15
Dylan
T hen
The game has dragged on long enough for the stakes to blur, and as much as I excelled at beer pong, this one is proving to be my downfall. Guessing wrong has become a recurring theme, earning me more drinks than I can count—and, multiple times now, the removal of yet another layer of my clothing. I cling to what I have left—a crop top, a lace thong, and the hope that I don’t lose again.
Colt leans back, his smirk just shy of wicked. “Dylan, I gotta say…this game is working in my favor.”
“Should’ve known winning beer pong would cost me.” I look back at my now empty cup, turning it in my hands. “Guess I was due for a shift in luck.”
“Or,” Brooks says, not missing a beat as he shrugs out of his hoodie like it’s second nature, “maybe your luck’s just changing hands.”
I push my arms through the sleeves, rotating my shoulders to settle it into place. The dark-gray fabric is soft and oversized, the hem falling far past my thighs. It carries a warmth that isn’t just from the material. It smells like him, and that simple detail lodges itself deep in my core.
A slow, deliberate once over from Chloe is all it takes to make something twist uncomfortably in my chest. She’s daring me to react, to care. It’s a reminder—one I don’t need—that I still haven’t talked to Brooks.
Shirts, socks, and sanity are tossed aside as the game escalates, the buzz in the air growing heady. My losing streak finally broke, though not before my top was added to the growing pile of discarded clothes. At least I still have the hoodie to keep me decent.
A few unfortunate souls have lost their remaining clothes completely. Among them is my brother—I know it without looking. I refuse to confirm it. Some things can’t be unseen, and I have no desire to add that particular trauma to my night.
“Dylan, you should be out. Brooks saved you, and we all know it,” Beckett slurs, arms spread wide like he’s exposing some major scandal—far more of him on display than I ever need to see.
I keep my gaze anywhere but on him, drifting to Colt instead, widening my eyes in a silent plea for support. “KitKat, you’ve got about three inches of dignity left,” I counter. “And it’s hanging on by a prayer. No one cares about the hoodie.”
Beckett scoffs, leaning in like he’s prepared to argue. “First of all, you’re only still in this game because Brooks took pity on your sorry ass.”
Something soft sails through the air, and I hear the rustle of fabric as Colton tosses him something to cover himself. I don’t look—won’t look—but the shuffle of movement tells me he’s at least making an effort. Small mercies.
“Second,” Beckett continues, as though nothing happened. “I’m very dignified. Thank you.”
“You just tried to shotgun a beer with the tab still on.”
Beckett pauses, like he’s trying to find a loophole in my logic. “That was strategy. You wouldn’t get it.”
“Sure. Just like this argument is a strategy to keep yourself from admitting you already lost.”
“Details, details. You’re focusing on the wrong—”
Brooks cracks his knuckles like we’re about to enter a high-stakes poker match instead of a game fueled by bad decisions. “Alright Dill. Let’s raise the stakes. One more round. Win, and I’m at your mercy. Lose? You ditch my hoodie, embrace the elements, and give the pool a show.”
“Deal.” I say instantly, accepting the challenge before he can rethink it.
Might as well push my last chip forward. What’s there to risk? At this rate, my luck is either burning bright or burning out, and I’m hanging on by borrowed fabric. Brooks, on the other hand, still hasn’t lost so much as a sock. Winning would change that. Losing? At least I’d be the one deciding what comes off next.
Brooks swipes the coin from Miles and flicks it skyward, letting gravity pull it down straight into his palm.
I don’t wait—I know my choice. “Heads.”
The smack of metal against his hand is sharp, final. He peeks at the result, lips pressing into a thin line. A beat passes—just long enough to make me wonder. Then, with a sigh that feels a little too forced, he shakes his head. “Unreal.” His head drops forward briefly before he tosses the coin back to Miles. “It’s heads.”
The group explodes around us, the energy doubling back in waves, but my pulse trips for an entirely different reason—his stare. Brooks is looking at me like he’s decided I’m what’s worth the risk.
“What’ll it be, Rivers?”
I shrug, the words slipping out with a confidence I don’t completely feel. “A deal’s a deal. You wanted a show? Then step up, Holland. The pool’s that way, and the clothes are coming off—unless you’re having second thoughts?”
He rises like gravity is an afterthought, the shift in his weight impossibly fluid. His fingers find the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head in one clean motion. Shadows dance over the cut of his torso, the kind of definition that looks like it belongs on the cover of a sun faded magazine. I exhale through my nose while heat gathers low in my stomach, spreading like ink in water.
Brooks doesn’t look away from me. Not once.
