Dee
Chapter twenty-two
“What are you doing up?” Dylan asks, his voice languid with sleep, his bare feet padding along the floor as he makes his way from his bedroom into the living room.
“Storm woke me. I don’t like to miss them. The view is better here than in my bedroom,” I explain.
Another strike of lightning casts from sky to earth, momentarily bathing the room with light so bright, I close my eyes without intending to. Thunder follows quickly behind, the storm raging close outside.
I’m seated in my favorite chair, the cozy green plush velvet cushion turned toward the wall of windows so I can watch the storm. I hear Dylan dragging the other chair alongside mine before he drops into the seat with a sigh.
“I love them too,” he says into the quiet. “Storms.”
“I don’t know what it is about them,” I answer. “Maybe I like the idea of Mother Earth getting to scream a little bit.”
He chuckles, resting his chin in one hand, his elbow leaning on the arm of the chair. “That’s one way to see it.”
“What do you see?”
He inhales deeply and releases the breath slowly.
I’m not sure I’ll get an answer at all when he finally says, “It’s a reset.
Washing everything away with an intensity…
a certain power. I feel it here.” He rubs his palm over the center of his chest. “It feels otherworldly. Beautiful. A little haunting.”
Another lightning strike casts him in bright light.
“There’s so much I don’t know about you,” I blurt, instantly wishing I could take it back. I don’t want him to think I’m prying about what happened earlier.
“I could say the same about you. Besides”—he shrugs—“you know more than most.”
“I doubt that.”
“Besides the guys, I keep things pretty surface level. Easier that way.”
“Sure, easier. Lonelier too.”
“Speaking from experience?” he asks, his tone light, playing it off as a joke, but I’m serious.
“Maybe a little. If I act like nothing can hurt me…then people don’t try. It’s easier to be funny than vulnerable. If I don’t take anything too seriously, I don’t miss it when it ends.”
“Even your job?” he asks.
“That’s different.”
“Seems like you miss it to me.”
“I don’t think I miss the job. I think I miss feeling needed. God,” I laugh, feeling sorry for myself instantly. “It probably sounds so egotistical, but I liked feeling important.”
“It’s not egotistical to want a purpose,” he says, his voice reassuring.
“Well, look where that got me.”
“It got you a roommate.”
“An unexpected perk,” I muse.
His eyebrows lift in surprise and he smiles. “I’m a perk? We’ve come a long way from our bylaws meeting. You want a drink?”
“Sure.”
He nods, heading into the kitchen, pulling two beers from the fridge and handing me one before he sits again.
“So why put yourself through all this for a job you’re not sure you even miss? Is it easier to put distance between you and what you really want?”
I rock my head along the back cushion, studying Dylan as he plays with the label on the side of the bottle.
When I came home to find him in the laundry room in the middle of…whatever that was. A panic attack, or something like it, I didn’t want to push. But now I wonder if I really know him at all.
Someone I’ve been friends with for years, never diving any deeper than the surface-level shit he offered, not offering him anything more in return. And suddenly, that feels like a loss. Guilt gnaws at my chest. Fear of everything I may have missed out on sinks in my gut.
Because he showed me his.
The urge to be vulnerable, here with Dylan, terrifies me, but I find myself wanting it all the same.
“I told you I was bullied growing up, but I don’t feel like I was completely honest. It was pretty bad. I guess it’s easier to pretend it didn’t happen.”
“Why did they do that?” His question sounds genuine, unable to fathom why someone would act like that. A part of me is relieved to hear he hasn’t gone through anything like what I did.
A sad laugh escapes me. “Why does anyone bully? Probably projecting their own insecurities. Pinning it all on me so they don’t become a target themselves.
Seeking control over someone else to combat how out of control they might feel in their own life.
I’ve spent time and money trying to figure it out in therapy over the years.
But in the end, it doesn’t matter, does it?
I can’t control them.” I shrug. “I can only control myself.”
“How old were you?” His voice is pained.
“It started in middle school. There was a talent show, and I had the great idea to sign up.” I shake my head. “Big mistake.”
“Sad-girl poetry reading?”
My jaw must hit the floor. “How the fuck did you know that?” I ask, breathless, the room suddenly devoid of air.
His answer is soft, like he can ease the discomfort of being seen so easily with gentle words. “When we met, you told me.”
“I did not tell you this.”
“You said enough. You did your normal Dee move, joking about sad-girl poetry.” He pauses, and I wait, unable to move as my heart beats so hard it hurts. “Your eyes said more than your words did.”
I can’t believe he remembered. It was the smallest comment, a slip of the tongue passed off as a bad joke when we first met…
and he remembered. Not only that, but he heard what I wasn’t saying.
Saw what I was trying to hide despite knowing me for less than an hour, most of which we spent in a Taco Bell parking lot.
