10
Dyl an
Then
The bleachers are warm beneath me, and the hard plastic digs into my thighs, but the view of the field makes it worth it.
I watch Brooks glide over the turf with undeniable agility, running the last of his drills with the football team. The afternoon sun glints off his sweat-dampened hair, and a jittery surge of anticipation courses through me.
With each step he makes toward the bleachers, his smile grows, and my pulse seems to follow suit, hammering faster with each beat.
He stops just shy of the railing, towel clutched in his hand as he wipes his face. “I’m going to hit the showers. Don’t go anywhere.”
My reply is lost somewhere in the air, his retreating wink enough to leave me speechless as he jogs away. I’m motionless for a fraction of a second. Then, I pull my gaze away with a deliberate effort, training my attention back on the field. The last thing I need is for anyone to see me caught in the act of ogling him. Instead, I try to drown out the buzz of nerves by watching the other players leave, but the flutter in my stomach refuses to dissipate.
“Dylan?”
I jump, almost slipping off the edge of the bleacher. Whirling around I find Beckett standing there, his lips curled in that maddening all too familiar grin.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you, Dilly.”
“You’re such an ass.” I force my breath in, but my heart refuses to listen, pounding too loudly to be ignored.
“And yet, here I am, keeping you company,” he shoots back, crossing his arms. “By the way, did I interrupt your creepy staring sesh? You were practically drooling.”
“I was not!”
“Oh, sure,” his smirk deepens, clearly finding the situation amusing. “Because zoning out so hard you didn’t even notice me walking up? Totally normal.”
“I was watching the drills,” I stammer defensively, motioning toward the field in a half hearted gesture that doesn’t quite land.
“Watching the drills? What are you, a scout now? Maybe take a picture next time—it’ll last longer.”
I give him a careless shove, trying to hide the irritation sneaking up on me. “Shut up, KitKat.”
“You’re so bad at this. No wonder you’ve always been single.”
My response dies on my lips when I see Brooks stepping out of the locker room, his presence shifting everything in an instant.
He looks stupidly good in dark jeans and a spruce-green T-shirt, the sleeves straining just enough to hint at the muscle beneath. His damp hair is a little messy, and there’s this clean, woodsy scent that hits me as he gets closer.
“Ready to go?” he asks, smiling like he hasn’t the slightest clue of the thoughts he’s causing inside my head.
“Do I get to know where we’re going yet?”
“Nope. You’ll just have to trust me.”
“Cool. I love surprises,” I mutter sarcastically, earning a laugh from both him and my brother.
“Relaaax,” Beckett drawls, messing up my hair as if I’m some bratty little kid.
“Seriously?” I shove his hand away, narrowing my eyes at him in annoyance. “Stop!”
Brooks pinches his lips together, trying to hold in a laugh. “Cute.” But the dimples that appear are all the confirmation I need to know he’s amused.
“It’s something,” I say, shooting a glare at my brother and scrunching my nose. “I wouldn’t exactly call it cute .”
Thankfully, we leave Beckett’s laughter behind as we make our way to his pickup. Brooks opens the passenger door, and I slide in, the seat shifting as I settle. He rounds the truck, climbs into the driver’s side, and with a turn of the key, the engine roars to life. We pull out, driving through a canopy of towering trees, the sunlight flickering through the leaves like a strobe. As the sound of crashing waves grows louder, I lean closer to the window, captivated by the vibrant landscape unfolding outside.
Eventually, Brooks pulls us into a dirt parking lot tucked between dunes, the ocean a faint glimmer in the distance. The scene is familiar, every detail demanding to be understood but refusing to fall into place.
“Is this really the surprise?”
“Part of it,” he answers, stepping around the truck and pulling my door open, waiting for me to join him.
I match his pace, the breeze whipping strands of hair into my face as we walk toward the abandoned church. In the daylight, the place radiates beauty—its exterior is cloaked in ivy, while the stained-glass windows shimmer, alive with color.
Brooks drops a bag from his shoulder, the zipper’s coarse rip punctuating the air. “Are you going to tell me what we’re doing here?”
“Painting.” He says it without looking up, sorting through the colors as if he’s done it a thousand times before.
“What?” I blink, inching closer, unable to hide my surprise. “Why?”
He pauses, the faintest touch of irony in his eyes. “You mentioned you’ve always had your heart set on Paris, painting the city’s colors. I thought maybe we could bring that here, let this place hold a small piece of that dream.”
I stare at him, my heart tugging unexpectedly. “Brooks, this is…”
“Too much?” He watches my face closely, as if trying to gauge my reaction.
I blink, biting on my nail as my mind scrambles for the right words. “No. Um, it’s…”
“Unbelievable?” He lifts one shoulder, his body shifting slightly as he rolls onto the tips of his toes, shoving his hands into his jean pockets.
“Yeah…” I shake my head, processing, a pink flush creeping up my neck. “I don’t know what to say.”
“After the whole situation with your mom yesterday, I figured this might help.”
I avert my eyes, suddenly self-conscious. “You really don’t need to do anything for me.”
