9. Dylan
NINE
DYLAN
The thing about craving and yearning and aching and wanting is that you eventually get used to it.
It’s a part of you.
Something that just is .
Emma is a date.
After Emma come girlfriends.
First, there’s Olivia from science class.
Followed by Naomi, the cheerleader.
Then Paisley, the babysitter.
I don’t like any of them. Big surprise there.
Not because they’re bitchy or mean or somehow terrible people. They’re not. All of them have been nice and friendly.
But all of them also have a fatal flaw. They’re Adrian’s girlfriends.
There’s no coming back from that.
They’re his first kisses and second bases and the people who’ve seen sides of him I never will.
Looking at them hurts.
I burn with jealousy.
It’s been two years of silent yearning and heartbreak peppered with short moments of relief whenever Adrian’s relationship status jumps to “single.” But those moments are far and few between, so I’ve become used to living with the dull throb in my chest.
I lean back on my elbows, one leg crossed over the other. The sun is baking my forearms and painting everything around us golden. Adrian and Will are getting snacks, and Harriet and I are keeping watch over our blanket.
“Jesus in a Jeep, they’re taking their sweet-ass time,” Harriet mutters, her thumb sliding over the screen of her phone.
I push my sunglasses down, close my eyes, and drop onto my back on the sand while I absently scratch my ankle with the toe of my other foot.
“Harri!” Two girls stop in front of our blanket. Harriet squeals and gets up. She throws herself at one of the girls, and they start to jump around and hug like it’s been years since they last saw each other.
“Oh my God! Holly! You’re not grounded anymore,” Harriet says. “Or did you escape?”
“Saved by babysitting,” the girl says, then points to the second girl. “This is Cami. My dad’s trying to get her dad to invest in the business, so I’m supposed to woo her while my dad woos her dad.” Holly turns to Cami. “Are you feeling wooed yet?”
I close my eyes again, ready to tune them out.
“I might,” Cami says. “I might even more if you can tell me who that guy is.”
Holly starts to giggle and fans herself.
“He’s hot, all right.”
“I would do illegal things to get my hands on those pecs,” Cami says. “And all the other parts of him.”
Harriet makes a gagging noise. “Eww. No. Stop. That’s my brother.”
My eyes fly open again. Cami has taken off her sunglasses, her gaze trained on the café. And even though I know I shouldn’t let them, my eyes still lock on Adrian as if I’m being hypnotized.
Every time.
I can’t help it.
Can’t help that I love looking at him.
A couple of inches over six feet, all hard, sinewy muscle from days spent outside and working in his dad’s garage.
His dirty blond hair is longer than usual, falling in messy strands over his forehead.
He has a habit of raking his fingers through it when he gets distracted by something.
It’s actually curly on top, but he flattens it down with product.
His bottom lip is just a bit fuller than the upper one, and his blue eyes always have that hooded look to them.
I look, because that’s all I’m allowed to do, unlike Cami, who giggles and flirts up a storm the moment Adrian makes his way back to us.
I look away.
And I hate her just for a little bit.
And I feel sad and pathetic and lonely.
It’s becoming a habit.
The party later that night is at Lewis Massey’s house.
We went to kindergarten together and then to the same school up until I transferred to Parkside.
I haven’t seen him since then, and the most vivid memory I have of him is him laughing until he peed his pants when I fell off the swings in first grade.
Water under the bridge, I guess.
He greets me with a hug, like we’re old friends instead of sort-of acquaintances from a long time ago.
“Olsen,” he shouts, then gives Adrian a one-armed hug too. “Drinks in the kitchen. Help yourself,” he calls over the noise of the party before he moves on to the next person.
“Water and soda only,” Adrian tells Harriet sternly.
Music is pumping through the house and there are people everywhere. Cami pulls Adrian to the makeshift dance floor in the living room.
Save me , he mouths jokingly before he follows her. Instead of escaping as far away as possible, I stay.
And I watch.
And I hate myself for staying.
And watching.
I crave, and I yearn, and I ache, and I want.