His thumbs hook under the waistband of his clothes, a flick of his wrist undoing the button. The zipper lowers. The denim slides down his legs, gathering at his feet before he steps out and kicks them aside. A chorus of cheers erupt, someone else bangs on the nearest table, but it’s all background noise. Static compared to the way he’s looking at me. Like there’s no one else here.
Then, he moves.
Brooks takes two unhurried steps back, the muscles in his legs flexing beneath the glow of the patio’s string lights. And then, without a second thought, he pushes off, cutting through the air in a sharp arc before colliding with the water below. The splash is instant, sending ripples fanning across the pool’s surface.
A heartbeat passes, then another, before he finally resurfaces.
Water clings to every defined ridge of his body, streaming down his chest in slow rivulets. His soaked hair drips into his eyes until he shoves a hand through it, pushing it back. Overhead lights catch on the droplets tracing the sharp cut of his jaw and the broad slope of his shoulders. He tips his head, shaking off the excess water, his gaze locking onto mine as he moves toward the edge.
His hands find the concrete lip of the pool, fingers flexing before he hoists himself up in one fluid motion. The roll of his shoulders, the subtle rise of his chest, the way his stomach tenses as he lifts himself free from the water—it’s unfair. Unholy, even.
I should tear my focus away before it’s obvious that I can’t. But my mind is stuck, circling the same thought over and over.
“Happy now?” His voice is smooth, like he’s the one holding all the cards.
“Getting there.”
“Your turn,” he taunts, and his voice dips just enough to make it feel like a private challenge, meant for me and no one else.
“What do you mean, my tur—”
My fate is sealed before I can finish the thought. Brooks bends, sweeping me up in an instant. His arm locks around my legs, his sweatshirt bunched in his grip to cover my ass as I’m swung over his shoulder. I push against his back, protesting, but he doesn’t break stride.
The plunge into the pool is unforgiving.
Water slams into me, pulling me under with the force of his momentum. The world goes silent for a moment, just a rush of bubbles and blurred faces from above.
The two of us break the surface gasping for air. I wipe my face, blinking through the sting of chlorine.
“I hate you,” I manage.
Brooks shakes the water from his hair, completely unbothered. “You love me.”
I reach for his shoulders without thinking, bracing myself against him in the water. His hands steady me, fingers pressing against my waist as I instinctively tighten my legs around him to keep myself afloat.
“I won,” I argue. “I didn’t have to skinny dip, remember?”
He barely moves, but I feel like shift in his focus as his attention dips. “You didn’t. You still have my hoodie on.”
I glance down, waterlogged fabric clinging to me. He’s not wrong. I’m still technically covered.
The backs of his fingers brush my cheek as he smooths my hair away, taking his time like he’s memorizing the feel of it. Then he pulls me closer, words spilling gently into the curve of my ear. “You can take it off if you want, but I think I’d rather keep you all to myself.”
A sharp shrill cuts through the moment, coming from the crumpled pile of his jeans. His head jerks toward it, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Fuck, that’s my dad.” In one swift motion, he lifts me onto the pool’s edge, then pulls himself up beside me. Before I can blink, he strides over, snatches his phone, shoots me one last look, and vanishes into the house.
Chloe slips into the space he left beside me, like she’s been waiting for the opening since the game ended. “You know, Dylan,” she purrs, her voice oozing with a twisted kind of sincerity. “Brooks is only nice because, well, someone has to be.”
The air stills. “What?”
She lets out a short, humorless laugh. “You really don’t get it, do you? He keeps you around because—let’s face it—he feels bad. We all do.”
“That’s not true.”
She angles her head, considering me like I’m an equation that doesn’t quite add up. “Please, you can’t honestly believe he sees you as anything but a charity case?” Her tone is unimpressed as she exhales sharply. “Whatever helps you sleep at night. Eventually, even saints get tired. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Beckett steps in, his presence settling over the moment like an unspoken warning. “What’s going on?” His tone is calm, but there’s an edge to it, like a blade waiting to be unsheathed.
Chloe lifts her chin. “Just explaining something to Dylan.”
“Yeah?” Beckett challenges, unmoved. “And what’s that?”
“That she’s wasting her time.”
“Funny,” Colt drawls, stepping in lazily. “You seem a little too invested for an ex-girlfriend. Sounds more like jealousy.”
“Oh, please. Warning a girl that she’s wasting her time on a guy? I’m just being honest.”
“Right,” Colt says. “You sure this isn’t about you, though?” He tilts his head, letting the question settle before continuing. “Because if I recall, you weren’t exactly faithful to Brooks.”
Chloe’s nails dig into her arms where they’re crossed over her chest. “Screw you, Colt.”
