61. Dylan
SIXTY-ONE
DYLAN
I take a deep breath before I raise my hand and rap my knuckles on the Olsens’ front door.
Even with my epiphany about how I’m letting everybody down, I’ve still gone back and forth about coming here, but I’m also pretty sure that if I don’t show my face tonight, Harriet will turn up at my door again and drag me to their house whether I’m willing or not.
And it’s not that I’m here reluctantly. I’m really not. In fact, I’m itching to be here. Desperate to see everyone. Spend time with them. They’re my family, and I miss all of them so much it’s a constant ache.
But as much as I want to be here, I also dread being here.
The door opens, and I find myself face to face with Mia. She blinks at me for a moment, and then she tackles me with a hug. She jumps and wraps her legs around my waist, and a second later, she’s sniffling into my neck.
I stand there and blink, trying to catch up with all the emotions on display.
“Are you… are you crying?” I ask.
“No!” she snaps. “You asshole.” She sniffs again. My neck is getting wet. “You absolute fucking asshole.”
I snort out a laugh and wrap my arms tighter around her. “I’m an asshole for dying?”
“Such a fucking asshole,” she says emphatically, and I laugh again.
She breathes in deeply and lifts her face away from my neck, then she eyes me for a moment before she smacks a kiss on my cheek. I let go of her thighs, and she hops down.
“You look older,” she says.
“Thanks?”
“Not as in old . But more mature. Like you’ve seen things.”
“Water and sand, mostly,” I say, as lightly as I can.
She sends me the kind of pitying look that makes my skin crawl, but a second later, she shakes it off.
“You’re lucky I was walking past the door just now. Since when do you knock?” she asks, completely perplexed.
“Since…” I don’t know the answer, and I don’t remember the last time I knocked on the Olsens’ front door, so I end up just shrugging and putting on what I hope is a self-deprecating smile.
“Come on.” Mia takes my hand and pulls me through the doorway. “Everybody’s here already. We’re outside.”
I walk into the house. Everything smells instantly familiar. Like home used to smell. At Preston’s borrowed apartment, I feel like a foreign object. Something that didn’t belong. Here, I finally feel like not every piece of the old Dylan is lost for good.
I’m still tense as hell, but because of that smell, I find the strength to straighten my shoulders and put a smile on my face.
I might be a mess inside, but I will not show it.
I walk into the large, sunny backyard. Summer is in full swing, and everything that can bloom is in full bloom.
The backyard has been overhauled sometime while I’ve been gone.
No more monkey bars, trampolines, and abandoned bicycles.
Instead, there’s a new patio with wooden furniture, a few flowerbeds, a couple of new trees, and a hammock.
I’m greeted with more hugs and pats on the back, but it’s not some teary welcome home gathering this time around, and I’m thankful for it. It makes it easier to pretend I’m okay.
“About time.” Hunter claps me on the back.
“How have you been, son?” Eric asks.
“You’re so… so…” Lynn says, and then she’s not saying much at all but more like trying not to cry when she looks at me, and I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve any of them.
I just don’t.
But I want them anyway.
And I’m so goddamn overwhelmed by everything and everybody, but I can’t really show it. Ten minutes into dinner, and I’m already barely holding it together and fighting the urge to run away, even if I really don’t want to run away at all but instead ask them if I can move in and stay there forever.
At dinner, I take a seat between Mia and Daisy, and then when everybody has sat down they all keep looking at me with these smiles full of love and affection, and I might lose that because Adrian might not choose me, or I?—
“How’s school?” I ask, way too loudly.
Daisy jerks in surprise and splashes some water on her hand from the glass she’s holding.
“It’s summer?” she says.
“Right.” I nod. “How’s… how’s that going for you?”
“Pretty good? Umm. I auditioned for this play they’re putting on in Boston Common during the summer.
Opening night is this Friday. I’m playing—” She bites her lip.
“I’m gonna bore you to tears,” she says in a low voice.
“I get going and I can’t be stopped. These guys are all sick of me analyzing my character and making them practice with me. ”
“Tell me everything,” I say.
She perks up. “Really?”
“Down to the most minor details.” I’m aware I sound almost manic, but Daisy is so excited about the prospect of a grateful listener that she either doesn’t notice or just decides to ignore it.
