20
Dylan
N ow
“You’re devastating,” Brooks murmurs, his lips trailing along the curve of my neck. “I’ve been starving for you. For us.”
A part of me aches to believe this isn’t just a spark destined to burn out. That pulling him back into my space, into my orbit, wasn’t a reckless mistake. But the doubt sinks its teeth in deep, tearing at the edges of my resolve. I can’t.
I edge back, the space between us too small to matter but I just enough to keep me from unraveling. My pulse thrums, my chest tightens. “Please,” I rasp. “Just stop talking. I’m done talking.”
For once, he listens without protest. His lips drag lower, searing a path across my skin, settling against my breast. I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting to maintain control as his lips close around me, drawing me into a rhythm I can’t ignore. The sensation is overwhelming, the deliberate way his tongue traces circles around my nipple feels incredible.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but that only amplifies my awareness of him—his hands, his breath, the sheer pull of him against every one of my defenses. His hand slides down my stomach, the touch both familiar and electric. A single finger dips between my thighs, exploring, teasing. The pressure builds as he moves with an agonizing precision.
For a fleeting moment, I lose myself to the sensation. But the reprieve is brief. The shame seeps in almost instantly, sharp and unforgiving.
What am I doing?
What about Aaron?
My hands clench into fists at my sides, nails pressing into my palms like some feeble attempt to ground myself. I hate the way my body responds to him, betraying everything my mind knows to be true. I hate the way I let him pull me into this, as if I haven’t spent years building walls strong enough to keep him out.
Because this isn’t strength. It’s weakness. It’s the same vulnerability that let me fall for him in the first place—the fragility that still holds, no matter how much I try to convince myself I’m over it.
This moment isn’t a reunion. It’s not a second chance. It’s the fucking end.
And yet, I still let him touch me.
I despise him for making me love him. For the way his presence digs into my soul and refuses to let go.
I resent myself more—for holding on all these years, for letting the memories of us haunt the hidden recesses of my mind.
I loathe how being with him feels so perfect now, like this is exactly where I’m meant to be, even though I know it shouldn’t.
No matter how hard I try to fight it, I can’t escape the pull he has over me. It’s as though every piece of me is tuned to him, aching to fall back into what we once had.
And I hate it. I hate that part of me still aches for a future with him, a part that clings to a hope I thought I’d buried long ago.
But despite the storm brewing inside me, my body betrays me, responding to every touch, every brush of his fingers on my skin. My hands move to his shoulders, nails pressing into his flesh as if securing myself to reality. My toes curl, and I cry out his name as the currents of pleasure crash over me.
“God, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he breathes. “How many years…”
“Don’t,” I plead, my voice breaking. I can’t hear this. I don’t want to.
But this time he doesn’t stop. “No, you have to know,” he insists, his words cutting through my resolve.
I turn my head away, continuing to squeeze my eyes shut as if I can block him out. As if refusing to look at him will somehow protect me.
When I finally turn back, my bed is empty. There’s no trace of Brooks anywhere. Just the faint scent of rain seeping through the window and the soft patter of drops against the glass.
I roll onto my side, every inch of me thrumming with an ache I can’t name, only feel. The sheets cling, chilled and stifling, twisting around me like they know I don’t belong anywhere else.
Of course.
It was a dream.
I let my eyes trace the raindrops racing each other down the pane, tracking the erratic paths they take as my eyes adjust to the darkness. Maybe this is all we’ll ever be— Brooks and I—fragments of dreams and memories. Pieces of something I can’t quite let go of, no matter how much it hurts to hold on.
Last night, my anger overshadowed everything else, like a wall I wasn’t ready to break through. But now, as I lie here staring at nothing, the sharp edges of it have dulled, leaving room for something else to creep in. Regret? Maybe. Or just the growing realization that I’ve been avoiding the full picture.
I haven’t let Brooks explain. Not really. My pain and confusion have been louder than his voice, drowning out anything he might have tried to say. Maybe I wanted it that way. It’s easier to hold onto my version of the story—to keep blaming him—than to risk hearing something that might prove I made the wrong decision.