“Well, too late,” he says, holding the brush in a way that makes it feel as though it’s a challenge only I can accept. “You in?”
The sincerity in his gaze wraps around me like a soft rope, pulling me in. “Guess I’m not getting out of this, am I?”
“Not a chance, Rivers.”
The light streaming through the stained glass bathes the floor in an array of colors. Brooks leads the way to a blank section of the wall he prepared, and I lower myself onto the ground. Without a word, he eases himself next to me, stretching out.
“So…tell me. What’s your story, Dylan?”
I let out an apathetic huff. “Yeah, I don’t think there’s enough time in the world for that.”
“C’mon, SparkNotes version. Give me the highlights while we paint.”
I glance at him from the corner of my eye, the bristles of my brush hovering mid-air as I consider his request. “Well, I fear I’m not very interesting. You know my mom is crazy.” I start, brushing a fleck of paint off my sleeve. “My dad has been out of the picture for as long as I can remember, so it’s been me and Beckett raising ourselves, pretty much. We moved around a lot as kids, never really staying in one place long enough to get comfortable. My mom is an alcoholic, and—” A sudden stillness overtakes me, and my words stumble out of reach. “And long story short, she’s always been angry, but I’m usually the target. What you saw wasn’t even close to her worst.”
Brooks’ brush halts mid-stroke. “What do you mean? Does she hit you?”
“No.” I squint, avoiding his stare. “She’s thrown stuff at me, but mostly she just…yells. A lot . Screams about how I ruined her life. You know, the fun stuff.”
His muscles tighten, a quiet crackling energy forming between us. I drop my gaze to the wall, focusing on the black streaks blooming across the surface as the rush of everything I don’t want to name crawls through my veins, scraping bone from the inside out.
Brooks remains silent, but I don’t dare meet his eyes. I don’t need his pity or his well-meaning sympathy. My brush glides over the wall, leaving bold, dark lines behind—an outlet for everything I can’t say out loud.
Finally, his words slip through. “That’s not okay.”
“I didn’t say it was.” My throat feels too small to hold everything in. Talking about this is the last thing I want to do, not at this moment, not with him. I don’t know what I was thinking.
“I can see it, Dylan. The way you keep everything inside. You’re allowed to be angry, you know. You’re allowed to admit that you deserve better.”
My brush halts mid-sweep, as if even the paint is listening. It’s not the pity I braced for but something closer to indignation. I look up then, the multicolored glass spilling soft light across his features, catching on the edges of his emotion.
“Better doesn’t just appear because we say we deserve it,” I say, forcing the words out. “You can want something your entire life, but it doesn’t mean it’s ever going to happen.”
“Maybe it doesn’t,” he counters, the conviction in his tone unmistakable. “But you shouldn’t have to settle for just surviving. You’re worth more than pretending like things are fine when they clearly aren’t.”
I don’t say anything. Deep down, I know he’s probably right, but it’s easier to believe the story I’ve told myself a million times—that this is just how things are, and hoping for anything better is pointless. With every swipe of the brush, I feel the waves begin to take shape, unsure whether they should touch the girl’s feet yet. The way her toes just barely breach the water feels like she’s cautiously approaching something she’s been avoiding, watching for a sign that it’s safe enough to let herself feel what she’s been holding back.
I stand, straightening my shoulders, my eyes taking in the scene from a different angle. There’s something about it that feels right, even though I didn’t expect it to. It’s in the way the colors flow together, the way the water carries an energy that defies explanation. It’s not perfect, but it resonates in ways I didn’t expect. For a split second, I’m not hiding from the truth. It’s as if the fractured pieces of me are finally coming together, falling into place where they belong.
Brooks draws closer, his eyes tracing the mural like he’s trying to read between the strokes. “You’re really talented.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, my hand tightening around the brush as I try to focus on the minor details, hoping it will distract me from this proximity.
He leans in, his arm brushing mine, and for a moment, I lose all sense of time. Goosebumps rise along my arms, responding to the gentle shift in his voice.
“Dylan…”
I glance out of the periphery of my vision, caught in the motion between strokes. “Yeah?”
“I wanted to say…”
Heat blooms in my chest, and I’m acutely aware of the space shrinking between us. “What?”
His lips twitch ever so slightly when I turn to him, like he’s amused by something only he understands. “I think you’ve got paint on your face.”
“Wait, what?” My eyes widen, disoriented as his laugh takes me by surprise. My hand flies to my cheek, and sure enough, wet paint smears under my fingertips.
“You’re a mess.”
“Oh, thanks,” I tease, and I let out a laugh before I even realize it. I reach for him with paint-covered fingers, and he steps back, hands raised in surrender.
“Hey, hey, let’s not make this a war!”
“Too late,” I fire back, lunging forward with a smear of paint aimed right at his cheek.
His hand catches mine midair, stopping me before I can reach him. My body locks up, thoughts stuttering as his hand encircles mine. The quiet takes over, and with it, I sense a shift beneath my feet, as though everything around me is subtly changing.
