56. Dylan
FIFTY-SIX
DYLAN
I lean back in my seat and clutch the armrests. I’m trying my best not to look as nervous as I feel.
Funnily enough, it’s not the idea of being on a plane again that’s giving me pause.
We went down on a tiny, dinky airplane, so you can bet your ass I will never step foot in one of those again.
We’re going back on a proper, big airplane, and while I’m not ecstatic about the prospect, I’m also pretty sure this falls under the lightning-doesn’t-strike-twice principle. It had fucking better.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
The last weeks have been a whirlwind.
They sent over a man from the embassy. I don’t know who arranged it—Eric or Nina.
Eric said he’d call her, but after we hung up with Adrian’s parents, I called Nina.
I think for the first time in her life, I managed to leave her speechless, so once she’d gathered herself, she jumped headfirst into making arrangements to make up for the embarrassing display of emotion where she told me she was glad I was alive.
After that, Adrian called Freya. I escaped the room, and I still haven’t asked about what they said to each other. I’m too much of a coward for that conversation.
Then there were checks to confirm our identities by the embassy, and once they were sure we were who we said we were, they sorted out identification for us and arranged a way to fly us back home.
I’m summarizing. The whole thing was a mess, and it took time. People don’t come back from the dead every day, which means the embassy people weren’t a hundred percent sure how to approach our situation, and the hospital staff in Nadi weren’t that keen on clearing us either.
It takes a lot of energy to care, and I just haven’t had any to spare, so I only made halfhearted attempts at taking interest in my own health.
There was talk about re-feeding syndrome.
There was talk about my glucose levels. And skin cancer.
And cavities. And PTSD. And so many other things that I’d need a day and a half to make a list.
Fun fact: when you’re lost at sea and presumed dead, you run out of travel insurance, so you have no way to pay for that health care they’re providing for you.
It’s ridiculous, but I latch on to that with all my might. My lack of funds becomes something that grounds me in the middle of the insanity, so I refuse all tests at first. Until Aunt Nina steps in, foots the bill, and tells me to stop being an idiot.
The abrupt manner she approaches everything with used to give me so much anxiety when I was a kid.
I appreciate it now. It’s something that’s stayed the same in a world that’s moved on without me.
I jerk when Adrian plops down in the seat next to me.
Another thing I do these days. I’m high-strung as hell.
Everyday noises make me jumpy. Sounds that should be familiar—car engines, sirens, chatter in the hallway—give me a headache by the time afternoon rolls around.
People? Don’t even get me started on those bastards.
People… They annoy me. There are too many of them.
They’re loud. They’re so fucking loud. They all talk at the same time, so it gets really overwhelming really fast, which means I’ll lose my train of thought, zone out, or, most commonly, freeze with anxiety.
Basically, I hate everything right now.
With one exception.
Adrian purses his lips at the armrest that separates our seats, and after figuring out that the armrest doesn’t move, he puts his elbow on it and leans toward me.
He hands me a cup and a paper bag.
I raise my brows at him in question, and he nods for me to open it. It smells greasy, and my mouth starts to water immediately. Inside, there are two burgers.
“Fuck yes,” I say reverently.
Unwrapping the burger is a religious experience.
Adrian grins at my expression. “On three?” he asks, eyes shining. Unlike me, he’s settling back into civilization with apparent ease. Chats with nurses, doctors, and other patients. Shrugs at the noise. Laughs a lot.
He’s happy.
So I can’t be the asshole who brings him down with my struggles.
I try not to feel too guilty when I see him wrestling with his boxing glove of a hand, thanks to all those bandages. I’m doing a piss-poor job at that.
The doctors in Fiji said there wasn’t much to do with the scars I gave him right then and there. Cosmetic surgery is an option to reduce the ugliness, and apparently there are prostheses for fingers, so that’s something to consider, but he’ll have to deal with all that once we’re back home.
“Dyl?” He nudges me with his shoulder.
I quickly put on a smile and nod.
“One. Two.” His smile widens. “Three.”
We both bite into our burgers at the same time, chew for a moment, then groan at the same time.
“Fucking hell, that’s good,” Adrian says through a mouthful of food. I mumble an unintelligible agreement.
A week of hospital food was bland as hell. I mean, it was loads better than fish and coconuts, but it was still hospital food, so after the first euphoric rush of endorphins, a few days later my brain remembered that burgers exist. The craving has been nearly unbearable.
I finish the burger in two minutes flat and then drink all the Coke in one go. Just guzzle it down.
“Impressive,” Adrian says before he grins at me and follows my lead.
I throw away the trash, and then we sit in silence for a while.
We’ve been cordoned off in a separate room in the airport lounge.
The news that we’re alive broke almost the moment the embassy was contacted.
Even in Fiji a few plucky reporters tried to barge into our hospital room.
At home, it’s apparently mayhem, with reporters trying to corner our family members whenever they leave their houses to get any information out of them.
I haven’t seen any of the news, and I don’t want to either.
“Nervous?” Adrian asks.
I start to shake my head, but then I think better of it and shrug instead. Nobody in their right mind would believe I’m not nervous, least of all Adrian.
“Realistically, what are the chances of another plane crash?” He says it so conversationally that I have to laugh.
“No idea. I’m guessing it’s, like, the regular amount of chances?”
“So, low,” he concludes, and I nod.