But no matter how much I try to shove it aside, Brooks wasn’t just a part of my past; he was one of the few people who ever made me feel seen. Loved. Safe in a way that no one else ever managed to. Aside from my brother, he’s the only other person who ever slipped past the barricades I didn’t even know I was fortifying.
And that’s what makes it so much harder. The betrayal doesn’t just hurt because he let me down. It hurts because I trusted him completely. I gave him a part of me I never let anyone else touch, and he demolished it.
Even now, I can’t let that go.
The blanket falls to the floor as I grab my dress from my suitcase and lay it on the bed. It’s simple but elegant—enough to look like I’ve got it together, even if I feel far from it. The reunion is in a few hours, and I’m still trying to convince myself I have the strength to show up.
As I plug in my phone, there’s a sharp knock at the door. My pulse picks up slightly, the sound unexpected. For a moment, I think it might be housekeeping, but when I drag it open, Aaron stands there, drenched from the rain and holding a small brown duffle bag.
“Aaron?” My voice falters in surprise. He doesn’t belong here, not in this place that exposes so much of my past.
“Hey,” he exclaims, raking his fingers through his damp hair. “I figured you could use a little company tonight.”
“What?” My words stumble out as I step aside to let him in. “How? How…did you?”
“I missed you,” he insists, dropping the duffle bag near the door. “Figured if you’re going to this thing, you might like having someone with you.”
“You flew all the way here for this?” I cross my arms instinctively, a shield against the vulnerability I suddenly feel. His gesture is thoughtful—too thoughtful. It’s like he’s peeled back a layer I wasn’t ready to share.
“Of course I did,” he boasts, his tone steady, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “The reunion’s irrelevant, honestly. What matters is you. I’d go anywhere to be with you, Dylan.”
I exhale, leaning back against the wall. “You shouldn’t have.” I may sound ungrateful, but there’s no denying the truth. A part of me wishes he hadn’t. My life in New York feels so far removed from the person I am here, like it belongs to someone else entirely. And Aaron showing up feels like a reminder of the fractured line between the two.
“Maybe not,” he says, undeterred, “but I wanted to be here. So, where’s the reunion happening? What’s the plan?”
My eyes drift toward my dress. “It’s at the high school. In the gym. Nothing fancy.”
He nods, scanning the room briefly before looking at me again. “How are you holding up?”
“Not great,” I admit finally, shifting to the edge of the bed. “I thought I’d be ready for this, but now that I’m here, it’s…harder than I thought it’d be.”
“I’ll be there, and if anyone gives you grief, I’ll take care of it.”
I press my lips together, looking down at my hands. He has no idea what he is talking about. “Aaron, this isn’t some big dramatic scene. It’s a bunch of people talking, mostly pretending their lives are perfect. I’ll be fine.”
“Maybe,” he replies, pulling off his damp jacket and tossing it over the back of a chair. “But it doesn’t hurt to have backup.”
I don’t respond. He’s here because he cares, I know that, but his presence feels like a reminder of how far I haven’t come. I came here thinking this was about closure, about finally confronting my past so I could go back to him with a clean slate. But now I’m starting to wonder if that was just a story I told myself to avoid admitting the truth—I’ll always be stuck.
“Thanks,” I say finally, though the words barely make a sound. “For coming.”
He gives a small smile, and I look away, focusing on the dress again. It feels like a costume now, part of some performance I’ve trapped myself in. I’d wanted to do this for me, to prove I could. But with Aaron here, it feels like I’m just trying to hold up the version of myself he’s always seen, the one who’s brave enough to move on.
“I’ll get ready,” I say after a long pause, pushing myself up from the bed. “Might as well get it over with.”
Aaron’s expression softens, but I don’t wait for him to continue. Instead, I grab the dress and step toward the bathroom, closing the door behind me. Alone again, I press my hands to the sink and stare at my reflection. The plan had seemed so simple before—come back, face what happened, and leave it all behind. But now, I’m not so sure the past is something I’ll ever really escape.
The gym doors tower ahead, framed by an arch of gold and teal balloons that shine under the bright lights.
Aaron walks at my side, the steady rhythm of his steps syncing with my own. I fiddle with the hem of my dress, questioning every inch of it. The deep red fabric clings just a little too tightly, its sleek lines and soft shimmer too polished, too perfect. The strapless design is elegant, accentuating my every move, and yet, the color feels wrong, like an old wound I can’t cover up. The murmur of voices and faint strains of music seep through the walls, like a thin veil that prickles uncomfortably at my skin.