Always.
All the time.
It’s self-inflicted torture at its most potent.
Somebody walks past me with a tray of shots, and I grab one.
I don’t even ask if I can or what it is, just down it in one go.
It burns as it goes down my throat, and I make a face.
The girl carrying the tray raises a brow at me.
“A gentleman would ask me to dance before stealing my shots,” she says.
I look around the room. It’s barely ten o’clock and some dude is already out cold, hugging a plant and snoring.
“I don’t think you’ll find any here tonight.”
She steps closer and flicks her dark, shiny hair over her shoulder.
She slides her fingertips over my forearm. It’s the lightest of touches. And then she leans closer. “That’s good. I’m actually not looking for a gentleman.”
It’s too hot in here. The air is sticky and sweaty.
And Adrian is still dancing with Cami. She leans closer and says something. He laughs. Their faces are so close to each other.
They’re going to kiss.
They’re not.
They are.
They’re not.
They are.
They’re not.
By the time I manage to tear my gaze away, my heart has worked itself into a beat so uncomfortably fast and loud it makes me feel sick. And all the while, I still crave and yearn and ache and want.
I need to get away from here.
“Bathroom,” I tell the girl with the dark hair. “Be right back.”
There’s a line, and since I actually don’t have to go, I make my way past the bathroom door and the waiting people with no idea where I’m going. I end up in the kitchen, where I down a couple more shots.
I barely ever drink, so it doesn’t take much to get me feeling just a bit less on edge. I grab a bottle and make my way upstairs. I move between bodies. It smells like booze and perfume and sweat.
At the end of the hallway, I find a balcony door, hidden from view by a long curtain. I look around, slip behind the curtain, slide the door open, and go outside. Once there, I lean against the door and breathe out.
“Not your scene?”
I turn my head toward the voice, beer bottle still dangling between my fingers by the neck. There’s a guy sitting on a lounger. His eyes hold mine, steady. His gaze rakes over me. Up and down. The look in the pale green eyes turns wicked.
“Who are you?” he asks.
“Dylan.”
“I haven’t seen you before.” He’s pretty, all tanned skin and long limbs when he gracefully pushes himself up to his feet and saunters closer. He has almost the same shade of dark blond hair as Adrian’s.
“No, I guess you haven’t,” I say.
He hums, right in front of me now. Takes my hand. Holds it.
“Nice to meet you, Dylan. I’m Christopher but call me Kit. Everybody does.”
“Kit,” I repeat.
He hums again. He’s pressed against me now, a tall, cool body that smells faintly of peppermint.
“So, Dylan, what brings you to my balcony?”
Unrequited love and the resulting misery.
“Crowds aren’t my thing.”
Especially crowds that contain the boy I love kissing some random girl.
“Did you expect a high school house party to be a quiet, intellectual affair?” he asks.
I laugh. He’s funny. And when I lean closer, so I can only see his hair… And it’s the same shade as Adrian’s. I laugh again. A snort of disbelief at how pathetic I’ve become.
Close my eyes.
Inhale.
Something brushes the back of my hand. I look down. Kit takes the beer bottle from me and takes a long drink. His throat moves as he swallows.
He leans closer, lips against the shell of my ear. “Ask me to dance.”
“I can’t go back downstairs,” I say, almost desperately. I just can’t. I’m way too raw for torture right now.
“I wasn’t suggesting downstairs,” Kit says. He puts the beer bottle down on the balcony floor by the door, takes my hand, and pulls me forward.
I stumble, and then I’m plastered against him.
The music is a steady thump from somewhere below. I don’t move at all. Kit grinds his hips against me.
His heated gaze finds mine.
“Ah, yes.” He smiles, eyes burning.
I’m in some kind of haze of reckless abandon.
Lonely.
Craving and yearning and aching and wanting.
Not him.
But…
I can’t have what I really want.
Ever.
A pale substitute will have to do.
A little later, I’m in somebody’s bedroom. I absently take in the blue curtains and beige walls.
