Chapter 8
DYLAN
M y sit down with Max was about to begin.
I was flooded with nervous anticipation, like I was about to step on stage before a live studio audience.
After a video call with my sponsor, Quinn, I called down to the kitchen to put in my breakfast order while I headed down for a run on the treadmill.
After my half hour run, I wandered up to the bridge deck feeling calmer.
As I walked through the lounge with its plush white sofas and polished wood floors, a sense of déjà vu swept over me.
Except this time, I was on the ship practically alone.
Not that I was complaining. All the other times it was always Ro and his guests, usually small groups of clients.
Some were polite, a lot were obnoxious. Anything more than a half dozen people set my teeth on edge.
As I made my way outside and up the stairs, I was surprised to find Max already seated at the long dining table.
Juice in one hand, he was swiping at something on his tablet with the other.
Then he paused to pick up a stylus and was handwriting notes.
He wore another short-sleeved polo, dark blue, and sported his black-rimmed glasses.
The intense expression on his face told me he was already well into work mode.
Good. The sooner we got this book drafted, the sooner we could part ways.
Not that he was bad company, mind. But after yesterday’s swimsuit reveal, the more distance between us, the better.
Twin sensations of surprise and lust had me holding back an unexplained fit of laughter when Max spread himself out on that lounger yesterday.
His slender body all but naked except for that itty, bitty piece of pink—hot pink—spandex that hid absolutely nothing.
When we first met, I took him for a nerdy professor, all buttoned up.
But Max Lowell, Ph.D. was turning out to be anything but.
Then I remembered one of the sex scenes in his novel. The professor was a very naughty boy under those preppy polo shirts, and I would do well to remember that.
In a past lifetime, I would’ve flirted on the down low and blamed it on the drink, forgetting about it the next day. But I had no excuses now. Best to keep my mind—and my eyes—on work.
“Mornin’,” I called out as I approached the table. Max stopped writing and set aside his tablet.
“Morning, Dylan. Did you sleep well?” he asked and looked up at me with a smile.
“Thirteen hours. You?” I took the seat opposite him and grabbed the carafe of juice, pouring a glass for myself. I noticed that Max’s nose was slightly burnt, and freckles dotted his cheekbones.
“Me too. Well, I had a nap in the sun.” He pointed to his nose. “Did some research and then crawled into my bed. I swear, I’ve never experienced a mattress so soft and perfect in all my life.”
I chuckled, thinking about Ro and how he’d carefully picked out every damn item for his superyacht. “Yeah, Rowan spared no expense on his baby. Only the best of everything on this ship.”
Jana brought out two plates with veggie omelets and hash browns. My stomach rumbled, since I hadn’t had anything to eat since lunch yesterday.
“This smells amazing. I have to meet the chef and thank her in person…so, are you ready to get to work?” Max asked between bites.
“No, but let’s get it over with,” I replied. “No offense.”
“None taken. I’ve been doing research.” He pointed to the tablet with his fork. Max paused and took a sip of his juice. “Tell me about growing up in El Paso. I see from your bio that you come from a large family.”
Oh God, here we go .
Suddenly I was sitting at the highest peak of the fastest rollercoaster, my stomach flipping over as I faced that inevitable first drop.
“Yes,” I managed to croak out. “I have four older sisters. Both my parents grew up there. My father was a mechanic, and my mom was—still is—a nurse. I grew up in the suburbs and hightailed it outta there when I was eighteen thanks to a drama scholarship. Mama certainly didn’t have enough money for one—let alone five—children to go to college. ”
Max nodded and finished his last bite. He picked up his stylus and made notes.
“I’ve been looking into your family history. Why don’t we start with your father?”
And just like that, Daddy’s razor-sharp voice rang out in my memory. Shouts were hurled at me as fast as the bottles that came after. Mama’s screams, my screams...
I shook my head to dispel the unwanted snapshot and turned to Max. “Ryland Aylmer was a good mechanic, a shit husband, and an unfit father. A raging drunk, so the apple,”—I pointed to myself—“don’t fall far from the rotten tree. Have you read about what happened to him?”
“I did, but I want to hear it from your perspective,” Max replied, and I was comforted by the look of understanding in his warm gaze. He didn’t say anything else but waited patiently.
