11. Rory
Rory
Iknow it’s possible to love someone and hate them at the same time. I mean, obviously that’s about where I am with Nate. My feelings haven’t gone away just because I want to…
What do I want to do? Kick him in the balls? Cut off his nuts? Crush them in a vise?
I’m not sure why all the ideas that come to mind involve his scrotum, but it seems appropriate somehow.
On a wildly unrelated topic, if only because I don’t want to think about my brother’s testicles, I’m pissed at Dylan.
He’s my brother, and I love him, and I want to wring his scrawny little neck.
No, that doesn’t work either, because his neck isn’t scrawny. It never has been, at least as far as I know, because when I came into the picture, he was already ten years old.
Now, he’s six foot two and pretty darn solid, still hanging on to muscle from his college and minor league baseball days.
So anyway, I’m mad, in a very non-scrotum-involved way.
I grip the steering wheel as I imagine ripping him from limb to limb.
Despite living in High Lonesome, Dylan managed to purchase the house that’s the farthest distance from our parents’ house. He gets the credit for living in the same town, but he’s far enough from their house that they won’t just wander over to his place for breakfast.
I swing the Jeep into his driveway, park behind a temporary dumpster, and kill the engine. I rip the keys from the ignition, throw open the driver’s door, then slam it shut behind me as I jump out so fast I almost stumble on the gravel.
The near fall shoots enough adrenaline through my body that I pause to steady myself. Flight or fight doesn’t exactly help when you’re trying to come across as a rational adult, and that’s how I need him to see me.
Rational adult. Not emotionally unstable baby sister.
I take a breath and hold it until my chest burns, then I let it out in a rush as I try to calm my racing nerves.
“Rory?” The screen door creaks on its hinges as Dylan pushes it open. “Are you okay?”
Ugh.
I was supposed to have the first word. And the last word, obviously, but the concern on his face is not what I came here for.
Dammit, Dylan. You can’t even let me be pissed off without pulling the Protective Big Brother card.
I stomp along the gravel as I make my way to the house. “No! I’m mad at you. You knew, and you didn’t tell me. You knew Mom was sick.”
My voice cracks on the last word, just as I reach the front door.
Dylan steps out to the porch, barefoot. He ignores my words, the anger on my face, and instead puts his arms around me and pulls me in tight.
And I break.
He holds me while I sob, my tears wetting the front of his T-shirt. Probably some snot, too.
But he just stands there, arms tight around me, and lets me get it all out.
“I’m sorry,” he finally says, as my crying starts to slow down. “Mom and Dad asked me not to tell you. They wanted you to find out from them. Not from me.”
Sniffling, I step back and look at Dylan.
His white T-shirt is soaked through, with two dark blotches that I’m pretty sure came from my mascara. He’s in jeans, almost certainly the same ones he’s had since college, and his dark hair sticks up, like he hasn’t had a chance to shower yet today.
“I wrecked your shirt,” I manage.
The anger that fueled my drive over has mostly dissipated, and I’m no longer sure why I’m here.
“Eh, it’s fine.” Dylan reaches over and ruffles my hair. “Come on in. I’ve got some lemonade and some beer in the fridge.”
I’ve unofficially sworn off drinking after that hangover yesterday. Or at least, sworn off rapid consumption of high-proof liquor followed by something with carbonation.
“No thanks to the beer.” I step over the threshold as Dylan holds the door open for me.
His living room looks just like the last time I saw it, right after he moved back to High Lonesome. I was a senior in high school, I think, or maybe a junior.
The idea that my brother was a real grown-up with a house of his own was a strange idea at the time.
To be honest, it’s still a strange idea, that at twenty-eight he had a real career and a mortgage.
How do some people manage to have everything figured out, and others are like me, still trying to learn the ropes of adulthood?
I flop onto his sofa, the one with the view of the mountains through the huge windows, and draw my knees into my chest.
Dylan sits next to me, crossing one leg over the other the way he always has: right ankle on his left knee.
He squeezes my shoulder. “Talk to me, Rory. What’s going on?”
Resting my forehead on my knees, I shrug. “Everything,” I mumble. “Everything is ruined. I’m sure it’s my karma, somehow. I don’t know.”
“None of this is your fault.”
Dylan is the most patient person I know. Definitely more than me, although that’s not much of a contest.
He pats my back. “We’ll get through this, Ror. Together.”
