Chapter 10
Amara
Something changed in Dylan after our impromptu Ted talks at the arcade. It was a slight change, only noticeable in the subtle way her hand brushed mine on the walk back to her car. She didn’t have much to say after I spilled my guts to her over the arcade game, but she didn’t jerk away from my touch like she usually did either.
And when we challenged the sole employee of the arcade to a bumper car race, she’d sat me between her legs and put her arms around me, gripping the steering wheel and hurling us around the rink like a woman who should not be trusted with a driver’s license. Her presence at my back had my whole body in flames, and I was grateful she couldn’t see the blush on my cheeks. In that moment I wasn’t thinking about getting under her defenses or gaining her trust. I wasn’t thinking about Don, and I wasn’t even thinking about escaping him. I was thinking about how pretty her hands were – pale, slender fingers gripping the steering wheel. I was thinking if I could just hit the jackpot I could win her that bat plushie she’d been eyeing.
Having stumbled on the remnants of her past, and revealing a little of my own, I’d forged a kind of understanding between us – marching across no-man's land with a white flag. There was only one problem with that; I was far more emotionally invested than I should have been. Just how much was a question I didn’t want to face head-on. That question was a little too alarming, and that feeling was compounded by the fact that it had all happened so quickly.
I bottled those feelings on the drive home, watching the city pass by through the window, and consoled myself with another wicked thought: Dylan was cracking.
I stole a glance in her direction. Dylan had her eyes on the road. The usual hard line of her mouth had softened slightly, and she seemed at ease, one hand casually guiding the steering wheel while the other tapped along to whatever was playing on the radio. She glanced my way and caught me watching and I quickly looked away. But a moment later I felt a deep, thrumming vibration through the seat and the soles of my feet, and glanced over again to find Dylan turning the radio up. She gave me a half-smile and focused on the road again.
My icy wife was warming up to me.
Unfortunately, that thought did not bring me comfort the way I thought it would. I had made it this far by telling myself that no matter what I did – deceiving Dylan, gaining her trust only to break it later – it wasn’t personal. I was just doing what I needed to survive. And besides, it wasn’t like she didn’t expect it. Dylan knew Don had ulterior motives when he set up this marriage. Our relationship thus far was like a lion and a circus performer; every day I’d put my head between her jaws, and trust her not to close them and ruin our act.
But the creeping guilt remained. I closed my eyes and leaned back in my seat, brushing a hand over the speaker to feel the thrum of the radio in my palm.
After getting back to the apartment, Dylan thrust the door open and gestured for me to go in before her. I found myself suddenly shy and awkward, like a schoolgirl with a crush, ducking my head down and shuffling past her before she could notice my flushed cheeks.
After the arcade, which would have looked suspiciously like a first date to anyone watching, I wasn’t sure how to act around Dylan. It was clear we were closer than before, but I found myself at a loss on what to do with her attention now that I had it. I stood in the living room, wringing my hands and fidgeting.
Dylan caught my eye and gestured toward the stairs leading to the rooftop, her lips forming the words carefully. “It’s still kind of early. Do you want to hang out in the garden for a while?”
My jaw didn’t quite drop but I’m pretty sure my eyes bulged in my skull because Dylan took one look at my expression and laughed, albeit nervously if her own expression was anything to go by.
“Don’t look so surprised,” she said. “I know you’ve been lurking up there whenever I’m not around.”
And so I hung my head in shame and followed her up to the rooftop.
The garden was as lovely as ever, bathed in the soft glow of the city lights. Dylan sat down on a small bench near the edge of the rooftop and I hesitantly joined her, our knees barely touching. The slight contact was even more maddening than if I’d simply sat in her lap, every slight brush of her knee against mine making my pulse quicken. I kept my eyes ahead of me, looking out over the city.
I jumped slightly when Dylan tapped my shoulder to get my attention and she quickly removed her hand. “Sorry – you left this up here.”
She leaned backward, rifling around under the bench, and pulled out one of my sketchbooks. I smiled sheepishly and reached for it but Dylan tugged it away, opening to a random page.
