Chapter Twenty-Eight
“I’m keeping my phone on all night,” Haley says as Eleanor pulls up to my curb and I gather my personal belongings in the back seat. I’d planned to bus home, but my sisters wouldn’t hear of it.
“Same,” Eleanor says. “Call us anytime.”
Haley gets out of the car to give me a hug. “We’re proud of you for getting the job.”
Eleanor rounds the front of the car and joins us. “And maybe he’ll do long distance.”
“Maybe,” I say, wishing I sounded more hopeful.
At least I can stop worrying about losing the house.
The snow is long gone, and the new roof is beautiful.
The trees aren’t in bloom yet, but the brown, scraggly brush that pokes up between the dark rocks feels like a bold declaration of resilience and determination, while Dylan’s little motorcycle shed stands at the end of the gravel drive, a utilitarian structure whose intentional lack of permanence hits hard.
I grip my shopping bag in a tight fist, climb the stairs, and turn to wave at my sisters from the front porch, where the lights have been left on for me, hopefully not for the last time.
“Hello?” I call as I step into the foyer and shut the door behind me. “Dylan? You home?”
Creaking floorboards on the second floor indicate he is home, and sure enough, a moment later, he barrels down the stairs, sweeping me into his arms as I drop my shopping bag, fling my arms around his neck, and bury my face against the rolled collar of my favorite cardigan.
“Can I see the dress, or do I have to wait for the wedding?” he asks.
I draw in a breath to answer him, but the words stick in my throat as I’m struck with the sudden certainty that if I attempt to say anything at all, I’ll sob instead.
When I tighten my hold on him without answering, he takes a long, slow breath, plants a lingering kiss on my forehead, and rests his head on top of mine. “You got the call.”
I nod against his shoulder.
Another slow inhale and exhale. “You’re taking the job.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and hug him so tight I’m amazed he can still breathe.
Tell me not to, I think in a sudden panic. Tell me whatever we are to each other is worth holding on to, no matter what that means for the house, the boat, the books, a plan, a safety net, anything but us. Don’t let me make this decision alone. Tell me what you want, too. Fight for me.
“I have two weeks to decide,” I manage, my voice shaky and barely above a whisper.
“Do you need them?” he asks.
No, I think, or at least that’s what I thought in the store a few hours ago.
But here? Now? Holding Dylan while he holds me and I try to convince myself nothing will change between us if I leave him for nine months out of the year?
Maybe more? When he might not want to wait for me?
Or when I might get swept into the nonstop work and stress of being a full-time academic again, even if my colleagues are respectful and I don’t have to buy my own space heater?
How do you know when something’s worth fighting for? Dylan asked in November. I’ve revisited the question a hundred times since. I’m so tired of it. Why can’t I just know?
I relax my hold. Dylan does the same. We meet each other’s eyes, and eight months of memories flash by in the depths of his night-sky irises. An awkward hello. A game. A ride on his motorcycle. A mattress. A storm. A song. A sword. A sea monster. A sledgehammer. A kiss.
How do you know? How in the hell do you know?
I take Dylan by the hand and lead him to the base of the stairs.
We sit on the bottom stair, holding hands, him in his cardigan and faded band tee, me in my peacoat and the scarf I never knot.
I reiterate everything we’ve already gone over about how taking the job has more pros than cons, and turning it down could mean no books, house, or boat, even though it also means less time together, less time with my family, and living in a place that might never feel like home.
When I finish, he rakes his free hand through his hair before dragging it down his face, running his full gamut of tics and twitches while looking anywhere but at me.
“It’s what you want?” he asks.
“I want a lot of things. I can’t have them all.”
“Will it make a difference if we sell the book?”
“We can’t sell it if I turn down the job.”
“Would it make a difference anyway?”
“Kate said it might be a month or more before she could get to our manuscript and send us revision notes or pass it along to Grams’s editor as is. We won’t know in time.”
Dylan finally turns my way. “You’re not answering my question.”