My skin prickles with heat, Chloe’s words still biting. “Brooks and I are just friends,” I blurt, desperate to shut this down before it spirals further.
Colt watches Chloe, not me, his smirk creeping into place. “Sure, and Chloe and Brooks were the perfect couple…wait, except for the part where she was crawling into Miles’ bed when no one was looking.”
The color drains from Chloe’s face, her mask slipping for half a second before she catches it. But half a second is long enough. Her glare cuts to Miles like a knife as he approaches, her face burning an angry shade of crimson. With a sharp pivot she storms off like a villain exiting stage left.
“Well, that was dramatic,” Colt mutters, rocking back on his heels with a satisfied expression.
I can barely process his words. My mind is stuck on the revelation he just unleashed. Chloe cheated on Brooks…with Miles?
My stomach lurches as I glance at Miles. He’s unnervingly still, his fingers curled loosely at his sides, lips pressed into a flat, unreadable line.
“What. The. Fuck?” Beckett asks, his stare bouncing between them.
Miles sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t know?” Beckett presses, confused. “Brooks is like your best friend.”
Miles clears his throat, his jaw shifting as if he’s trying to piece his words together carefully. “It was right after I got back from my dad’s cabin last summer. There was a party, and—”
“She took his virginity,” Colt interjects. “Hell of a first time, huh?”
“I didn’t know they’d just started dating. I wouldn’t have…touched her if I’d known.”
Colt shifts closer, bracing both hands on Miles’ shoulders, steadying him just enough to say don’t stress it. “That girl has always known how to leave a mess behind.”
Oblivious to the conversation, Brooks moves toward us, still half absorbed into whatever’s on his phone. “Who does?”
The hush that follows is suffocating, pressing against my skin like a second layer. I scan their faces, but no one steps in to answer. My pulse kicks against my ribs as I finally speak. “Uh, Chloe.”
Brooks raises an eyebrow, looking between us. “Chloe?” His eyes sharpen, suspicion flickering. “What’d she say this time?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I rush to say, though the words feel like a lie.
Colt snorts. “Oh, it matters. She’s out here making Dylan feel like your personal pity project.”
Brooks’ jaw flexes, tension creeping into his voice. “She said that?”
“Yep. And then we had a lovely little trip down memory lane,” Colt says, dragging out the words like he’s savoring them.
“What memory lane?”
Miles exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose.“Chloe and me. Last summer.”
Brooks stills, his eyes darkening just enough to be noticeable. He crosses his arms, and I lean forward, searching his face for a reaction. “Brooks, I—”
“I really don’t care enough to deep dive into Chloe’s greatest hits. I’d rather talk about literally anything else. Like leaving. You in, Rivers?”
“Of course.” I wring out a lock of hair, droplets hitting the concrete before I reach for a towel, pulling it closer like armor. “I should probably change first,” I say, shifting toward the house. “Give me a sec.”
“I’ll wait.”
Colt clicks his tongue. “How sweet.”
The downstairs bathroom light hums overhead as I peel away the soaked hoodie, wringing out the excess water before draping it over the shower rod. I grab my dry clothes, shimming into my jeans before pulling the deep purple crop top over my head. The cotton provides a sense of warmth, hugging me like it belongs.
When I step back outside, Brooks is near his truck, absentmindedly tracing slow circles in the dirt with the toe of his shoe. He doesn’t seem impatient, just caught up in whatever’s running through his head.
I tug the shirt down, the fabric slightly clinging to my damp skin. “You ready?”
He lifts his gaze, a smile tugging at his lips as he unlocks the truck. “Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”
I climb in, and as we pull onto the road, the party shrinks behind us. The air slipping through the open window catching the ends of my still wet hair, twisting the curls against my cheek.
Brooks exhales, fingers flexing against the wheel. “Sorry about earlier.”
“For what?”
He keeps his eyes on the road, but his right hand drifts from the steering wheel to the center console, hovering there—like he’s debating reaching for mine. “Chloe. The whole situation.” His fingers tap against the surface, restless. “She’s wrong, you know. Whatever she said isn’t true.”
“She was drinking,” I say, tracing a pattern on my jeans with the tip of my finger. “Alcohol and exes are a dangerous mix. I told you, parties aren’t really my scene. I usually avoid them like the plague. But honestly? I still had a good time.”
“You never went to any back in Wyoming?”
“Not a real one,” I admit. “Maybe a birthday party in middle school, but nothing like that.”
“And yet, you walked in there and won every game like it was nothing,” Brooks says, a coy smile unfurling as he glances at me. His long lashes frame his eyes—dark and unfairly distracting.
“Let’s not act like you didn’t save me with that hoodie.”