“I see you’ve been drawing the flowers,” she mouthed, her eyes scanning the sketches.
The rickety seat wobbled as she leaned back, her free arm resting on the back of the bench behind my shoulders. My neck burned at the proximity. Strangely enough, she exuded no body heat at all, and I was convinced that if I reached out and touched her now, she’d feel cold as ice and smooth as stone. Even more strange, I wanted to do it anyway.
I nodded, feeling shy about my work. The only art of mine that had ever seen the light of day was what was published in my graphic novel. Everything else, all unfinished sketches and rough drafts, were for my eyes alone. And for Aliyah’s, when I still had a sister.
The corner of Dylan’s mouth tugged with a smile and she lightly ran her fingers over the paper. “These are pretty good.”
The compliment flustered me and I wasn’t sure where to look. I couldn’t hold her gaze, so I kept dropping my eyes, lingering on the smooth curve of her collarbone, and then looking up to find she was still looking at me.
Eventually, I pulled out my cell and typed. “Thank you. I’ve always loved to draw. Pen and paper have always been easier to handle than people.”
And then, feeling a little more confident, I continued, “So, are flowers like your hobby?”
Dylan shrugged and lifted the sketchbook as if to get a better look at it. “Kind of, yeah. It feels good to take care of something and keep it alive.”
She gave me a wan smile. “And, you know, plants don’t expect you to talk. But that kind of makes it easier to do so.”
Her admission was surprisingly endearing. But while the hopeless romantic in me swooned at her small divulgence, the suspicious side of me wondered if this was all part of her plan. Her actions this evening had definitely been genuine, and so were mine. I had come to learn that I liked Dylan, something I hadn’t expected at the start. But I was still a mole with ulterior motives, and who’s to say she wasn’t the same?
That realization prompted my next question. “I understand that, it’s so peaceful up here. Even the apartment feels like a haven. How do you do it – how do you keep your home life so separate from your… work?”
A shadow passed over Dylan’s features then. “Trust me, I don’t.”
She looked at me with an odd expression that I couldn’t quite place. Dylan moved like she wanted to take my hand, but then decided against it, instead choosing to fold her arms over her chest. “Look, the less you know about my work, the better it is for the both of us.”
Worried that she might close up entirely, I quickly added, “It’s just that, I worry about you sometimes – when you just disappear without any warning. I wish you would at least tell me where you’re going, and when you’re going to be back.”
I found myself walking a knife’s edge between truth and deceit. My concern for her was real, but I also needed information. The balancing act was exhausting, veiling my intentions under layers of truth.
Dylan’s expression smoothed out, settling into that all too familiar mask she wore when we first met. “Yeah, that’s not gonna happen.”
I balled my fists in my lap, mouth opening and closing without a sound. She didn’t trust me. Of course she didn’t trust me. And why should she? I was using her. But the notion crushed me anyway. Because I did care, and I did worry. I needed that information to give to Don but I also needed to know for my own sake. I needed to know so I could quite pacing through the apartment wondering if she was all right, worrying if she was hurt.
Caring for someone was a double-edged blade, loving Aliyah had taught me that. The more I reached for her the more I hurt the both of us. This was no different.
Tears of frustration pricked my eyes and I dashed a hand across my face, angling myself away from Dylan while I struggled to keep my composure. I stared out at the city, dotted lights blurring as I blinked away tears. I sat like that for a while, half-expecting Dylan to get up and leave. Or maybe just up and disappear like she always did, like she always would. Because we would never be anything more than what we were.
Instead, I felt cold fingers lightly touch my wrist. They uncurled my stubborn fist and pressed a shred of paper into my palm. I lifted it to my face and read the scrawled writing:
Monday, Red Hook Dock
Home in the morning
Confused, I looked up at Dylan who shrugged stiffly. “That’s the next job. I’ll be out all night so there’s no need to wait up for me. And do not , under any circumstances, follow me again. You’ll get us both into trouble.”
