Chapter 7 – Dylan
SEVEN
DYLAN
The knock on the door comes moments before the handle pushes open, and Grady stands on the threshold staring at me.
“How’s it going?” His voice is quiet as if he’s afraid he’s intruding.
I look up from where I’m sitting on the floor, my guitar resting on my lap and several pads of paper in front of me. He looks fresh from the shower and is wearing a pair of khaki shorts and a blue Sunnyville Fire Department shirt, which makes his eyes look like they are translucent.
“It’s going.” I sigh. “Slower today than others, but I’ve had some distractions.”
Like you.
“Petunia and I were about to have a BLT, do you want one?”
“There are so many things wrong with that statement I don’t even know where to start.” I laugh.
“Can’t protect the children from the world’s tough reality all the time, now can we? It would be a disservice to them.” I shake my head all the while loving the humor lighting up his eyes. “So yes, no, I don’t ever eat, I’m still on that hunger strike . . . what’ll it be?”
Glancing around at the crumpled pieces of notebook paper strewn around me, and the nearly blank pages in front of me, I heave a silent sigh. If I take a break for a bit and get some fresh air, it isn’t as if it will impede my nonexistent creative process right now.
“Sure.”
His smile lights up his face and makes me feel good. At least I can make one person happy. “I’ll give you a minute to get ready.”
“Get ready?”
“It’s Farmers’ Market Thursday.”
It’s Thursday?
Wow. I guess the past few days filled with little sleep and even less creativity have melded together. I definitely need to get out.
“Oh.”
“Yes, and it’s four in the afternoon.” He shakes his head as if he’s worried about me. “You need to get out more.”
“I guess I do.” I roll my shoulders. “And you go there to get BLTs?”
“I do, yes, but Petunia passes on the sandwich.” He glances toward where she is rooting around. “We always go when I’m not on shift.”
“Your pig is your date?”
“No.” He lowers his voice. “She thinks she is, but we don’t want to hurt her feelings. Burnt bacon is never a good thing.”
And lucky for Petunia’s feelings, they’re fresh out of bacon at the BLT stand when we get there, so Grady and I opt for corn dogs and French fries to eat while we walk around.
“I finally got you out of the house,” he says as he holds out the container of fries to me.
“I’ve left before.”
“When?”
“When we had breakfast. Then, the other day, I went to the store, and last night, I went for a walk. I’ve ventured,” I say, feeling like an idiot having to admit that’s about all I’ve done since I’ve moved here.
“Living the high life, are we?” he teases, and the smile comes easily to my lips.
I glance at him, and he meets my eyes, a soft smile on his own face as we stroll through the crowded downtown district of Sunnyville with a pig walking begrudgingly on a leash between us.
Something stirs in my belly, and I push it away. The kind of stir full of equal parts giddy, hopeful, and lustful that you feel when you realize you would be more than okay if the man took an interest in you.
Not here. Not now. Not a rebound.
A rebound, Dylan? Like he’s even offering.
And if he were to, it isn’t as if I would even be in the right mindset to acquiesce.
Sure, his smile warms my insides while the sight of his body heats between my thighs, but c’mon, after seeing glitter-dress girl, it’s very doubtful he’d want anything to do with me, the antithesis of everything she is.
I glance his way as he smiles at a little kid who stops to pet Petunia, and I shake my head. Someone would have to seriously have a screw loose not to think he’s attractive. Not to be attracted to him.
But then again, I probably have more than one screw loose since I’m standing here in the middle of a farmers’ market, debating whether I’d allow something to happen between us when that something is nonexistent in the first place.
“Do you know everyone here?” I ask as yet another person calls out his name and waves to him.
“Not hardly. But it helps that I’m Chief Malone’s son.
Growing up, everyone wanted to know me because they had this notion that if they got in trouble, being my friend would have made it easier.
Like my dad would’ve given them a free pass if they said they knew me.
Plus, it doesn’t hurt that everyone loves Petunia. ”
“So, that’s how you reel the ladies in then.”
“If that were my game, I’d definitely need more help.” He laughs at himself and nods in greeting to another person waving from afar.
“I doubt you need any help with your game or the ladies.”
“Oh yes, me and my eight abs.” His laughter fades as his attention catches on something in the crowd ahead. I can’t see who or what it is, but the lines on his face deepen with concern. “Can you hold Petunia for a minute? I need to go talk to someone.”