“And if it does happen, chances are we’ll die instantly, so that’s nice.”
“There’s the sunny side,” he says dryly. He studies me for a moment. “You think you could braid my hair again?”
I blink at the strange request. He’s been wearing his hair in a ponytail ever since we got off the island. It looks good on him. Unfairly so.
“Sure,” I say belatedly. “If you want.”
He pokes around in the backpack the embassy people gave him for our stuff and finds a comb.
Then he turns his back to me and unceremoniously sits down on the floor like he’s back at the beach.
I hesitate for a moment, because this is, once again, as with everything when it comes to Adrian, too intimate.
My thighs are bracketing him on both sides.
My whole body goes hot at the thought of the position we’d end up in if I scooted forward a bit.
It’d be so easy to lean just a little and press my lips to the back of his neck.
Instead, I pull the hair tie out and start combing his hair.
He closes his eyes and hums with contentment, and I have to gather myself for a moment, because for all I know this is the last time I’ll ever get to do this. Be this close to him.
I don’t know what’s going to happen once we get back home, but I don’t think it’s going to include this .
I take my time with him, letting my fingers comb through the silky strands. I inhale the faint tropical flower scent that comes from his hair, courtesy of the shampoo one of the nurses brought him.
Braiding his hair is a familiar thing to do by now. I’ve done it countless times over the last couple of years, and as a result I’ve gotten too good at it because I’m finished too soon.
Adrian doesn’t move away, though. He leans his head on my thigh and looks up at me.
“What now?” he asks softly. There’s a deep sadness to the way he says it.
We’re leaving the island behind, and everything is changing again.
I should feel guilty about everything I’ve stolen. Instead, I’m just desperate to take more. More time with him.
More life with him.
I can’t have any of that.
I already miss him.
“Now…” I say, equally softly. “Now we go home.”
He keeps his head on my thigh and his eyes on me.
“It’s gonna be fucking weird, right? Getting used to regular life again. Settling back in to how everything was.”
I nod. “Most likely.”
“And we’re gonna feel like fish out of water in our own life,” he continues.
My chest jolts at the way he calls it our life.
Get a grip.
Stop fantasizing.
“Yup.” I try to not sound as hollow as I feel.
He blows out a big breath just as a flight attendant sticks her head into the room.
“Mr. Olsen? Mr. Lang? We’re ready for boarding.”
She stands in the doorway while we gather our things. Two backpacks with our meager belongings and nothing else.
“Hey,” Adrian says just as we’re about to start moving.
I send him a questioning look.
“Whatever happens,” he says. “We have each other.”
I swallow hard.
“Whatever happens.”
I want to believe him.
We start to walk, and as we do, he hooks his pinky finger around mine and squeezes.
We keep them linked the whole way back home.
The noise is deafening as we walk through arrivals. There are people everywhere, flashing lights, shouts, and noise. I freeze in the doorway, and somebody walks into me from behind while somebody else shoves a camera in my face.
“Dylan, Dylan, how does it feel to be back in civilization?”
“How did you not lose hope?”
“Did you think you would ever get off that island?”
More shouting.
More questions.
More noise.
Adrian’s hand disappears from mine because he keeps moving, but my feet are rooted to the floor, and I can’t follow him.
My hands start to shake. I want to run, but my feet aren’t listening to the command.
My heart beats harder and louder, rising to my throat.
I can’t see Adrian anywhere, just a lot of unfamiliar faces shouting at me with their cameras flashing.
I whirl around.
No thanks. Fuck this. I’m going back.
But it’s Boston airport, so already there are more people pushing to get out behind me, and I’m blocking their way.
Just as I’m about to have a royal fucking freak-out, a hand appears in mine.
“Back off,” he barks to the reporters.
Adrian pushes through the crowd and wraps his arm around my shoulders as he pulls me away while I try to stop hyperventilating.
I duck my head and try to breathe. Droplets of sweat make my hair stick to my forehead. There’s too much of everything.
Then I’m surrounded by people.
People who are hugging me.
On every side, we’re engulfed with hugs.
“My boys,” Lynn cries. “My boys.”
Even Nina draws in a shaky breath when she hugs me.
It’s all a mess. I’m a mess.
I should feel happy, but instead I’m desperate to run away from all of this. From the shouts and the flashes of cameras, and from the overwhelming mix of smells. Perfume and sweat and human bodies.
Adrian’s hand has been in mine the whole time, but then it’s suddenly gone. I look around to see where he is.
And I see them.
They collide.
His arms go around Freya’s waist. She hides her face in his neck. They’re wrapped around each other as tightly as two bodies can be entwined.
It’s her and him.
Adrian and the girl he loves. The girl he has his arms wrapped around. Two bodies entwined.
He only has eyes for her. Like she’s the only one that exists for him.
There she is in her rightful place, reclaiming what was always hers.
Freya’s blond hair falls in waves down her back, as she tilts her head back, tears running down her face.
“I knew you’d come back to me,” she sobs. “All these years, I’ve been waiting for you to come back to me. I never lost hope.”
My heart starts beating so fast in my chest that I’m one hundred percent sure this must be a heart attack.
I want to go over there. I want to go over there and grab Adrian and tell the whole world he’s mine, but that’s the one thing I absolutely cannot do.
Because he’s not mine.
He’s never really been mine.