I stared at her, astounded, and Dylan scowled in response. “Don’t make me regret this. And don’t read too much into it either. I just don’t want you watering my plants with your tears again. Salt is bad for the hydrangeas.”
A small smile crept across my face and I pocketed the note, typing out a sincere thank you on my cell, sniveling back my tears all the while.
Dylan shook her head, raking a hand through her hair. “Fuck, if I knew how easily you’d get under my skin I would never have let Jordan talk me into this marriage.”
I laughed then, loud enough to feel it in my chest, and quickly cut it short with a hand over my mouth, apprehensively glancing at Dylan. On instinct, I expected ridicule for whatever sound came out of my mouth. But Dylan only looked pensive, leaning closer and lowering my hand. Her hands were cool to the touch, porcelain white and slender like the rest of her.
“You don’t need to do that. Me and my plants don’t have anything to say about it.”
Her words brought fresh tears to my eyes and Dylan promptly snatched her hand away. “Oh god, don’t start crying again. Please, think of the hydrangeas!”
The laughter bubbled up alongside a massive sob and Dylan watched with faint bewilderment while I giggled and hiccupped and wiped tears from my eyes. When I was finally breathing normally again, Dylan started flipping through the rest of the sketchbook, crossing a leg over her knee and slouching against the bench.
I allowed it, considering they were all sketches of her plants after all, until Dylan turned another page and paused.
“Well, well,” she mouthed, and my soul damn near left my body when I got a look at the page she was inspecting. It was the drawing of her, moody pout, abyssal eyes and all. I jolted upright and made a grab for the sketchbook, but Dylan lifted it out of my reach, holding me back with a palm to the face.
Through her fingers I could see her cackling, catching some of her words as she teased me. “I’m honored – feel so special – maybe next time you can draw me like one of your French girls.”
Mortified, I lunged at her, scrambling onto her lap while I reached for the book. Dylan leaned back against the bench, holding the sketchbook above her head and laughing, the glee on her face sending my heart somersaulting. It was only when I finally managed to get a hold of the sketchbook that I realized I was straddling her, one hand reaching upwards for the book and the other bunched in the fabric of her shift.
I froze instantly, and Dylan did too, arm still raised skywards alongside mine. Her face was inches from my own, her lips parted slightly, and her chest rose and fell with each breath. Her other hand was on my thigh, holding me steady, and I felt her grip tighten when I nervously bit down on my lip.
I could feel the weight of what was expected of me, of what I had to do to get the freedom I so desperately wanted. But I could also feel Dylan’s heart beating steadily under my fist. I unfurled my fingers and flattened my hand over her pulse, and Dylan drew in a ragged breath in response.
Slowly, she lowered the sketchbook and dropped it beside us, gripping my free hand and bringing it to her chest. Her lips moved slowly, while I shivered against her. “You’re really talented, Amara.”
I couldn’t respond, couldn’t compute. I was preoccupied with the way my thighs parted around her waist, the way the muscles in her throat moved, the way her hair draped over her shoulders like ink-black waterfalls. It was as if someone had plunged a flaming blade through my neck down to my pelvis. Governed by my senses alone, I wanted to close the gap between us. But I couldn’t bring myself to move – not when I knew how this marriage would end.
Finally, when I thought my heart might pound right out of my ribcage, Dylan’s lips curved into a small smile and she nodded slightly as if in acknowledgment of my unspoken thoughts. She gently shifted my body off her lap and stood up, straightening out her collar, and helped me to my feet.
“Well,” Dylan gripped my shoulders to steady me, keeping herself at arm's length, “it’s been a long day – we should probably get to bed. I’ll take the couch tonight.”
My mind was still a muddled mess of emotions and I nodded slowly, in a daze. Dylan tilted my chin up to catch my eye and my poor knees threatened to buckle at that simple act. She held my gaze for a moment, unuttered words dancing on her lips before she glanced down at my attire and raised an accusatory brow.
“Is that my jacket?”