He’s so confident. Almost like Nate, I realize, and I hate that my brain summoned the comparison, almost as much as I hate the thought that follows it:
I need someone to be sure for me.
My breath comes out in a rush. “I don’t think anything will ever be okay again.
Mom is going to be gone, Dylan. She’s not going to see me get married or have babies.
I’m glad I’m getting to spend time with her now, but that only happened because Nate and I broke up. So it’s overall a shitty situation.”
His hand stills on my back. “Nate broke up with you?”
There’s an edge of danger in his voice. Dylan puts a lot of effort into being neutral, given his position as the principal of the high school, but the protective big brother is always there, just beneath the surface.
I shake my head. It makes my entire body sway back and forth. “I broke up with him. But it was his fault.”
“Do I need to kick his ass? ‘Cause I could take him. Not the dog, but him.”
A laugh bubbles out, the first real one in days, at that image. “I’m supposed to be mad at you, Dylan. Not picturing you fighting Ollie.”
“Ollie might be a bit much for me to take on,” he admits. “He’s a trained killer. But I could definitely beat up your dog. What’s his name? Bologna?”
This makes me laugh harder, tears streaming down my face.
“Aw, Rory,” Dylan says, rubbing my back as I struggle to catch my breath. “This is what brothers and sisters do. We get mad at one another and try to beat each other up, and we’re still there for one another. Always.”
When I finally catch my breath and sit up straight, he slides an arm around my shoulders and pulls me into him.
“Thanks, Dylan.” I take a deep breath through my nose and exhale through my mouth, then repeat. It calms me a little, but the grief and anger and sadness don’t fade. “It just feels like a lot, you know?”
He nods, his chin rubbing against my hair. “Yeah. What happened with you and Nate, anyway? I told him not to hurt you, so if he did, there are going to be consequences.”
The way he says it, in his strict principal voice, makes me giggle. “Consequences? Like what, detention? Are you going to make him stay after school and bang erasers?”
Dylan pokes me in the side. “No, you weirdo. I’ll talk to him like an adult. And maybe punch him, depending on what you tell me and what he says.”
I don’t love the idea of him punching Nate. But the thought of him standing up for me is kind of nice.
“I need a drink to get into all of it.”
So much for my self-imposed ban.
Dylan leaves me in the living room while he grabs two cans of Colorado Native beer from the fridge.
The beer has been our favorite for as long as I can remember. Even before I was technically old enough to drink, I remember Dylan bringing home a six-pack every time he came to visit from college.
After all, when you spend your whole life in Colorado and your parents name you after Colorado towns, drinking Colorado Native beer is probably a minor consequence.
At least Dylan’s name isn’t too obvious. They named him after Dillon, Colorado, but changed the spelling just enough.
As for Aurora, I can only hide the reference if I go by Rory, especially when I lived in Denver. The cities are right next to one another.
“Here you go.” Dylan sets one can on the coffee table in front of me and cracks the other open. He takes a long drink before setting it on a coaster. “Okay. Now tell me all the details that have you drinking in my living room at 11:00 a.m.”
It takes half a can before I can even start to tell the whole story.
The way all of the guys I dated broke up with me.
The pact that Nate and I made, promising to try our relationship again if we were both single when we turned twenty-eight.
And to cap it off, Yvonne's words: All those years he kept tabs on you.
“Can you believe it? He did something to keep me single, obviously.” I finish off the last of the beer and set the can down with extra force to punctuate my point.
Dylan looks like he’s weighing his words. “Are you sure?” he finally asks. “Because?—”
“I’m sure.”
Dylan scratches the side of his jaw. “Just want to make sure you’ve considered all of the angles. That’s all.”
“There are no angles. It’s black and white.”
Dylan holds up his hands, palms toward me, in a defensive gesture. “Okay, okay. Got it. I’m surprised Nate would do anything to hurt you, though. Maybe you should talk to him.”
I shake my head so hard the room spins.
Dylan opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. “Why?” he finally asks, surprising me with both the question and the gentle tone.
“Because I’ll believe him,” I say, my voice cracking. “Whatever he says, I know I’ll believe him. And I don’t know if I should. I’ve been too trusting in my life, and I’ve gotten burned over and over again.”
As I finally vocalize my fears, memories come flooding back.