Brooks flicks the turn signal on, then shifts left, extending his arm behind me with an innocent stretch. “I don’t know what you mean. I just thought you’d look good in it.”
Absentmindedly, I trace the chain at my throat, my fingertips brushing over the pendant as my gaze lingers on him. In the dim glow of the radio, the freckles on his cheekbones stand out—tiny constellations I want to memorize. His words loop in my mind until I give in, biting the edge of my necklace and exhaling a calming breath against it.
The road bends, narrowing between towering trees, their branches a canopy that turns the night sky into shifting light. Brooks slows the truck before easing off the path, dust rising as tiny stones skitter aside while we break into a clearing. Without looking, he reaches behind him, his hand searching like muscle memory until it lands on what he wants—a heavy wool blanket, its edges frayed from years of use.
The door creaks as I push it open, the cold air slipping around me as I step onto solid ground. Above, the sky is vast, stars flung across it like someone tipped over a jar of glitter.
“Where are we?”
“Washburn Heights,” he says, rounding the truck bed. He gives the blanket a quick shake before smoothing it over the tailgate. “Hop up.”
I follow him, pressing my palms to the cool metal as I push myself up. My legs swing idly over the edge, the town below nothing but a soft glow against the dark.
Balancing on one arm, he inches closer, his pinky looping around mine in a way that feels intentional. “Not many people know about this place. When life feels like too much, this is where I go to remember how to breathe.”
Our small connection is impossibly soft, but I feel it everywhere. “This feels like the kind of place you could sit and dream about anything.”
“Alright, then. If you gave in to those dreams, where would they lead you?”
“Paris,” I breathe, lifting my gaze to the stars. “That will never change. The art, the museums, the Eiffel Tower, it’s timeless. It just feels like a place I’m at least meant to see.”
“Then we’ll go someday. I promise, eventually, I’ll take you.”
I bite my lip, dropping my gaze from the sky, suddenly feeling too small beneath it. “You don’t have to promise me things like that.”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
“People always mean things…until they don’t.”
The space between us tightens—not in distance, but in the quiet pull of something inevitable. His pinky slips away, only to be replaced by the deliberate intertwining of his fingers with mine. Just as the moment pulls me deeper, Brooks’ free hand brushes against my jaw. He tilts my face up toward him, pulling my eyes to his.
“Then let me be the exception,” he whispers, each word sinking into my skin, stirring a longing that fills every corner of me.
My bones feel liquid, my entire body melting from the importance of this single moment. His mouth inches closer, near enough that I can nearly taste his words as they form. “I’ve been waiting for this since the day I met you.”
The way he looks at me feels like a spell—his emerald irises pulling me in, impossible to resist. The past and future disappear. There’s only now. Only this. I tilt my chin, the tip of his nose brushing mine in the gentlest collision of need.
My lips part, and then his meet mine—tender, unhurried, like a fairytale unfolding in slow motion. I melt into him, my fingers curling into his shirt as I pull him closer. He deepens the kiss, threading a hand into my hair, cradling the back of my head while his other molds to the curve of my spine. Brooks holds me like he’s afraid to let go. And I go to him willingly, drawn by a force older than time itself—like the stars carved this moment into the universe long before we ever existed. When he finally pulls away, our foreheads rest together, both of us breathless.
“You,” he exhales. “If my dreams ever lead me somewhere, they would lead me to you, Dylan.”
There’s an ache, a longing, a fear I don’t have a name for. The edge of the blanket becomes my focus, and my fingers press into the thick weave of the blanket, kneading the fabric as if the right words might be hidden in its threads. “I can’t…” I gather the courage like fragile glass in my hands before lifting my eyes back to his. “I’m leaving, after graduation. Rockport was never supposed to be permanent.”
His hand catches mine, stilling my nervous movements. “Rockport might not be permanent, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be. I meant what I said before—you’re worth more than just surviving. If leaving is what you need, then go. But give me right now. Give me tomorrow—hell, give me forever if you’ll have me. However long I get to be yours, I’ll take it, no matter what it costs me in the end.”
When I look at him this time, it’s different. I don’t just see him—I feel him in every sense. The way his hair falls in careless waves, a few strands nearly brushing the smallest white scar above his eyebrow. The freckles dusting his nose, fading as they reach his cheeks. I wonder how many stories are etched into his skin, ones I’ve never thought to ask about.
Yet, somehow, I already know the most important one.
I’m the rain that never stays, and he’s the earth drawing me in like I was always meant to fall for him.
“Okay,” I say, the word slipping past my lips like a promise, a quiet yes to exploring whatever this is between us. “Let’s see what happens.”