The stillness is a force now, folding in around us, as though it’s an entity of its own. The flicker of light from outside nearly draws my attention, but it doesn’t quite reach me. Something about him keeps me here, waiting for what comes next.
“We should probably clean up.” Brooks murmurs, his eyes briefly tracing the path of my hand before meeting my gaze again.“And get you back home.”
Home . The word strikes, pulling me back to a reality I’m not ready for. I retract my hand, spinning to the side, trying to bury the disappointment before it shows.
“Yeah. Um, Good idea.” My voice comes out stilted, and I know he hears it.
Neither of us says anything as we start gathering the supplies, the lighthearted rhythm from earlier now replaced with an awkward energy.
By the time we’re in his truck, the sense of dread that comes with returning is almost unbearable. The ride is tense, save for the muffled crash of waves as we leave the beach behind. I glance out the window, desperate for the right words, but nothing comes.
I don’t want to go back. I want to stay in this little pocket of time, where the world feels lighter. But I can’t. The tether to everything I’m trying to avoid is already tugging me back.
The truck slows to a stop in front of my house, the headlights cutting through the early evening shadows. Brooks shifts into park and glances over at me, his hand brushing mine in a quick squeeze.
“I’m glad you came today.”
I glance over at him, my fingers tightening around the door handle. “Me too. It was nice.”
A lazy smile works its way onto his face. “I’m glad. See you later, Dylan.”
“See you,” I echo, slipping out of the truck. I take a moment, watching as he drives away, the butterflies in my stomach still going wild.
When I head inside, the house is quiet—thankfully. I toe off my sneakers and head for the kitchen, spotting a note stuck to the fridge.
Dee,
Got a load out of town. Back in a few days.
– Greg
I crumple it and toss it into the trash without a second thought. Filling up my water bottle, I wander down the hall, catching sight of Beckett sprawled across the couch in the living room, his phone glued to his hand.
“Hey,” I call out, leaning against the wall. “Where’s Mom?”
He shrugs, barely looking up. “She was screaming about something earlier then left. Haven’t seen her since.”
“Figures. What’s for dinner?”
He glances up, his expression mildly annoyed. “Why would I know? Pretty sure the only thing left in the fridge is ketchup.”
I let out a groan and flop onto the couch beside him. “Do we have money for pizza?”
Beckett tosses his phone onto the cushion between us and stretches dramatically. “Yeah, maybe if we dig through the couch cushions for quarters.”
I close my eyes, letting out a long sigh. “Things haven’t changed much, have they?”
He doesn’t answer, his jaw shifting as if he’s chewing on the words before spitting them out. My stomach lets out a low, visceral groan, the kind of sound that can’t be ignored. His stomach protests next, like an unplanned duet, and something about it feels absurd enough to make my chest tighten.
The two of us raid the fridge, but it’s as bad as we suspected: a nearly empty bottle of ketchup, an unidentifiable jar of something green, and a block of cheese that looks like it could double as a science experiment.
“This is pathetic,” Beckett mutters, holding up the cheese like it personally offended him.
“I didn’t think I could even feel this hungry anymore,” I admit, bracing my hands against the counter’s cool surface. Most nights, hunger fades into the background, a familiar presence. But tonight, it’s sinking its teeth into me, desperately waiting to be fed.
The worst part is how unsurprising it is—how we just carry on, treating it as something to be endured. My throat burns, but I keep it down, stepping into the bathroom and yanking the shower handle. Steam curls around me before the water even hits, blurring the mirror, blurring everything.
Beckett’s voice cuts through the humid air as I step out of the bathroom, water trailing down my calves. “Hey, maybe you could get a job. Something part-time like you had back in Wyoming.”
I tighten the towel around me and roll my eyes. “Oh yeah? Where am I supposed to work, genius? This town isn’t exactly full of options.”
He smirks without looking away from his phone, one leg hanging off the couch. “Ruby’s had a ‘Help Wanted’ sign up last week—unless you’re above slinging pancakes for tips.”
I grab my sweatpants and a hoodie, tossing the towel into the laundry basket. “I doubt a place like Ruby’s hires high schoolers.”
“It’s your best shot unless you want to babysit brats or stock shelves at Mr. Doyle’s hardware store down the street.”
“I guess I could check out Ruby’s tomorrow after school,” I say, yanking my hoodie over my head, the fabric catching on my damp hair.
Beckett kicks his feet off the couch, stretching like a cat. “Wow. Would you look at that? You’re growing up.”
I grab a throw pillow off the couch and chuck it at him. “Shut up, KitKat. You’re older than me by three minutes. Don’t act like it’s three decades.”
“I’m just saying, with your sparkling customer service skills, we might be able to eat dinner next week.”
“You’re right. Then I can buy all the fancy ketchup and edible cheese I want,” I shoot back, collapsing onto the couch beside him.
Our laughter fades too quickly, subdued by the same burden we’ve carried since we were kids.
“Seriously, though,” I say, picking at a loose button on my cardigan. “If I can start saving, maybe we can go to Colorado after graduation like we planned.”
Beckett doesn’t say anything at first, his gaze fixed on the TV, but then he nods. “Yeah…maybe.”