“Well, if my words weren’t doing the talking, then you can imagine how terrible my poetry was.”
“What happened, Dee?” he presses.
I hate this. I never talk about it. I try not to even think about it.
“I read what I thought was my best poem. A few of the girls in my class smelled weakness and latched onto it. They spent the next three years torturing me because of it. They’d print flyers of my poem and stuff my locker or put it up in the halls at school.
They’d call my house and leave messages.
If someone showed interest in befriending me or dating me, they’d interfere. Kept me isolated.
“I was so relieved when my dad got a new job, and we had to move after my sophomore year of high school.” I spin the bottle on the arm of the chair before taking a sip.
“Fake it till you make it became my motto. At my new school, I acted overconfident to the point of unbothered. Blowing up my personality as big as I could make it, so no one wanted to target me. I found a nice group of friends to spend my time with, but I was never quite as close with them since they’d known each other since elementary school.
It wasn’t until I met Bec, Ellie, and Carissa in college that I felt like I belonged. ”
“I’m glad you found them. People who realize how great you are.” Something seems to click in his mind, connecting the dots before he continues. “So, Emi…everything she’s got going on at school…”
“Yeah, that has my mind all fucked up.” I rub my temple.
“I’m trying to help. To be a good aunt. Shit, I’m trying to just be a good person and support her, but I barely know what to say.
I didn’t handle it well when I went through my own shit.
I worry every time it comes up that I’m fucking it up for her too.
Morgan assures me that listening is enough to be helpful.
To let Emi vent. Morgan has to be the big, scary mom and deal with the bigger implications of it all.
Talking to teachers and the administrators when needed.
” I shrug. “But I want to do more than listen. I want to make it stop. I’m helpless… and I fucking hate it.”
“I’m sure she’s right,” he agrees. “Listening is helping more than you think.” He rubs his jaw and the scruff along his chin, considering what I’ve said.
“What if I were to offer to listen right now? To you.” I throw out tentatively. “You don’t have to tell me anything, but do you want to talk about it?”
“Why I freaked the fuck out today?”
“Yeah, I mean. I know you’ve mentioned it can happen with stress. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” he says, staring out the window.
“Didn’t really seem that way.”
He sighs, relaxing farther into his chair, shoulders heavy, his head sagging against the back cushion. “I told you when I get stressed, I have some habits…they can be a little obsessive. It doesn’t impact my life normally. But today was…a lot.”
“I’m all ears.”
“The owner came in for a visit. Unannounced. He’s debating selling the Bridge to someone else.
Someone who will probably make him an offer I can’t possibly beat.
” Defeat hangs heavy in his voice, like he’s already given up.
“Ed knows me. He likes me. I’ve spent years working for him, making shit easy for him, handling all the issues so he could chill and reap the benefits with none of the stress.
And this could be it. The end of everything I’ve been working toward. ”
“I’m sorry, Dylan. Maybe there’s another place, another venue—”
“Not like this place. It’s perfect. I care about its history and the team.” He shakes his head. “Starting over somewhere else would kill me, but it might be my only option if this other deal goes through. The prick wants to renovate. Turn it into some fucking restaurant.”
“That fucking sucks.”
His surprised laugh rings out through the quiet space between us.
He nods slowly, his smile bright in the dark glow from the wall of windows. “Yeah. It really fucking sucks. See? Listening is all I needed. See how much that helped?”
“I think you’re underestimating how good action can feel too.
” His eyebrows raise suggestively, and I shove his shoulder.
“Not that kind of action, you perv. I was thinking about slashing this guy’s tires.
Or pretending like the place is haunted on his next walk-through of the building.
Scare the shit out of him and force him to back out of the deal. ”
“Yeah, you’re right. Listening is for losers. Give me your brand of vengeance any day.”
We both laugh, settling into a comfortable sort of quiet with the storm still raging outside and the rain pattering on the windows.
“If it ever gets bad again—the stress—you know you can talk to me. I’m here,” I try to say simply, but it sounds more weighted than I meant for it to.
His eyes drop to my lips before he turns back to the window.
“And if the Bridge is really what you want, you should fight for it. Don’t give up just because your brain is telling you it’s hopeless. ”
“Thank you, Dee.” He sounds sincere.
I trail my fingers down his shoulder to his hand, threading my fingers through his and squeezing softly. His eyes find mine, and he watches me so closely I have to remind myself to breathe.
“Thank you too,” I whisper.
His mouth drops open, but he doesn’t seem to know what to say, so I drop his hand and leave, walk to my bedroom, and close the door without another word.
I lie in bed, listening to the storm, watching the lightning flash across the ceiling. An ache takes hold of my stomach and I curl into myself, willing my muddled thoughts to quiet.
I wonder if Dylan is still sitting on the other side of the wall, watching along with me. Living side by side, but not together, like we always have. And I wonder why that suddenly feels wrong.