She smiles widely. “Okay!”
I spend the next hour listening to Daisy talk about the play and her auditions and the part she’s playing, and once she’s done, I move on to Mia and ask about her job. It kind of gets easier. Because I remember. I remember this is my family. And things used to be so easy between us all.
I go to Charlie. Then Hunter. Jax. Will.
Harriet. Lynn. Eric. I talk to all of them, and once I start, I can’t seem to stop, so by the time I’ve finished a thorough discussion about the garage with Eric, it’s getting really late, and Adrian isn’t here, so either I stay longer and run the risk of him coming home and me having to face him and the possibility that I’ll do something stupid.
Like beg. Plead. Steal. Break down. Do something really stupid.
Or I stay here longer, only to learn that he isn’t coming home at all.
I can’t face either of these two options.
I fake a yawn so wide that for a moment I’m worried I’ve dislocated my jaw.
“I have to go.” I hold both my hands up in front of myself to somehow block the chorus of protests.
A lot of people speaking at once is still almost unbearably overwhelming.
“It’s getting really late, and I have this job interview tomorrow.
” I already know I won’t go, but I don’t tell her that.
I try not to think what I’ll do once I’ve plowed through my meager savings.
“Come through the kitchen,” Lynn says. “I have leftovers for you, so tomorrow’s lunch will be sorted.”
I say my goodbyes and follow her into the house. She hands me a plastic container and hugs me for a long time.
When she lets me go she tries to hide that she’s swiping away at her watery eyes.
“Just go already,” she says. “I’m making a fool of myself. And that way you can come back soon.”
I wrap my arms around her once more and kiss the top of her head before I walk out. I try not to think too much about what will happen when they all find out about me and Adrian. I can’t even begin to guess. Freya’s like a daughter to them. I choose not to think about it, cowardly as it is.
I contemplate calling a ride, but I’m too antsy to wait, so I just start to walk. I’m already well on my way to thinking I’m in the clear when I hear my name.
I don’t turn around, so I don’t see him yet, but I can feel him. I listen to the pounding of feet on the sidewalk and take these last few seconds to gather some semblance of strength.
He stops, and I turn around.
I can barely resist throwing myself at him, but I’ve been mentally preparing for the possibility of running into him.
Out of all the possible reactions I might have, I’ve landed on friendly and collected.
I just hope he can’t tell how sickeningly fast my heart is beating. How desperate I am to go to him.
His eyes find mine, and the look in them when he takes me in makes me weak in the knees. It’s not my Adrian. He’s guarded. Careful. Hesitant.
Just like me.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” I say back.
Is his heart beating as fast as mine?
He’s so close I can feel the heat of his skin, but far enough that the distance between us might as well be an ocean.
Silence.
“You got rid of the bandages,” I blurt and look at his fingers.
The scar is prominent. I’d say it’s ugly, but it’s a part of Adrian, so it doesn’t seem ugly to my eyes.
The reminder of what it represents is ugly.
It fills me with guilt because I’m the one who put that scar on him.
Whether or not I had a choice is a question for debate, but I mostly dismiss it.
I just look at his hand and I’m transported back to those desperate hours and days.
His screams of pain and the balancing act between life and death.
I shiver and wrap my arms around my body to try and hold myself together.
“Apparently it was a pretty neat break. And a pretty neat cut too. You can consider a career as a surgeon.” He grins at me, and I do my best to put on what I damn well hope is at least something resembling a smile.
“The doctors are saying I could reduce scarring if I had a few more operations, but I’m not in the mood for more hospitals right now,” he continues thoughtfully.
“I might have to if it starts to restrict movement, but so far it feels fine. I started physical therapy. They’re supposed to show me some stretching techniques and help me with all sorts of everyday tasks where I didn’t really consider the fact that I’d need five fingers to perform them. ”
“That’s good.”
He shakes his head. “Stop feeling guilty. You did what needed to be done.”
“I know,” I say quickly.
“Do you?”
It’s a new low when the person who went through an amputation without anesthesia has to constantly reassure the dude who did the damage.
“Yup.” I force myself to think about anything other than cutting off his fingers.
“So.” He clears his throat. “How are you?”
Miserable.
“Settling back in.” I force another smile. “You?”
“Trying to do the same. Now, how are you really? Without any bullshit.”