I tense at his accusatory tone. “You’re not asking one that matters.”
His jaw clenches as if he’s holding in the obvious follow-up. What question does matter?
Do you love me? I think. Are we worth fighting for?
But he doesn’t ask, so I don’t answer. Instead, his thumb caresses my knuckles where he’s still holding my hand, softening the tension between us.
I tip my head onto his shoulder, staring at the floor where I wish to god we didn’t have sex for the first time.
I don’t know what happens now, but this conversation doesn’t feel like it’s heading anywhere good, and things shouldn’t end in the same place they begin.
“It’s funny, right?” he asks in a way that implies nothing is funny at all. “I’ve been preparing for this for weeks now, but sometimes it doesn’t matter how much you try to prepare. You don’t know how you’ll feel until you feel it.”
I nod against his shoulder. “I want this to be good news.”
Dylan sighs. “Sorry. I’m being a jackass. I haven’t even said congratulations.”
I squeeze his hand before pivoting around to face him. He smiles, or tries to, but his eyes belie the cheer he’s trying to convey, and his dimples don’t even make a hint of an appearance.
“We both know this is complicated,” I say. “We don’t have to pretend.”
He nods and swallows before tracing the lines of my face with the back of his hand, ghosting his knuckles along my temple, my cheek, my jawline, my chin.
“Two weeks, huh?” he asks.
“Two weeks,” I echo, and just like that, a little flutter of hope flickers in my chest. Maybe because I believe something might change in two weeks.
Maybe because I’m grateful we at least have that time together before my acceptance is definite, even if I keep talking about it like it’s an inevitability I’ll eventually embrace.
Maybe I’m just glad he’s not running away.
“You know what I think?” he asks.
I tense again, bracing myself. “No?”
He attempts another smile, this one a little more convincing than the last.
“I think,” he repeats, “I should take you out on a date.”
I dissolve into sputters of relieved laughter. “A date? Seriously?”
“You just got a job offer in a really competitive field. You busted your ass for that job. Getting it is a huge achievement. The least I can do is buy you dinner to celebrate.”
I cup his cheek with my free hand, still holding tight with the other.
“Dylan Harley Sterling,” I say. “I would love to go on a date with you.”
The rest of the night unfolds like a dream.
We pack away the conversation about my job offer and what it might mean for us, not forever, but for a night.
Dylan puts on the suit I’ve never seen him wear, and I put on a simple black dress, one of the few date-worthy garments I kept last June.
I even attempt an updo and a bit of makeup.
We take the motorcycle to Northport, where we enjoy an amazing Vietnamese meal, even though I can’t keep the dumplings from slipping out of my chopsticks and Dylan gets soy sauce on his shirt and tie.
We walk by the coast to calm our overstuffed bellies, and kiss for what feels like hours with only the sea and stars for witnesses.
When we get home, we drag Dylan’s mattress down the stairs to the living room, where we start a fire in the fireplace and drink really good rum and talk about where the next book could go, as though neither of us doubts for a second that we’ll write it.
And when the moment feels right, we take off our clothes and make love in the firelight.
Slowly. Tenderly. Cherishing every touch.
Every gasp and moan. Every quiver. Every bead of sweat. Every everything.
In the morning, when I wake, Dylan’s gone.
So are the muddy running shoes he kept on the porch.
So are his clothes, his laptop, his headphones, his pull-up bar, his duffel bag, and his motorcycle.
I search the entire house, frantic, until I find two things.
On the kitchen table, under Dylan’s smiley face magnet and the scrap of paper on which, back in early July, I wrote the word Truth, is a printed manuscript.
The Curious Tale of Bartholomew Kilderkin by D.
H. Sterling, dated fifteen years ago. On the fridge, beneath the word Dare, are my chickadee magnet and a Post-it with five simple words, written in Dylan’s familiar compact script. Be braver than I am.
I read it five or six times, trying to embrace it as loving encouragement. Then I roar with rage as I sweep the manuscript off the table, sending pages flying in all directions.