anyone. Is she as pretty in real life as she looks in her photos? When’s her new album coming out?”
“Daisy.” Violet drops her chin with an apologetic smile. “I’ve signed an NDA.”
“Ha!” Daisy nods with triumph. “So, she did hire you.”
Violet says nothing as she picks up her cocoa, but she does throw Daisy a little wink.
“So, I’ve got a game in San Francisco next weekend,” Chord says in a tone that tells us it’s time to change the subject. “And the Fury is hosting a fundraiser event for community youth hockey—our annual alumni hockey game Saturday afternoon followed by a silent auction that night. I’ve got tickets for everyone.”
Charlie’s the first one to protest. Of course. “Chord—”
“Nope.” Chord holds up his palm to shut her up. “This is a big weekend for the Fury, which means it’s a big weekend for Silver Leaf Ranch. You need to be there, Charlie, for the networking opportunities alone.”
Last summer, Charlie single-handedly negotiated a lucrative sponsorship deal with the San Francisco Fury that put our wines in their home arena and on the beverage list at all corporate events. That deal saved the ranch and Chord’s right. A weekend like this could mean bigger and better deals for the business.
“Fine.” Charlie doesn’t pout, but there’s a huffiness to her breath. “I’ll be there.”
“Good,” Chord grunts.
Charlie crosses her arms, and I can see the cogs moving in her clever head. My older brother and sister have only recently called a truce after years of butting heads over who will run Silver Leaf Ranch when Chord retires from hockey. Things are good between them now, but sometimes, that old rivalry rears its ugly head.
“But maybe give me a little more notice next time?” she says.
Chord gives her a cool glance, but at the short squeeze of Violet’s slender fingers around his bicep, he sighs and nods. “Noted.”
Charlie’s smile is over-the-top sweet. “Thank you.”
“Dad?” Violet says. “Can you join us?”
“I’d love to, Blossom,” he replies, earning a beaming smile from his daughter.
“You can count me out,” I say, snorting a little when Chord tries to bully me with his trademark frown. “Glare all you want, bro. I’ve got the restaurant to run and a little girl who has school and a schedule. It’s impossible. I’m sorry.”
Chord stares for a heartbeat, and I stare right back until he shakes his head. “Fine.”
“And I can’t go,” Daisy says, throwing up her hands when Chord frowns with disappointment. “What? I’ve got trail rides all weekend.”
“Oh, please come,” Violet says. “I miss you when I’m in the city, and I could really use the girl time.”
“But the horses—”
“I’ll stay and take care of the horses,” Finn interrupts in his rolling rumble. “And the trail rides.”
Daisy cocks her head suspiciously. “You will? Why?”
Finn shrugs, arms folded over his chest, and I get the feeling he’s deliberately not looking my way. “I don’t mind, and you heard what she said. Violet needs the girl time.” His eyes cut to Chord. “And I’m not up for the people. Sorry.”
“No problem,” Chord murmurs, but his brow creases with thought.
Finn’s eyelid twitches, mirroring the tic on his mouth as he says, “And I bet Dylan would love a couple of days with the house to himself.”
He meets my eyes for the briefest moment, a twinkle of mischief glinting ever so fast before he glances away like it never happened.
I don’t know whether to hurt him or hug him because when the fuck will my siblings stay the hell out of my love life? But also…
Two days with the house to myself? It’s giving me possibilities.
“Yay!” Violet claps her hands. “It’ll be fun. I promise. We can go to a spa on Sunday morning for massages and facials and breakfast cocktails. The four of us. You, me, Charlie, and Poppy.”
“Me?” Poppy glances around the table as if she’s waiting for the punchline, a befuddled smile plumping up her pretty cheeks.
Fuck. Look how she glows at the idea of being included. The urge to kiss her here and now swells again, stronger this time. More insistent. Like holding Poppy in my arms is the correct order of things and keeping my hands off her is unnatural.
“She can’t,” Daisy says, and the urgency in her voice surprises me.
When similar looks of confusion cross other faces around the table, Daisy casually flips her hand. “I mean, if Dylan is here with Izzy, then Poppy needs to be around to help. Especially if both Charlie and I are out of town and Finn’s taking care of the trail rides.”
Daisy inelegantly kicks Poppy’s ankle under the table—we all see it—and Poppy rolls with it, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear and meeting my eyes for the briefest moment before she offers Chord and Violet an apologetic grimace. “Thanks for the invitation. Another time. I promise.”
“Maybe Poppy can crash here while you’re gone?” Finn adds flatly, capturing Charlie and Daisy in his fleeting look. “You know. To make things easier on Dylan.”
Poppy’s eyes grow distant, she starts blinking way too fast, and her next breath goes in but doesn’t come back out again.
“Good idea,” Daisy agrees. “Dylan’s been working late this week to get the restaurant ready for expansion. If Poppy’s here overnight, he won’t have to worry about being home for Izzy. He can work as late as he wants.”
I trip over the odd emphasis Daisy puts on the idea of my working late as my little sister gives me a satisfied grin, and Poppy sits beside her with a face that’s much too smooth. I wonder what Daisy thinks she knows. Not the truth, that’s for sure. She’d never keep her mouth shut if she thought I was sneaking around with her best friend.
But she’s up to something. Do I want to know what it is, or do I want to do things differently for once? Live with the mess. Thrive in the chaos. Be the adventure.
I sneak a glance at Poppy—and choose chaos.
“That makes sense,” I agree. “Poppy should stay here next weekend. Great idea.”
I ignore Finn’s subtle smirk and let myself be distracted by the idea of spending two days alone in this house with Poppy—one entire night with her in my bed—while around me, conversation turns to other things. Chord’s season. Violet’s new design studio and her first couture line. The restaurant expansion, the health of the horses, and the barn house renovations. The state of crops across the farm. Even Finn’s few minutes on guitar playing back-up for Izzy tonight. The hours pass in a warm, hazy flow of conversation and cocoa as the clock ticks closer to midnight.
Eventually everyone is ready to leave, and as we make our way to the front door, I look over my shoulder at Izzy asleep in the living room. She’s going to love having Poppy here for two days, and fuck me for wanting to see her little face light up when I tell her. I shouldn’t be tying more strings between them and yet I will. I’ll do anything to make my daughter smile.
And it’s only two days. Two days to pretend the past and the future don’t matter, and we exist only in our own little bubble. One night with Poppy wrapped in my arms and my sheets. And suddenly, I don’t care how or why we’ve got this chance or what will happen when it’s over. I only know that no matter what comes next, the three of us will always have this weekend.
We’re standing in the crowded hallway with Chord and Violet, Luke, Finn, and Poppy collecting coats as we say our quiet goodbyes, and I don’t even realize I’m staring at Poppy until she lifts her chin and seeks me out like she senses my eyes on her. Our gazes snap together like two drops of water coalescing into one, and when she realizes I’m already absorbed by her, her mouth tips up in quiet acknowledgment. Too soon, she drops her eyes. The sparks that dance between us are too dangerous to be alive in the house just now.
Poppy is the last to walk out the door, and I watch her slip behind the wheel of her car with the sinking feeling that next weekend is going to be the best and the worst of my life. A taste of what could be if only I was fearless enough to ask her to stay.