72. Adrian
SEVENTY-TWO
ADRIAN
We come up for air a few days later. My family knows I’ve been with Dylan because I texted them, but after that I turned off my phone altogether and I’ve ignored it ever since.
Dylan’s driving because it’s a distraction, and he needs it.
He’s been anxious and nervous enough for the both of us.
It’s not that I don’t think my family will have feelings and opinions about the news we’re about to lay on them, I just don’t think it’ll turn into a dramatic scene where somebody gets disowned.
Not that I necessarily think it’ll all go smoothly from the start, and not that I still don’t feel guilty and sad when I think of Freya.
But in the end, I have Dylan. Whatever else happens, I can handle it.
Dylan grips the wheel with one hand and keeps drumming the fingers of his other hand on the gearshift until I catch it and link his fingers with mine. I lift our hands and kiss the back of Dylan’s.
He exhales and sends a small smile my way.
I hold his hand all the way to my parents’ house. We park on the street and get out of the car. The house is quiet, since most of my siblings are at work or school.
We head inside with Dylan trailing just a bit behind me, casting nervous looks around.
I push the front door open and step inside.
“Hello?” I yell out. “Anybody home?”
Mom’s head appears around the corner of her office.
“Me.” She grins at us. She pushes her glasses up on her head and comes to the hallway to greet us. Her hair is in a messy bun at the back of her head, a pencil pushed through it to hold it in place, and she’s dressed in a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt.
“Morning, darling,” she says as she kisses me on the cheek. She does the same with Dylan.
I glance at Dylan, who looks more than a little nauseated by now.
Mom motions for us to follow her into the kitchen.
“Dad’s in the garage?”
She shakes her head. “Doctor’s appointment. He should be back soon.”
Once we’re in the kitchen she turns on the coffee maker, puts cookies on a plate, and adds a bowl of berries. My mom has been holding these eleven o’clock coffee breaks since I can remember. When we were younger she served us milk with a splash of coffee in it.
“What have you two been up to?” She takes a sip from her cup.
Dylan makes some sort of noise—something between clearing his throat and a squeak. It would be funny if he wasn’t so clearly agitated.
“Hanging out,” I say. “Making plans.”
“There’s a lot we need to figure out,” Dylan says.
“If you need any help, just say the word.” Mom pushes the cookies toward Dylan. He takes one and just holds it between his fingers.
“I’ll keep it in mind,” he says faintly.
“Mom, we need to tell you something,” I say, because I can’t really watch Dylan torture himself any longer.
I gently take the uneaten cookie out of Dylan’s hand and once again link his fingers with mine. I send him an encouraging look and squeeze his hand before I glance at my mother.
Her eyes widen for a fraction of a second when her gaze lands on our hands, but in a testament to the kind of composure she possesses, it only lasts for a moment.
She exhales.
“I’m surprised,” she says. “But also not.”
There’s hesitation there. A tight-lipped smile. A worried look in her eyes.
“I don’t know what to say,” she says. “I don’t want you to think I’m not happy for you.” She reaches both her arms across the table toward us, clutching our hands in hers. “I am. You’re happy. I’m happy.”
“But Freya,” I say quietly.
She bites her lip and nods.
The tight-lipped smile stays in place, and she lets out a shaky breath.
“I’m sorry,” Dylan blurts.
Mom sends him a confused look. “Oh, hon,” she says. “No, darling, that’s not…” She lets out a wet laugh. “Look at me being silly. This is good news. Complicated, but one doesn’t negate the other, does it?”
She gets up and comes to stand behind us. Her arms go over our shoulders and she hugs us both to her, planting a kiss on top of each of our heads.
“What’s happening?”
We all turn our heads and look at Dad standing in the doorway of the kitchen. He’s sending us a quizzical look.
Mom dashes her hands over her eyes and smiles at him.
“The boys have things to tell you,” she says. “Come on. Let’s have some coffee and talk.”
And that’s what we do.
Later that night, after everybody has gotten home, when the news has been told over and over again until everybody is in the know, and Dylan and I have sneaked out into the backyard, we’re lying on the grass behind the house.
It’s a warm fall evening with stars shining all around us, flickering through the branches of the maple trees.
“That went better than I expected,” Dylan says sleepily, burrowing closer to my side.
