36. Dylan
THIRTY-SIX
DYLAN
“Fucking hair,” Adrian grumbles, pushing it out of his face yet again. I take a deep, slow breath.
We’ve been trying to secure the life raft better.
When the wet season arrived, it brought storms. There hasn’t been anything too unmanageable yet, just stronger winds than usual and heavy rain, but we both figure we have to make sure the life raft stays firmly in place no matter what.
We don’t want to lose our only shelter, so we moved it farther inland from its previous spot on the beach and have been anchoring it with coconut husk ropes to nearby trees.
We built makeshift walls around it with rocks and fallen palm tree trunks and bamboo, so by now, it doesn’t so much resemble a tent anymore as it’s starting to look like a proper shelter.
Adrian swipes at the hair and gives another huff. I take another deep breath.
It’s been the soundtrack of my life these past few weeks, and I’m starting to get kind of annoyed by it.
He rubs the back of his neck and lets out another grunt.
Did I say kind of annoyed? I meant really annoyed.
He tries to blow the hair out of his face.
It’d be funny if I weren’t so fed up with all the grumbling about his fucking hair.
I’ve offered to cut it. I get annoyed by my own hair, too, so I cut it off, but he keeps ignoring the offer.
“Oh my fucking god!” I snap when he lets out another huff in the row of a million previous ones.
Adrian sends me a surprised look.
“Sit down!” I point to a patch of sand in front of the life raft.
Adrian raises his brows at me and parks his ass without a comment.
I take another deep breath.
It’s not the complaining, okay? It’s not. But it’s a much better culprit than the thing that actually makes me so short tempered these days.
So yeah. I’m annoyed about his hair and not the fact that I’m sexually frustrated to the max and have developed a severe case of blue balls as a result.
He saw me jerk off. Adrian. Not even just that.
He saw me come after I’d been jerking off.
To thoughts of him. So now, in my head, I have this inconvenient little memory of him watching me come my brains out.
Seriously. It’s the top memory in my spank bank with no competition.
The problem? I can’t use it. Because that would make me a fucking creep.
So now I hate everything.
It’s mostly the hair thing, though.
For sure.
“Now what?” Adrian asks.
“Now you let me work.” I contemplate for a moment how best to do this, but eventually I realize there aren’t too many options, so I kneel in the sand behind him. Then I hesitate some more until I firmly tell myself to get over myself and slide my fingers through Adrian’s hair.
It has gotten long. He’s right about that. He used to let it grow too long anyway, and then Lynn would threaten to get the kitchen scissors to tame it before Adrian finally dragged his ass to the barber. Now the hair falls past his shoulders in a wild mess of honey blond waves and curls.
My fingertips buzz like there’s an electric current running through them, but I ignore it as I use my thumbs to gather the hair on the top of his head and then separate it into three sections. It’s been a while since I last did this, but it comes back to me pretty quickly.
Adrian’s shoulders relax, and he tips his head back while my fingers move through his hair.
“Fuck me, that feels good,” he mumbles.
My fingers fumble, and I manage to lose half the hair in one section.
He doesn’t seem to notice.
My cheeks are flaming hot, but thankfully he can’t see that either.
My fingertips keep tingling, and I keep braiding his hair. Three sections. Left over center. Right over center. Add hair from the sides.
My fingernails rake over his scalp, and he lets out a low moan.
I feel like I can’t breathe properly.
After a few minutes, his hair is in a semi-decent braid. I grab a piece of rope and tie it at the end.
I take my hands away and squeeze them into fists, fingernails biting into the soft parts of my palms. No more touching required. I’m not sure if it’s disappointment or relief I’m feeling.
I start to get up, but Adrian grabs for my hand and stops me.
“What?” I ask.
“Do some more of that.”
“Braid?” I let out a short laugh. “You don’t have any more hair.”
“No, the thing with your fingers.”
My throat is bone dry as I sit back down. My fingers tremble, but I can’t say no. I don’t know how. I place my fingers just at the hairline, above his forehead. His hair is soft and warm from the sun. I start to move my fingers, massaging his scalp.
His head falls back, and he lets out a deep, contented sigh.
For a few minutes, we’re both completely silent. Except for the thunderous beating of my heart in my chest.
“You have no idea how good this feels,” Adrian groans.
I have a good idea how torturous this feels.
I mumble something in reply that barely qualifies as words.
“Where did you learn to braid hair?” Adrian asks.
“When your dad had his accident and I was taking care of the kids. Your mom was in the hospital with your dad, so somebody had to braid the hair for school. Mia had very strict ideas about what a good braid looks like, so I got a lot of practice and a tough coach.”
Adrian chuckles softly, his eyes still closed. “I don’t know what any of us would’ve done without you.”
I give a dismissive, one-shouldered shrug. “You guys are my family. Anybody would’ve stepped up in my place.”
Adrian’s family, I tell myself firmly. I gave them up. They’re not mine. Never will be. And it’d be a good thing for me to remember that.
“No, they wouldn’t have. I’m glad I kicked that soccer ball at your head all those years ago,” he says.
“Yeah. Thank God you have a shitty aim, or it might have gone into the goal or something.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my aim,” he scoffs. “That ball was meant to hit you. Admittedly, not in the face. I was aiming for the shoulder, and it would’ve hit just there, but you veered off course a bit.”
My fingers stop.
“What do you mean the ball was meant to hit me?”
He shrugs unapologetically. “I wanted to get your attention.”
I stare at him, my fingers still in his hair. “You did?”
“I tried all the traditional ways, like saying hi when we were both outside, or just generally making all the games we played in the backyard real loud, but you never paid any attention to me.” He looks at me upside down and grins. “Turns out playing hard to get really does it for me.”
I swallow hard. “I didn’t know how to become friends with you,” I admit. “I always wanted to, though. Ever since you guys moved in.”
“Then it’s a good thing I decided to nudge you along a bit with that soccer ball.”
“It is.”
We smile at each other, and it almost feels like we’re back in the past. There are no complicated feelings or weirdness between us. Just good times.
I lie down on my side, and Adrian positions himself so his head is on my stomach again. He’s always been a tactile person—his whole family is—but now it’s like he’s aiming all these touches that are usually reserved for other people at me, too.
I think about bloody splinters and dying on deserted islands while I keep moving my fingers through his hair.
His breathing slows down, his head gets heavier on my belly, and he falls asleep.
I keep moving my fingers through his hair anyway.
Just because I can.
It’s another stolen moment in a line of many.
I hoard them greedily, and even though I know it’s a problem, I’m not willing to give up the habit.
While we’re on this island, he’s mine.