62. Adrian
SIXTY-TWO
ADRIAN
I wake up with a crick in my neck, a dead arm, and something vibrating against my right armpit.
It doesn’t matter though. The hard wooden deck beneath my back is a nonissue.
Dylan is sleeping against my side, his head buried in the crook of my neck, his breathing deep and even.
The vibration underneath my shoulder stops.
Dylan mumbles something in his sleep. His eyelids flutter but stay closed, and his lips move against my neck.
A shiver runs down my spine, and I close my eyes for just a second to enjoy this moment.
To enjoy having him in my arms like this.
His defenses are down. There are no guarded looks or distance between us.
He’s not closed off. This is my Dylan again.
I selfishly keep myself as still as I can to prolong the moment.
He’s cute when he’s asleep.
When he’s awake, he’s never vulnerable like this.
This is for me.
My phone starts to vibrate under my shoulder blade again, and I jerk. Dylan slowly blinks his eyes open. He looks disoriented for a moment. Once again, it’s impossibly cute.
He lifts his head and winces.
“Ow,” he mutters, stretching his neck from side to side. He takes a bleary look around before his eyes settle on me. “Did we stay here the whole night?”
I nod, suddenly unable to speak, because it’s morning and morning means reality, and reality is a messy bitch with no mercy.
“Your phone keeps going off,” he mutters.
I shake my head and search for my voice for a bit. “Not mine. Mine’s inside.”
“Oh.” He looks cute and confused again. I fish the phone out from underneath me and hand it to him.
He frowns at the display, and a fraction of a second later, his eyes go round.
“Fuck.” He sits up straight. “I’ve gotta run.”
I push myself up into a sitting position and watch him be all frazzled and frantic and sleepy and—yes, still, and somehow even more so than before—cute as fuck.
“What’s happening?” I ask.
“I’m supposed to pick Indy up from the airport,” he says distractedly, scrolling on his phone again. “Come on,” he mutters. He snaps his head up and looks around. “Seriously? Fifty minutes for a ride?”
Something unfurls in my stomach. Something twisty and sharp and uncomfortable.
“Indy?” I say.
“He’s coming to visit.” He says that with a slight air of confusion.
Like it’s strange that people love him and would want to see him.
It’s a thing Dylan used to do a lot. For a long time after we first met, he seemed unable to really, truly believe he’s loved.
It got better with time. It seems we’ve reverted back to skepticism.
“Of course he’d want to see you,” I say.
Dylan nods distractedly.
Are you going back with him?
I don’t ask that. I don’t want to risk accidentally putting the idea in his head.
“I’ll drive you,” I say.
The vulnerability is quickly turning into cold, hard reality with a side of guarded looks and regret.
I hate everything about it.
“It’s fine. I’m sure you have stuff to do.”
“Nope, free as a bird. Besides, you’ll be late otherwise.”
He looks at his phone. He looks at me.
He looks at his phone again.
Me again.
“Thanks,” he eventually says.
“I’ll go get my keys.”
Dylan’s leaning against the wall, and I’m standing next to him. The airport is busy, so I tried to choose the quietest corner I could find, and I’m standing between Dylan and all the people. He’s very still. Almost rigid.
“He’s just gonna visit for a few days?” I ask. Not because I’m insecure about this Indy I’ve never even met. No. I’m just doing this to distract Dylan.
“Probably. He didn’t say what his plans were,” Dylan says absently, still as tense as ever, his eyes flitting over all the people.
I nod. “Where’s he staying? There are some good hotels around here. We can help him book something. Give some tips.”
Look at me. A generous soul. An eager host.
“He didn’t say. His sister lives here too though. Or he might just stay with me.” Dylan keeps his eyes on the arrivals.
“In your guest room.”
“Couch. Bed. Whatever,” he mutters. “It’s not an issue. We’ve slept together plenty of times before.”
He says it off-handedly, like it doesn’t matter, while those words very much make me feel like somebody’s just kicked me in the stomach.