“Told you,” I say, equally sleepy. It’s been a long day and there have been lots of emotions. I knew there would be. I was counting on it.
It’s helped reaffirm some things for me.
We need to find a home, and right now, neither of us is happy in the city. This house here—my parents’ place—is good. It’s welcoming. We’re always wanted here.
But we also need something that is just ours. And I think maybe it should be somewhere else. I think it’d be better if we’d put some distance between us and Boston.
It’ll be easier on everybody like this.
Freya will still be a part of the family—as long as that’s what she wants, and I do hope it is. Dylan and I will keep our distance for a bit. I don’t love it, but it’s also a way to make things a bit easier on her. I’ll do whatever I can to make things easier on her.
I had a talk with my mom just before Dylan and I took off. She promised to be there for Freya.
I’m grateful. Hopeful. It’s not just my family. It’s hers, too. I don’t want to be the reason she loses what she’s built here, so I hope she can one day forgive me.
“What now?” Dylan asks softly.
“Now… now we just be for a while,” I say.
“Find a place for us. Something that is just ours. Somewhere away from here, but not too far away. A place big enough, so our family can visit. Maybe some place that needs a bit of work. And then we’ll make a home out of it.
Maybe somewhere with a view to the ocean? I think I’d like that.”
Dylan nods. “I think I’d like that, too.”
“And then I have a detailed plan for our home.”
“Oh? Do tell.” There’s a smile in Dylan’s voice. A peaceful one.
“We’ll fix up our future bedroom.”
“Uh-huh?”
“Make love in the bedroom.”
Dylan snorts.
“Fix up the living room,” I continue. “Make love in the living room. Fix up the kitchen. Make love in the kitchen. There’ll be a dock. We’ll fix that up, too.”
“And make love on the dock?” Dylan guesses with laughter in his voice.
“No,” I say. “On the dock, we’ll fuck.”
He snorts out a laugh then hums contentedly. “I like this plan.”
I hug him closer.
“I might be terrible at this, though,” he blurts.
I lift my head to look at him quizzically. “Fucking? I assure you, you’re not. If you get any better, I might die.”
He rolls his eyes. Bites down on his lower lip.
“When I do laundry, I just throw everything in together. I know they say you’re supposed to separate the whites and colors, but I’m a hundred percent too lazy, and, like, nothing happens unless I set the temperature to boil.
” He bites the inside of his cheek thoughtfully.
“Another confession, I only use the program for mixed fabrics. I’ve never used any other program because I’m genuinely not sure what those even do. ”
“Okay. Noted.”
“I get pissy when I’m hungry.”
I nod.
“And I leave leftovers in the fridge, but I never eat them.”
My lips have started to twitch.
“I click my pens, and I don’t even notice I’m doing it,” he continues. “And I’m terrible at replying to emails. And don’t even get me started on leaving the lights on all over the damn?—”
I kiss him to shut him up. And because I want to. Mainly because I want to.
When I pull my mouth away from his, he has a dazed look in his eyes as he blinks at me. I slide my palm over his cheek, cupping it.
“I know all this already, Dyl. I love you. I want you with me every moment of every day in all your hangry, pen clicking, unresponsive to emails, washing machine incompetent glory.”
“Yeah, but you’ll have to want all that forever. You get that, right?”
“Forever’s not long enough, but I’ll take it for now.”
We’re lying side by side, our fingers tangled, and the quiet that surrounds us doesn’t feel charged like it has for a while. It’s full, but only good things. It’s carrying all the possibilities we’ve unlocked.
“I keep thinking about where we’ll be,” Dylan says in a soft, low voice. “Not just tomorrow. But years from now. I never used to do that. It was like I forbade myself to think about any kind of future with you because it would’ve hurt too much to not have it. Now I can’t seem to stop.”
My chest aches. There’s regret that it took me so long to get here. That Dylan ever had to feel alone or hopeless. But mostly there’s joy. I thread our fingers more tightly and wrap myself around him.
It’s quiet.
No people.
No noise.
Just Dylan’s steady breaths and the soft whisper of waves.
There’s peace. A steadiness that I haven’t felt in years. Like us and the world are finally on the same page again.
“Tell me,” I say.
I want to hear it all.
Because I already cannot wait.
For our life together.
For us.