67. Dylan
SIXTY-SEVEN
DYLAN
I was all bent out of shape about having no purpose in life, so in a way my new mission of avoiding Adrian at all costs comes at just the right time.
It takes up all my energy, and I would say it takes guile and cunning, only it doesn’t really.
It just takes me avoiding my apartment as much as humanly possible.
Adrian texts me. Every day. Without fail. He doesn’t mention the way I suddenly disappeared on him.
Instead, he offers to drive me places. Asks how I am. Tells me about his day.
I send him carefully worded versions of “No, thank you” and tell him how I am with the least amount of info possible so I don’t make it seem like I’m avoiding him. Which I am.
I still go to family dinner, but I hide in the crowd and do absolutely everything possible not to ever be in a situation where I’m alone with him.
In return, he eyes me thoughtfully from the other side of the room, tracking my every move, not accusing me or calling me out, but it’s pretty damn difficult to tell myself he isn’t on to me.
I always do my best to quietly make my exit with no loud goodbyes, timing my departure for when he’s not paying attention or is out of the room, and then hightailing it out of there, not giving him a chance to follow me.
I stay away from the apartment as much as I can, which makes Indy roll his eyes at me a lot.
He’s judging me, and not silently. Instead, he’s pretty damn vocal about it, especially after Adrian starts dropping by the apartment at all hours.
My hands start to shake. I’m starting to feel like a burglar, sneaking into the apartment every evening under the cover of darkness.
Two weeks into this new routine, I get home one evening after having spent the better part of the last hour trudging through a rainstorm that rolled in seemingly out of nowhere. By the time I make it to my front door I’m sopping wet and even more miserable than usual.
I push the wet hair out of my eyes and make a face when my socks squelch inside my sneakers.
I grumble under my breath while I peel off my wet coat. The apartment is quiet, but there’s a light on in the living room.
“Fucking rain,” I say when I step into the living room.
I stop in the doorway.
There on the couch, feet up on the coffee table, is not Indy.
I stare.
“Hi,” Adrian says. His eyes move up and down me calmly. If he’s pissed at me, he doesn’t show it. If he’s anything else, he doesn’t show that either.
“Hi,” I reply carefully.
“Indy let me in earlier. I’ve been here a while. I made myself comfortable.”
I nod.
“I’ve been texting you,” he continues, still with that impenetrable look.
“I’ve been replying.”
His eyes get a hint of a storm in them.
“Yeah. Those have been real informative.” He pulls out his phone and holds it up in front of his eyes. “This morning, I told you I needed to talk to you. For the twentieth time. You replied with, ‘Busy.’”
“I was.”
His jaw clenches. “Sure. Like all those other times for the past few weeks. But, hey, a lucky coincidence. We’re both here now. We need. To talk.” Those last words are punctuated by him getting up and stalking toward me.
When has a “We need to talk” ever been followed by something pleasant? Especially when the person who needs to talk to you looks like he can’t decide between murder and taking off altogether.
Logically, the only reason he’d be so insistent on us talking is that he’s made his decision. And based on the way he’s glowering at me right now, I don’t think he’s here with good news.
Or maybe I’m projecting, and it’s my own fears doing the talking.
He turns around and paces a few steps before he stops and faces me again. He looks distraught.
“You’re avoiding me. I figured I’d let you for a bit. Everybody need space from time to time,” he says. “And I don’t blame you for wanting to be away from me. Considering everything. Then I figured fuck it, it’s not what you and I do.”
He comes closer.
“Dyl,” he says, his voice turning almost pleading. “Dyl, what the hell is going on with us?”
Is there an us?
I’m not sure anymore.
I can’t make myself meet his gaze any longer.
Instead, I empty the pockets of my hoodie. I start to wrestle the wet fabric over my head and somehow manage to get stuck.
After a second, Adrian sighs and helps untangle me.
“Dyl…” he says again, equal parts annoyed and hurt, and I hate myself just a little bit more with each worried look he sends my way.
“I’m fine,” I say. “If that’s why you’re here. If this is about… I know it might seem like I’m spiraling or something, but I’m fi?—”
He’s in front of me at once.
“No,” he says. “Don’t even. It’s me. We don’t do this. We don’t bullshit each other. So don’t even try and pretend like anything is okay. I’m not okay. Neither are you. And that’s fine. We’ll figure it out. You and me. It’s okay not to be okay.”
“Don’t patronize me.” I scowl at him and cross my arms over my chest, and then I look down.
“It’s a lot,” I make myself say. “And I know I said I’m struggling with stuff, but I didn’t do it so you could swoop in like the knight in shining armor and save me.
” And suddenly I realize what I have to say.
Where I have to aim my words to make an impact.
I almost let out a sob, but then I straighten my back. “You always do this. Whenever something is wrong, you try and fix it for me, and it’s… It can’t go on like this. You can’t make everything better for me.”
