Chapter Forty-Four – Dylan
Where is my princess?
I nearly took a fucking puck to the throat because I was too busy squinting at a group of figure skaters, thinking one of them might magically turn into Fawn if I stared hard enough.
Spoiler alert: they did not. However, I did get evil stares from Harper.
If looks could kill, damn, I’d be six feet under.
Now, I stand outside the locker room, my eyes sweeping around the rink for the third time, hoping to see her. All I hear is the sound of blades on ice, feel the cold air biting my skin.
Torin has already changed out of his kit and is now next to me with his arms crossed, looking at the stands the same way I am. Too focused. Too quiet.
“She said she was coming this morning.” My voice is tinged with uncertainty.
My phone pings in my pocket before Torin has a chance to respond. The moment I see her name, I quickly open the group chat.
Fawn: Sorry I haven’t stopped by the rink. Something came up with Grandpa.
Well, that feels off. My stomach drops, and that well-known protective instinct comes to the surface. I cast a quick look at Torin. He has already taken out his phone and is staring at the screen, as if something more will appear between the lines.
“Do you think I should visit the nursing home?” I say. “Check on her?”
Torin finally looks up, and he puts his phone back in his pocket. “Hmm.” A pause. “No . . . she may think we’re hovering if we do that. I don’t wanna push her away after last night.”
“You don’t think her grandpa’s . . .”
Torin, brows knitting together as he looks at me. “What?”
“Passed away? Oh, fuck.”
“Jesus, Dylan. Don’t say that. She would have said something. Just send her a text, ask if she and her grandfather are okay.”
Despite my natural desire to get in the car right away, I nod. My thumbs move quickly, typing before I have a chance to overthink it.
Me: Don’t worry about us, princess. Is everything okay with you and your grandpa?
You know we’re only a text away.
I hit send, waiting for the reply to pop up right away, but nothing.
“On the way home . . .” I say, trying to act like it’s no big deal, but it doesn’t work, “can we just drive past her place at least?”
Torin snorts, a quiet one, like he knows I’m right and doesn’t want to admit it. “Fine,” he says. “But you better not make it too obvious.”
Before I can even reply, I notice the coach sweeps past us, his shoulders tense.
“Hey, Coach!” I shout, enough to get his attention.
Hesitantly, he turns on his heel.
“Didn’t know you were here,” I say. “Thought you were sick or something. You weren’t around for practice.”
He clears his throat, his eyes jumping between Torin and me. “I’ve been up in the office. After your little altercation last night . . .” He raises an eyebrow. “I had to spend nearly an hour on the phone with Mr. Turner, persuading him not to withdraw his funding.”
Torin just rolls his eyes, completely unmoved, as if none of it matters to him.
“He didn’t appreciate Harper’s new boyfriend getting beaten up,” he continues. “But lucky for you two, this Jason guy isn’t pressing charges, and I managed to secure funding.”
Jason had it coming to him; this guilty pang inside of me isn’t for that dipshit, but for the rink. For sticking Coach in the middle of all of it. For possibly jeopardizing something greater than myself.
“Sorry, Coach,” I begin. “I actually wanted to talk to you about that—”
He cuts me off with a quick wave of his hand. “Let’s not,” he says curtly. “The problem has already been taken care of.”
There is something in his tone that immediately shuts the whole conversation down. No room for apologies or explanations. He turns and walks away, leaving an odd, unsettling feeling behind.
“Well, that didn’t sound fucking ominous at all,” Torin grumbles. “The dude talks like a hitman on an hourly rate.”
I let out a laugh with effort, and push his arm with my shoulder. “Come on.” I manage a smile. “Let’s go harmlessly stalk — I mean, take the long way home.”
Torin lets out a snort and shakes his head as we head for the exit. I try to act naturally in my joke, but my eyes continue to wander to my phone, thumb hovering as it might magically summon Fawn to reply.
****
“Okay, okay, hold up. Put your Ray-Bans on. We don’t want her to catch us,” I whisper as Torin turns into Fawn’s neighborhood.
“Dylan,” Torin states bluntly, “one, why are you whispering like she has super hearing? And two? We’re in my fucking truck. If she peeks out the window, she’s gonna know it’s us, you fucking jackass.”
He has two good points, but I ignore him. Mind you, this is completely rational behavior, just casually driving by your girlfriend’s place like a stalker.
“Move your big head,” Torin growls, pushing at my shoulder.
“Fuck you,” I swear as I slip my Ray-Bans down my nose like that’ll conceal six feet of hockey player sitting in the passenger seat.
Oh, yeah. Very stealthy.
“What are we gonna say if she catches us?” he asks.
“We’ll say . . . uh. Shit. We didn’t think this through.”