I flashed back to sitting in a cold church pew as a confused ten-year-old while my dad’s funeral service went on around me .
No one in the packed Baptist gathering was crying. Not Mama, not my sisters. Were they like me? All I’d felt was relief that his anger would never touch me again.
I was humming a favorite tune to myself as the pastor delivered the sermon, until Mama touched my leg and told me to keep quiet…
I took one inhale and let go. “He met my mom in high school, and they got married right after graduating. Before the ink was dry on their marriage certificate, he was drafted. Got sent to Vietnam and worked as an aircraft mechanic during the war. He came back three years later, and they had Madison the following year. He’d gotten a job fixing up cars and had his own business for a while.
But, according to Mama, he was never the same when he returned. ”
“That’s not surprising. He probably had undiagnosed PTSD.”
“Mama told me he refused to talk about anything related to the war, but he often had nightmares. He did what a lot of people do, self-medicate. One of his army buddies owned a bar in town so he’d go out drinking when he wasn’t at work.
Then came the bar fights. The arrests, the drunk driving…
” I paused. “Drunk or not, I just remember a bitter, angry man. About two months before he died, Mama bailed him out of jail and one of the police officers started asking about the bruises on her arms and neck. She told them she’d had a bad fall, an accident.
Later that week, I overheard her talking to our pastor, who dropped by our house to see how we were doing.
She was asking his advice about whether she should leave him, and do you know what he told her? ”
Max shook his head.
“‘You stand by your husband, no matter what. No matter what. He’s in pain, and he needs your love to guide him to a better place.’” I scoffed.
“Anyway, besides Mama, I was his favorite target when it came to his drunken rages. He was determined to ‘beat the sissy’ out of me, and yes, that’s exactly how he phrased it.
I was too soft-hearted and sensitive. I was weird to him. ”
I leaned back and grabbed the back of my neck, reassuring myself: He’s gone. I’m safe.
“We can take a break if you need it,” Max said quietly. I shook my head. I wanted to get this part over with as soon as possible.
“The first time he backhanded me I screamed and cried for hours. Inconsolable. The next time he did it, I cried for maybe ten minutes. The third time, I had hardly any reaction at all until I defended myself and tried to hit him back. He just laughed at my pathetic effort. Said he’d make a man out of me, a fighter like him, in no time at all.
” I paused and took a sip of my juice to clear the lump in my throat.
“No way in hell did I ever want to be like my father.”
I groaned as I realized how ironic that was.
“But I turned out to be a drunk, just like him. Not angry or violent, but destructive all the same. Harmful mostly to myself.”
“I’m so sorry you and your family went through that, Dylan. What about your sisters? What was your relationship like with them?”
Grateful for the change in topic, I let out a long exhale. My heart was beating like a scared jackrabbit, and I needed to calm it the hell down.
“I’m the youngest, the unexpected baby, so there’s about five years between me and Darby.
Then there’s Leanne, who’s a year older than her, then Jaleyne, then Madison.
Mad and I are ten years apart. They were pretty much out of the house by the time Daddy’s drinking got completely out of hand, except for Darby.
I think…” I looked out to the blue sea beyond to gather my thoughts.
“They all had part-time jobs to help out Mama, since Daddy lost his business when I was eight. Between that and school, I think they were relieved they weren’t at home much.
They did their best to keep me out of harm’s way and did as much for Mama as they could.
But she wouldn’t leave him, and he wouldn’t let them take me out of the house for any length of time.
After he passed, things got better. It took time but slowly, we were able to be a family again.
My sisters were always there for me. They took me to football games, helped me with homework, taught me how to drive.
” I chuckled at the memory of Mad and Lea in our old red pickup, trying to teach sixteen-year-old me how to use a stick shift for the first time.
“They’re still in Texas, married, and with kids of their own.
They were—are—good, caring people. I miss them. ”
The lump in my throat felt like a boulder that was permanently lodged there.
“You don’t have a relationship with them?” Max asked gently as he continued to take notes.
“Not lately. I text on holidays, but I haven’t talked to them, by phone or in person, in over two years. After my last drunken incident, and all the press about it, I was too ashamed. I just couldn’t face them.”
“What about your mother?”