“Sure.” I watch him jog through the crowd and refuse to admit that I’m being nosy when I shift my feet so I can get a better view of where he’s heading.
About the time I get a clear line of sight, Grady is dropping to his knees and letting a little boy—I’d say around four or five—tackle hug him so that he falls back onto the grass beneath them.
Grady wraps his arms around the child and presses a kiss to the top of his shaggy brown hair.
I can’t help but smile at the connection between the two, but then my gaze is pulled to the woman standing there watching.
She’s petite, pretty from what I can tell, and is standing with her arms crossed over her chest, almost as if she’s guarding herself.
Something in my chest clutches at the visual, and my mind begins to whirl. A little boy thrilled to see Grady, the woman he’s with not so much. Her expression reflects a sadness that’s almost palpable, and it wears on me despite the distance between us.
Is Grady divorced? Is that his son? Is this the “a lot” Grady had been through that my brother refused to expand on?
I don’t know why the idea of Grady being a dad has me so confused. Is it any of my business? No. Should it matter? No. Maybe it’s that I’m hurt that he didn’t tell me.
Or is it that I thought better of him than my dad, the only other firefighter I’ve known, and now I see that he isn’t.
If he’s a father, how come he hasn’t mentioned his son to me?
How come he has zero pictures on the bookshelves or walls?
Is it because he doesn’t want to claim his child like my dad didn’t want to claim us?
Is it because it’s hard to seduce a woman when you take her back to your place and she sees you have a kid and all the baggage that comes with one?
Memories, moments, shame—they all flood back as I watch the emotional exchange between the three of them. The baseless resentment bubbles up, still as strong as it’s always been.
I’m jumping to conclusions. I’m being sensitive and letting my past and my current emotional upheaval make speculative assumptions.
I’ll just ask him. It’s that easy. Decision made, I stand in the middle of the farmers’ market between a stall selling organic produce and one selling cheap sunglasses and hate that Grady is the same type of guy I had as a father.
My heart wrenches for the little boy, who is so desperate for Grady’s attention that I have to avert my focus so I don’t choke up.
I turn to a newsstand, pluck the first magazine I put my hand on, and start to flip through the pages.
My mind registers that it’s Rolling Stone a split second before Petunia tugs on her leash.
“Sorry about that,” Grady’s voice invades my thoughts and simultaneously strikes a nerve.
“Who was that?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“Who?” He looks over his shoulder where the lady and her little boy were and turns back to me with a pained look on his face. “That was no one,” he says and effectively shatters the notion of him being a good guy. He’s exactly like my father.
Despite knowing it’s none of my business, every part of me sags in disappointment, and I have to take a minute to come to terms with the riotous and unfounded feelings bouncing around inside me.
Of course, being reminded of one man who hurt me isn’t enough, because life decides to slap me in the face with the other.
There in full color between the pages of Rolling Stone is Jett. The bad boy of rock is in a dress shirt, tie, vest, and slacks, looking every bit the part of everything he isn’t. His handsome face stares back at me, wearing that cocky smirk of his and I’m-a-rock-god expression.
My heart aches.
I know I should close the magazine, put it back, and walk away, but my eyes wander and roam over the interview.
Skimming the questions about his upcoming album.
About his home life and long-time girlfriend.
Where she fits in his everyday, and how she gets him when it seems no one else does.
About how he sees a good thing in his girlfriend and would never purposely screw it up, although he unintentionally has many times before.
I scan his answers and then read them again, slower this time.
He’s talking directly to me. The dichotomy of it all makes my head spin. On one hand, he’s in Rolling Stone apologizing to me, and on the other hand, he’s saying everything I needed to hear before. Everything he negated to utter when he screwed Tara-perfect-tits.
“Dylan? Everything okay?”
I hear his question, but by the time his words register, he’s taking the magazine from my hand.
“Christ,” he mutters as he scans the article before looking up to meet my eyes.
There’s concern in his, compassion, and the sight of it from a man I’m currently mad at has me fighting back tears.
“I’m sorry. Just when you need someone to be nowhere, they’re everywhere.
Let’s get out of here. We need to drop Petunia at home, and then I know the perfect place to go. ”
“Why are we here drinking again?” I laugh as I tap my glass to his for what feels like the twentieth time.