“Wha—” I start to say.
“There he is,” Dylan says. The tension that’s been in his voice ever since he properly woke up is gone. And then he’s on the move.
A guy walks out of the crowd. He stops and tilts his head to the side for a moment.
Here’s the thing—my head’s been enough of a mess ever since I got home that I haven’t exactly thought about my newfound bisexuality.
I haven’t questioned or considered or wondered or looked back.
My brain’s been busy with other things, so the fact that I might also be attracted to men and how it happened and if I’ve ever actually noticed guys before—I haven’t had the time or space in my mind to ask any of those questions because I’m in love with only one man, and that’s already complicated for a hell of a lot of reasons.
I don’t have the capacity to ask questions.
I’m still not asking them.
But.
This Indy? Objectively speaking, he’s really fucking pretty.
Pretty in a way that makes me absolutely notice that this man is exceptionally good-looking, with his wavy black hair and light green eyes.
He’s tall and lanky, so I’m crossing my fingers it’ll translate into being awkward and having no idea how to control his limbs.
But no.
He starts to walk, and it’s all graceful and shit.
He walks straight to Dylan, drops his expensive-looking luggage, and wraps his arms around him. Dylan’s whole body relaxes as he hugs Indy back. Relaxes in a way where all the rigid tenseness he’s been carrying around ever since we got off the island has suddenly evaporated like it was never there.
I couldn’t give it to him. I couldn’t even begin to try. I’m a lot of the reason it’s there in the first place.
They talk, but I can’t hear what’s being said over the noise of the crowd and the buzzing in my ears. But Dylan is smiling. Actually smiling. His real smile.
How big of an asshole does it make me that I’m jealous it’s not aimed at me? That I wish Dylan wasn’t smiling at all because that smile is for somebody else.
I watch Indy throw his arm over Dylan’s shoulders, grab the handle of his suitcase, and start to walk.
Dylan stops and says something. He laughs. I haven’t seen him truly laugh in weeks.
They turn back around, and Indy’s arm is still thrown over Dylan’s shoulders as they stop in front of me.
“Adrian.” Dylan points at me. “This is Indy. Indy, Adrian.”
Indy measures me with his gaze. “The famous Adrian,” he finally says. His tone is light, but it’s the kind of deceptive lightness that hides so much more. I have the distinct feeling I’m being judged. “Nice to meet you.”
Indy holds out his hand. I nod and shake it, and then none of us seem to have anything to say. Indy glances at Dylan and raises his brows.
“Nice airport,” he says.
“Isn’t it?” I say pointedly, immediately bristling, because even if it doesn’t sound like it, this is probably sarcasm, and he better not put down my beloved Logan International Airport because it’s… really great. And it’s got a lot of… stuff.
“Well,” Indy says with a wide smile, “this is unexpectedly tense. Not to say I don’t enjoy it, but I really have to take a leak and airport bathrooms are sort of a last resort kind of deal for me.”
Dylan grins, and his whole attitude seems to soften. I have never once seen anybody do that to him in all my years of knowing him.
He grabs Indy’s suitcase handle. “Let’s go.”
I fall into step behind them. I try to claim a spot next to Dylan, but with three of us in a single row, we block other people, so I’m forced to stay behind them. They talk, but I can’t hear what’s being said because of all the people around us.
Once we’re finally at the parking lot, I fish out my keys, and Indy stuffs his suitcase into the trunk, which I then slam shut just a tad too violently.
Dylan starts to open the rear door, and I quickly push myself between him and Indy.
“Shotgun!” I force a laugh and throw my arm over Indy’s shoulder. “Called that for you. You’re our guest. You should ride shotgun.”
So hospitable. Welcome to Boston. We’re glad to have you.
Indy sends me an amused look. “More room for my legs.”
“Yup,” I say. “’Cause you’ve got long legs. Kind of like a spider, if you think about it.”
Indy grins, but he doesn’t say anything in response to that. He gets into the car, and I slam the door shut and take a deep breath.