“Hope you’re ready,” Aaron says, his tone calm but pointed enough to make me hesitate.
The reasons I’d given for coming this weekend—closure, proving I could face this, showing I’d moved on—feel insane now, flimsy excuses I don’t fully believe anymore.
Inside, I stop in my tracks. Round tables are scattered across the gym, draped in white cloth and surrounded by chairs tied with gold and teal bows. Fairy lights snake across the ceiling, casting a soft glimmer that makes the decorations sparkle. It’s so similar to our prom it’s eerie, though the energy is far more muted now.
Aaron lets out a low whistle. “They really went for it, huh?”
I manage a faint nod in acknowledgement, my thoughts slipping from the present. In a span of a heartbeat, I’m back in the past.
Beckett had insisted we make the most of it, grabbing my hand and spinning me right there in the middle of the dance floor. The memory stirs, unsettling me before it finds its place. That was then. Now, it’s just me, Aaron, and the undeniable burden of what’s missing.
At the check-in table, a woman in a tailored navy satin blouse and delicate gold jewelry beams at us. “Welcome back!” she chirps, pushing a clipboard toward me.
I sign my name quickly, ready to retreat when a familiar voice catches me by surprise.
“Dylan?”
I turn and see Miles Davenport, wearing a look of disbelief that I’m here. He’s older now, more weathered in subtle ways, but still Miles. His surprise feels too bright against the murkiness inside me.
“Miles,” I say, my voice thin and not at all convincing.
He strides toward me, pulling me into a kind hug like no time has passed. “I can’t believe it! Holy shit. Look at you! You look incredible.”
I step back, brushing an invisible strand of hair from my face, motioning vaguely toward Aaron. “This is Aaron, my boyfriend.”
Aaron offers his hand, his usual ease diffusing the moment. “Aaron Sinclair. Nice to meet you.”
Miles takes it warmly. “You too. I’m glad Dylan’s got someone with her.”
The moment his words start to register, a petite brunette I hadn’t noticed steps forward. “This is my wife, Breigh,” Miles says, the word “wife” catching like a splinter.
Breigh smiles at me, genuine and unassuming. “I’ve heard so much about you over the years,” she cheers. “It’s nice to finally meet you. I know Miles was hoping you’d be here.”
“You too,” I reply automatically, though the introduction feels surreal. Miles has a wife. A wife he’s told about me? He built a life. I don’t know why he wouldn’t, but the thought that people have moved on, stings more than I expected. Pressing against a part of me that’s been standing still for far too long.
Miles shifts slightly, like he’s testing the air between us. “I’m really glad you came out,” his words are almost tender. “I mean, I know how hard it must’ve been for you to even make the trip back here.”
I offer a single, firm, bob of my head, keeping my response measured. His careful choice of words leave me to wonder if he’s holding back for my sake, or his own. Either way, one thing is clear: Aaron doesn’t know the full story, and tonight isn’t the time to change that.
“It’s not the same without…” He pauses, his expression clouding as his words falter. “Without…everyone here.”
There it is. The shadow I knew would be waiting for me tonight. The name he didn’t say, the presence no one else in this room could feel missing the way I could. I murmur something polite, though I don’t register what I’ve said.
Aaron lightly touches my arm, drawing my attention back to him. “Want to grab a seat?”
I latch onto the suggestion. “Please.” My farewell to Miles and Breigh is brief, clipped, and final.
“It’s good to see you, Dylan,” Miles calls after me. “Really. If you’re around later tonight, I’d love to catch up.”
Aaron steers me toward the seating area, his presence keeping me from completely falling apart. Around us, voices blur, laughter bubbles up in bursts, and music hums faintly through the gym. None of it feels real.
Miles’ words burrow deep. They dismantle me, leaving nothing but exposed nerve endings and the biting reminder that I can’t break free from them.
It’s obvious now that I clung to the lie that coming back meant moving on because it was easier than admitting the truth—that I have no fucking clue how to let him go. And part of me doesn’t ever want to.