Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Iswallow. “Hi, Cheryl, nice to meet you.”
She feigns interest in me for Dylan’s sake before grabbing a small notepad from her black server’s apron. “What can I get you both?”
Dylan places his menu down and motions to me. “You choose, Luce.”
Oh. “Um, let’s do a medium pepperoni, please.”
“Sure.” She scribbles my order down on her notepad with a gel pen. Brown eyes rise back up and shift between the two of us. “Anything to drink?”
“How about two IPAs?”
“Coming right up.” She gives Dylan a wink before tossing her curly, brown hair over her shoulders and turning around to head back to the kitchen.
“So, Cheryl, huh?” I ask as soon as she’s out of earshot, unable to hide the jealousy that courses through me. How can I possibly compete with someone who lives in the same time as him? “Is she an ex-girlfriend of yours or something?”
“No,” is all he says as he traces an invisible picture on the table with his index finger, almost like he’s drawing. I wonder if that’s a nervous habit of his. “I went to school with her and see her in town every now and then.”
“Do you come into town often?” I ask.
He pauses his doodling and finds my eyes.
“Not really. Just to go fishing, do laundry or get groceries. Or to pick up a pizza to go.” He goes back to his invisible sketch.
“I’m not close with my parents anymore, and I don’t like to risk running into them in town.
I think I just do better on my own for the most part. ”
My heart sinks fast and deep, like that Danforth anchor he tossed into the ocean, falling right to the bottom. I work up the nerve to ask the only question I’m thinking. “Is that because of what happened to Raven?”
I can’t help but notice the way his mouth flinches at the mention of her name.
“I think I remind my parents of what they lost. We looked so alike, the same hair and eyes. Even our smiles were identical.” I picture a little girl with emerald-green eyes and a wide grin that shows off the same sharp teeth as him.
“I bet she was beautiful,” I say.
He smiles before his mouth turns once more. “They still blame me for what happened. I think it’s better for everyone if I’m not around as much. Then, hopefully, they’re not as sad as they might be. Easier this way.”
I reach my hand out and grab his. “I can’t pretend to have any idea what you or your family have gone through, but to choose not to have you in their lives is a mistake.”
“Thanks, Luce.” A small smile forms, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “They don’t see it that way, unfortunately.”
Before either of us has a chance to say anything else, Cheryl comes back with our two overflowing, frothy pints of beer. She places them down in the centre of the table beside our clasped hands, turns on her heels, and walks back over to another table.
“I don’t think Cheryl is my biggest fan,” I giggle as I slide a glass toward me.
And just like that, my favourite smirk is back. He runs a hand through his hair and pulls his own drink up to his lips, and as he swallows, his Adam’s apple juts out as the beer makes its way down his throat. “I don’t see how that’s possible.”
“Pretty sure we didn’t get off on the best foot either,” I come back at him, wiggling my eyebrows in his direction.
He laughs and winks, but says nothing. Just takes another long, slow swig of his drink. “I like how you held your ground with me,” he finally offers. “Not many people do, and it was refreshing to have someone try to put me in my place.”
Normally, my fiery mouth gets me into trouble, but not with him, it seems. He sees me for exactly who I am and likes me for me. It feels nice to know.
“You’re fun to spar with, Dylan Hart,” I tell him after another sip.
Cheryl arrives back at our table soon after with our steaming pizza. She places it down on a raised red plastic tray and places two ceramic plates beside it. “Enjoy,” she says, mostly to Dylan, before leaving us alone.
Dylan grabs a slice, the melty cheese pulling like an elastic as he lifts the piece off the tray and then onto one of the plates. Passing it to me, he licks some leftover cheese off his finger, and I tongue my cheek in response.
As soon as I take my first bite, a loud groan leaves my mouth.
Dylan’s eyes lock on mine, darkening at the sound.
“This is amazing,” I say, stuffing another bite into my mouth.
I groan again, and Dylan clears his throat as he brings a hand to my face, wiping off a bit of tomato sauce from beside my lower lip.
He grazes my open lips, and a shiver runs down my spine.