“You okay?” Dylan asks. I snap my head toward him. He’s eyeing me quizzically over the roof of the car.
I force yet another smile. “Great. Why?”
He studies me some more. “No reason,” he eventually says, then climbs into the car as well.
Two minutes later, we pull out of the parking lot.
Indy turns sideways in his seat and looks at Dylan. “Here’s an?—”
“First time in Boston?” I ask loudly.
He turns to look at me, still with that annoying, affable smile on his face.
“I grew up in New York. My family has a vacation home in Martha’s Vineyard. My sister and I used to escape to Boston when we got bored from all the entertaining my mother did.”
Oh, good. So he’s clearly wealthy, but seemingly not stuck-up about it.
Great.
Cool.
That’s… great.
“Indy,” I say. “That’s an unusual name.”
“Short for Indigo,” he says cheerfully.
“Were your parents hippies or something?” I ask.
He doesn’t get offended. Instead, he just laughs. “Tell me about it. Want to know the best part? I have a twin sister who’s also called Indy. Short for India.”
I stare at him. “Why?”
He shrugs. “Dad named us. He says the idea came to him in a dream, but there’s a ninety percent chance he was high at the time.”
“He didn’t think it’d get confusing?” I ask.
“That’s not how August Von Ehren thinks. He’s more of an ‘ideas first, let’s-implement with no further discussion’ person.”
Dylan snorts out a laugh. “How’s Gus doing?”
“Still painting.” His brow furrows into a thoughtful frown.
“I haven’t seen him in a while. He’s been in a sweat lodge somewhere in New Zealand for the past eight months, purifying his soul.
It was supposed to be a two-week program, but it seems Gus’s soul needs more purifying than a regular soul.
Or they found out he has money and are milking him for all he’s worth.
Indy thinks we should give it a few more weeks before we alert the authorities. ”
Dylan laughs. It’s light and carefree, and my fingers curl more tightly around the wheel, because his laughs are mine and nobody else has the right to claim them, and fucking hell, none of this is rational thinking.
“How long are you staying?” I ask. I’m starting to sound about as hostile as I feel, which is not great because I’m also finding I don’t really have it in me to care right now.
“A few days,” he says.
I relax.
“Or we’ll see how I feel,” he adds thoughtfully. “I technically still have a few weeks of freedom left before I have to get back to San Francisco.”
Oh. Good.
“This is me,” Dylan says.
Indy leans forward and looks out the window before he glances at Dylan.
“I bet you live in a shoebox.” He grins. “Don’t worry. We’ll make it work. I’ve never minded a tight fit.”
Dylan lets out an exasperated sigh and fights off a smile.
My jaw clenches.
We all get out of the car, and Indy grabs his luggage from the trunk and makes his way toward the front door.
Dylan stands opposite me. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans and rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet.
“Thanks,” he says.
I nod. “Anytime.”
We stand and look at each other. No matter how long I take, I can’t seem to get my fill. I’m starting to suspect I never will.
We don’t say a single word, we just drink each other in.
“Dylan?”
We snap our heads toward Indy at the same time.
“Not to ruin the moment, but can you throw me the keys or something? I really need that bathroom.”
Dylan blinks for a second, then nods.
“Yeah. Yeah, one second.” He turns and faces me. “I gotta go.”
Whatever spell he was under a moment ago has now been broken. This is the Dylan who’s distant. The Dylan with a protective casing around him. The Dylan who remembers I’m supposed to choose.
“Bye.” He starts to turn away.
“Wait.”
He turns back with a questioning look.
“Daisy’s play. It’s this Friday. You’ll come, right?”
“I promised Daisy,” he says.
I nod. “I can pick you up. We can drive to the park together.”
He looks away from me, refusing to meet my gaze.
“I think it’s better if we don’t,” says the Dylan who remembers everything. “It’ll… it’ll be easier if we don’t,” he says, so quietly I barely hear him over the sounds of the city around us.
He sends me one last look, turns around, and walks away.