He sends me a baffled look. “That’s exactly what I can and will do.”
“Yeah, well, in the middle of fixing things for me, did you ever consider that maybe you shouldn’t?”
He stares at me.
“Did you ever consider that I never asked you to fight my battles for me?” I ask.
I see the exact moment when the blow lands. It’s impossible not to see it. The hurt storms over his features, but he quickly hides all evidence of the devastation and looks away.
He sends me a tight smile that reaches nowhere near his eyes. It barely reaches his lips.
“Message received,” he says. “My bad. I didn’t realize it was such an inconvenience.
Okay. I will try and be better. I will…” He looks away.
“How about this? Instead of avoiding me, why don’t you tell me if I’m being too much.
You know, like a reasonable person would,” he says pointedly. I deserve that.
I make myself stay still and face him. Face the consequences of what I’m about to do.
“It’s not just that,” I say quietly.
“Then what is it?” Adrian asks.
My fingers curl into fists, my nails digging into the soft flesh of my palms.
“You have a fiancée.”
He blinks and looks just a bit like I’ve kicked him out of nowhere.
“She’s your fiancée,” I repeat. I look away, because I can’t look at him anymore, or I won’t be able to say what I have to say.
“I’m fucked up. It’s like I can’t figure out the distinction between right and wrong.
It’s like something is ripping me in half, and I’m just so fucking miserable all the time.
Which is also fucked up, because none of this is really about me.
It’s about you and Freya. I’m just some asshole who made everything worse. ”
“You’re not an asshole,” he says vehemently. I’m relieved he thinks that, but that makes me even more of an asshole.
“If nothing had happened between us, you two would be happily reunited right now.”
He opens his mouth like he wants to deny it, but we both know he can’t.
“That ‘if’ carries a lot of weight in that sentence,” he says with the kind of calm where you can sense he’s pissed but is forcing it down. “Hey, if I were a dinosaur, I’d have a shitload of trouble with the remote.”
I stare at him.
“What with the huge claws and all. Those tiny buttons aren’t really designed for that.”
“Ha,” I say tonelessly.
He blows out a deep breath and rakes his fingers through his hair.
“What do you want?” he asks.
I shrug, delaying the inevitable.
“Then let’s just?—”
“I think we should not see each other for a while.” I blurt it out, because if I don’t say it now, I never will.
Adrian looks at me, no visible emotion on his face.
“What are you saying?” he asks.
“I’m saying… we need to be on our own for a while. Figure out who we are now. What we want now.”
“How does me seeing you stop that?”
“You know it does,” I say quietly. “We’re still on the island, you and me.
We’re not moving on. We’re not trying to live again.
We’re just leaning on each other to a degree that’s not…
” I swallow hard and force myself to continue, borrowing from what Freya said.
“Not healthy. It’s codependent. It’s not good. ” I meet his gaze. “It’s not real.”
His mouth has dropped open by the time I’m done.
“Not real,” he echoes.
I hold my arms out and shrug helplessly.
“Says who?” he asks.
Your fiancée.
“I’ve been doing some reading?—”
He’s in front of me in a flash, clutching my forearms.
“Come on, Dyl,” he says. “Come on. You can’t tell me there’s a manual out there for this.”
“Not a manual.”
He raises his brows at me.
“But there are things about trauma and codependency and?—”
“That fucking word again,” he says, exasperated. “That’s such fucking bullshit.” He glowers at me, jaw setting. “You’re just afraid.”
“Yes.” I meet his gaze head-on. “That’s exactly what I’ve been saying all along. It’s not news. Of course I’m fucking afraid. If you don’t know what you want—really, truly know—then I’m the one left behind. I’m the one who loses everything.”
His brows have risen practically to his hairline.
“That’s what you think? That you’re the one risking everything and I’m in a win-win situation no matter what?”
I blink at him. “No, that’s… that’s not what I’m saying.”
“That’s exactly what you’re saying.”
“I didn’t—” My heart is beating so hard in my throat that I feel nauseous. I want to explain, but I don’t know how. Or maybe that’s exactly what I think, and I just want to make myself look better. Give it a PR spin that will make me look more acceptable. Sugarcoat my own feelings and fears.
“Well, shit,” he says with a harsh laugh.
“That’s really something, Dylan.” He laughs again.
Cold and sharp. He starts to pace, but he only gets a few steps before he whirls around.
“Okay. If this is what you want, you get your wish. You’ll get all the space you could possibly want.
I’ll give you all the fucking space.” He starts to turn, but changes his mind halfway through.
“Just to be clear, though. That fucking space you get? It’s temporary.
So don’t you fucking dare run off to San Francisco or some other damn place in the world.
This fight is on pause. When you’re ready to talk, I’m waiting. ”
He crosses the room, not taking a second look at me. The door slams behind him and then everything is deafeningly quiet.
I sit down on the floor because I don’t trust my legs to hold me right now.
I could still go after him.
I don’t, though.