Then Kit is on his knees in front of me.
My hand is in his hair.
All I can see is the top of his head.
The same shade of dirty blond as Adrian’s.
And my dick is in his mouth.
The back of my head hits the nondescript beige wall with a thud. The floor seems to shake from the beat of the music downstairs.
It all feels like a dream.
The hot, wet mouth.
The strands of hair between my fingers. I close my eyes, and then it’s not Kit in front of me. Not Kit on his knees.
The tightness that makes my eyes roll back and my breath hitch.
I give a grunt of warning, Kit pulls off, and his hand moves up and down until I come over his fist.
His eyes burn when he stands up.
My chest heaves.
Somewhere in the back of my mind is a faint thought that I should return the favor. That it’d be polite.
But then Kit’s mouth is on mine, and his hand is moving between us. His tongue is in my mouth when he comes with a long, satisfied sigh.
My heartbeat thrums in my ears, then flatlines, and for a moment, everything seems very still and quiet. The sharper reality gets, the dirtier I feel.
“Thanks,” he says. “I needed that.”
“Yeah,” I reply, not sure what the protocol here is. “I’m glad I could help.”
He laughs, sends me one more look, and then he’s gone.
I would think I made him up, but my zipper is still undone, and my dick starts to feel uncomfortably cold.
I fix myself up as best I can and go back downstairs. I really want to get out of here, but I can’t just leave without saying a word.
Somebody maneuvers their arm through the crook of mine, and I jerk.
“Easy,” Harriet says. “It’s just me.”
Her eyes are shining, and her hair is just a bit messy by now. She looks happy.
“Where did you disappear to?”
I lick my lips and try to find my voice.
“Just… around.”
“Hey.”
My head whips toward Adrian. Cami is just behind him, her hand in his. My heart starts beating too fast and too loud again.
“I’ve been looking for you.” Adrian frowns.
“Well, I’m here,” I say. “I was actually thinking I might take off.”
“Already?” Harriet asks. “It’s not even my curfew yet.”
“I’m really tired.”
Harriet leans closer to me until her nose is practically against my neck.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
She pokes at my neck with her index finger. “Is that a hickey?”
Adrian’s eyes snap to me.
And stay.
“No.” I slap my hand against my neck.
“Well, nice.” Harriet pouts. “Everybody’s having fun but me.”
I venture a glance at Adrian.
I can’t read him.
Don’t know what he’s thinking.
“Not a word,” I grumble.
Harriet laughs.
Adrian’s still looking.
“Was it… was it good for you?” Adrian asks me later. Much later. Quietly. When we’re lying in his bed once we’ve dropped Cami off at Holly’s place and got back home.
I stare at the ceiling.
With every ounce of my being, I wish he’d sound jealous. That he’d feel jealous.
Instead, there’s protectiveness.
Just that.
Nothing else.
“Yeah,” I eventually whisper.
He’s silent for a long time.
“Who?” he finally asks.
“Jessie?” he takes a guess when I don’t answer. “She’s been trying to get your attention ever since that bonfire.”
My mouth is very dry again.
My heartbeat too loud.
“His name was Christopher,” I say.
I think he stops breathing for a second.
“Oh.” Startled. He sounds startled. “Oh,” he says more normally mere seconds later.
Silence descends again.
“And he was…”
I don’t think Adrian even knows himself what he wants to ask.
And I’m suddenly so tired.
So desperate.
So aching.
“He was great,” I say, and there’s a harsh note in my voice that’s never been there before. “Knows how to give an excellent blow job.”
Take that.
Take that for not wanting me.
Take that for making me love you and not loving me back.
The anger burns through me fast and loud and roaring. And then it’s gone.
And I’m tired again.
It’s not Adrian’s fault I’m an idiot.
“I’ll keep that in mind for our next double date,” Adrian says. “The part where the date should be a man. Not the excellent blow job part. I don’t think I can get anybody to vouch for that.”
I snort out a laugh.
And hope he doesn’t hear something cracking into pieces inside me.