Little things, like when I was gullible enough to believe the wild stories some of the other kids made up in middle school.
Bigger things, like when I trusted the guy I dated for a month in college, the one who said he was falling for me while telling two other girls the same thing.
The same pattern, over and over, and all I’ve learned is that I shouldn’t trust my own judgment.
I sniff and wipe a tear from my cheek with the back of my hand. “It’s not even about trusting him. It’s that I don’t know if I can trust myself around him.”
Dylan slowly nods, his expression serious. “I get that. I do.” He sets his beer back on the coaster. “I’m a big believer in communication. But I also think actions speak louder than words. And maybe that’s what you need from him this time.”
“Like some grand gesture? This isn’t some ‘90s rom-com movie.”
He finally cracks a smile. “Hey, whether it takes a grand gesture or a bunch of little ones is up to you. But until he fixes things, he should know that anyone who makes my baby sister cry is on my shit list. So he’d better buckle up.”
I shove Dylan’s shoulder. “If you’re going to beat up everyone who’s ever made me cry, you’ll have to add the IRS, the car mechanic, and bills in general to that list. Oh, and pretty much any of the animals at the shelter. I’m a goner when I look into those big eyes.”
He snorts, the serious moment completely gone now. “Okay, maybe making a list of anyone who made you cry would be going a little overboard. I didn’t realize you cried so easily.”
I reach over and punch his arm. “Shut up.”
He bands one arm around my shoulders, pull me toward him, and rubs his knuckles against my scalp.
“Stop!” I squirm against him, but I’m laughing. “I can’t believe you would give me a noogie. How old are you again?”
He releases me, chuckling. “Old enough to know better, young enough to not care. You want a wet willy instead?”
I shift away from him before he can lick his finger and stick it in my ear.
Seriously, where did boys come up with these sorts of things?
Dylan stands from the couch. The smirk on his face makes it clear that he’s pleased with his stupid antics.
He picks up our empty cans, then he carries them into the kitchen. When he reappears, he’s carrying two bottles of water.
He holds one out to me. “Got to make sure you’re hydrated, kid.”
I twist off the cap and take a sip. “Thanks. Not a kid, though.”
The water refreshes me, clearing out the taste of the beer and maybe even some of the hurt hanging over me.
I take another sip before I re-cap the bottle and set it down. “What do I do now, Dylan? Just keep on doing the same thing every day, like nothing has changed? Everything has changed. Me from two weeks ago wouldn’t recognize me now, let alone myself from like six months ago.”
Dylan is quiet for a minute. It’s a nice change from the older brother jabs, but I know exactly what he’s doing.
It’s something he picked up in college, and now it’s his signature move.
Let the silence sit.
People tend to fill the silence, so in his job as the high school principal, it gives the teenagers a chance to incriminate themselves for whatever stupid prank they’re on trial for.
It’s surprisingly effective.
I, though, am used to this, and I can’t be fooled by cheap psychological hacks.
“Don’t silent-treatment me, Dylan. What do you think, that I’m going to solve my own problem? Just keep going to the barn to work, helping out Mom, and I’ll figure out the stuff with Nate later?”
Dylan tilts his head but doesn’t say anything.
I let out a frustrated noise. “Ugh. You know I can’t just ignore the stuff with Nate. I have to figure out how I feel about what he actually did and if it’s something I can get past. But I don’t think I’m ready for that.”
He nods thoughtfully, and I realize I’ve walked right into his little game.
“Dammit, Dylan. I hate when you pull that stuff on me. Save the psychobabble and life hacks for your students.”
Dylan chuckles. “Well, you did kind of solve your own problem there.”
“I hate you.” I chuck a pillow at him.
It glances off his upper arm and falls to the ground, but despite the contact, his water doesn’t even spill.
“You have your answer, Rory. At least most of it. We’ll get through this thing with Mom together, as a family. In the meantime, keep going to work at the barn. It’s a perfect job for you, and Mandy will be flexible if you need time off.”
I hate that he’s right. Or more accurately, I hate that he made me come up with an answer and now it sounds like he did anything other than sit there.
No fair.
“What about Nate?” I ask quietly.
Dylan frowns. “Maybe don’t worry about Nate for a little bit. Focus on what you can for Mom and on work. Let yourself have some time away from him.”
Sipping the last of the water, I nod. He has a point, and his advice is good.
So why does it feel so wrong?