Then he brings his finger to his mouth and sucks it clean, pulling it back out with a pop before picking up his own slice and taking a bite.
That certainly shuts me up.
After we finish our pizza and two pints of beer each, Dylan pays, and we head back to the lighthouse. The path is covered in darkness, but the sky is clear, and the tiny lights above from the stars and the crescent moon shine down around us.
We get inside, and Dylan throws a few more logs on the wood stove, warming the place up. He grabs two more chilled beers from the fridge, and we sit together on the brown-and-yellow plaid couch, casually sipping them.
“What should we do?” I playfully ask him. “Since you’re not a TV guy at all.”
“I’m definitely not that,” he laughs as he takes a swig from his bottle.
Then his eyes light up for a moment, and he motions to me to wait with a finger.
He places the bottle on the coffee table in front of us and runs over to the stairs and up to the second level.
As his feet hit the floor once more upon his return, he’s holding a red cardboard box.
“How do you feel about Scrabble?” he asks with a grin.
I take it from him and inspect it. The glossy red box with white writing looks similar to the game I know, but reminds me almost of a vintage artifact.
I give it a shake and hear the familiar sound of tiles rustling together in the enclosed space.
Looking at him, I say, “I haven’t played in years. Let’s do it.”
We get everything set up on the coffee table.
I’m on one side, sitting cross-legged, facing the couch, and he’s on the other side, feet planted on the floor in front of him, facing the wood stove.
The fire warms my back, and Dylan passes me the fleece blanket from the back of the couch to lay over my lap.
My hair is up in a bun on top of my head, and I went and changed into the clothes Dylan bought for me before we started.
He hands me the tiles, seven for me and seven for him.
We start off with easy words, laughing along as we place them down on the board and retrieve our new tiles.
Every time Dylan’s gaze lands on me, my mouth goes dry, and heat erupts in my belly.
His look is penetrating, and it makes it hard to concentrate on the game we’re playing.
We’re both neck and neck, each of us scoring points without the other questioning our word choices. It isn’t until I place down the tiles to spell epee that Dylan tilts his head at me and offers a smirk. “That can’t be real. You just had a lot of e’s you needed to get rid of.”
Placing my hand on my chest, I pretend to be deeply offended and scoff. “How dare you suggest I cheat?” I say as a laugh bursts out of me. “Don’t you know what an épée is?”
“It’s not a real word, so of course I don’t know what it is.”
“It’s a pointed sword. A duelling sword. For fencing,” I say matter-of-factly.
“And tell me, Lucy, why would I know anything about fencing?” he retorts, a laugh hidden behind his smile.
I pause for a minute. “I guess that’s fair. I only know ’cause of high school. We had fencing class.”
“Of course you did.” He chuckles as he spins a tile between his index finger and thumb, my eyes darting down to watch the quick motion. “My school didn’t even have a gym, it was so small.”
Without realizing what I’m doing, I lean forward, grab his bicep, and squeeze.
“Then how the hell are you so fit?” He looks over at my hand and then brings his across his chest to place over top of my own, eyes raking up and down my body.
I took my bra off when I got changed and am very aware of how my perky nipples are probably showing through the thin cotton of my grey shirt.
My pulse vibrates through my body as he keeps his hand on mine and gently strokes it with his thumb.
“No idea,” he responds in a low voice.
I drop the tiles I was holding, and they land on the floor beside me.
Dylan doesn’t even twitch. “Well, whatever you’re doing, it’s working,” I say, leaning over to pick them back up, feeling slightly tipsy from the beer we’ve been drinking.
It’s nice. Normally, the pressure of everything going on weighs me down, but tonight, playing Scrabble with him, I’m light and airy.
Relaxed. My cheeks are flushed from the way the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up past his elbows and the way his hand has found my leg every so often under the table and grazes it over my pants.
“Thanks.” His voice is so low now it’s almost a whisper.
Something sparks inside me, and an idea comes to mind. Using some of my own tiles and ones from the board in front of us, I spell out a message to him.
My fingers shake as I drop each tile beside the next.
K-I-S-S
M-E