“No. No. You didn’t think this through. This was your fucking idea.”
“Hey, you didn’t have to follow through with it.”
“Of course, I was gonna. That’s our girl.”
Torin slows the truck down to a speed that borders on ridiculously slow. We look like complete morons, but we’re the kind of morons who care and love her — so here we are. The house looks the same — the white porch, the sun-dried yard.
“Any sign of life?” Torin asks in a hushed tone. “Can you see her?”
Slowly, I turn my head and raise one eyebrow at him. “Oh, look who’s whispering now.”
He drops his head and narrows his eyes over the top of his Ray-Bans.
“Her car isn’t here,” I say, more serious now. “So she has to be at the nursing home.”
Torin shifts in his seat and clears his throat, as if the realization just hit him. “We look like total fucking idiots.”
“Nah. If something was going on and we didn’t investigate? We’d be the bigger idiots then,” I reply.
Torin doesn’t argue; he signals and drives on. We roll along for a little while in complete silence — the kind that hums in your ears, making my thoughts way too loud. The road just keeps stretching out before us, and my hands are pounding rhythmically on my thigh before I can stop them.
“Maybe we should stop by the nursing home—”
“Fuck no!” Torin yells, interrupting me. “Dylan, you wanna scare her off?” He looks at me like I’m crazy. “No? No? Then let’s just leave her be, okay?” He struggles to force a laugh at the end to smooth things over for both of us.
Slumping back in the seat, I mumble, “I feel bad . . . about last night.”
“You’re overthinking it. Don’t feel bad,” Torin says easily. “Jason had it coming. If you didn’t beat the living crap out of him, I would have.”
“No.” I shake my head. “Not him. I don’t feel sorry for him. I feel sorry she saw it. What if she’s mad at me? What if I scared her?” I force the swallow down. “I really care about her. I don’t want her to see me as a monster.”
“Dylan, I know you do. Trust me, she doesn’t see you as a monster,” he replies, reaching out to squeeze my knee firmly. “She’s okay. We’ll see her tonight. She’s going to be stuck between us, hogging all the blankets, and everything is going to be fine, okay?”
I realize I’ve been holding my breath. “Yeah,” I answer, although I’m not entirely sure myself.
Torin plucks a cigarette out of the pack and lights it with one hand like nothing’s wrong with that. One hand! With a two-ton truck backing up behind him. I just don’t understand how the guy doesn’t drive us off the road or still has eyebrows.
“She said she had a cold earlier,” I say, looking out the window as houses pass by as a blur. “Sounded a little sniffly over the phone.”
“Nothing worse than a stuffy nose in the summer,” he grumbles, puffing on a cigarette. “She’s gonna need a hot bath, some cuddles, and chicken soup.” He scoffs. “And I should cook, because let’s be real, you’ll burn it.”
“Hey,” I protest. “I like my food . . . crispy.”
“Charred,” he corrects.
He pulls into the driveway and cuts off the engine. “Oh, look, mail,” he says, flicking ash out the window. “No doubt fucking junk. You get that, and I’ll go in and see if we even have what we need to make soup.”
“Alright, dude.”
Hopping out of the truck, I stroll toward the mailbox, relaxed — until I open it. There’s only a single piece of paper, folded neatly. Too neatly.
No envelope.
No stamp, meaning hand delivered.
Slowly, I hold my breath as I unfold it.
My stomach drops. Hard.
Dear Dylan and Torin,
The world around me grows silent, the air thick in my lungs. I grip the paper tightly as the sound of my pulse pounds through my ears.
And whatever is written next, I already know it’s from Fawn.
Dear Dylan and Torin,
I’m sorry.
My hands are shaking as I write.
I wish I could say this in front of you, hear your voices, let myself fall apart, but I can’t. I’m not strong enough for that kind of goodbye.
You’re both amazing.
Both of you are my world; you have been everything to me. Since the moment you came into my life, it feels as if I walked into a dream. No one has ever shown up for me the way you two have, which is why all this is so hard painful.
The truth is, I am not what you deserve. You deserve someone better, someone who can give back even half of what you’ve given me. You saved me over and over again. You made me feel safe, chosen, seen, but deep down, I can never save you the way you’ve saved me.
Honestly, I don’t want to be a burden, someone you have to protect all the time. I feel silly weak, and I don’t know how to stop being that way.
If I stay, I know I’d only fail you one day.
I’m so, so, so sorry, and I understand if you never forgive me.
I promise, you’ve done nothing wrong. It’s me.
You deserve better. I’m nothing but a mess.
I won’t be in Ivywood when you read this letter. After a while, I will return, but right now, leaving is the only way I know how to survive.