14. Dylan
14
DYLAN
I peer down at my watch, which reads eleven forty-five. I have fifteen minutes to make it across the city for Evelyn’s photoshoot. Although this isn’t typically expected from someone in my position, Evelyn specifically requested that I come to help her pick out outfits. She emailed me her phone number, and we’ve been texting ever since.
I know she’s technically a client, but it feels like there’s a fast friendship forming. How’s a girl supposed to say no when someone compliments your outfit and asks you to be there to help them with photos that are going to be used all over her social media accounts? Could this be considered a conflict of interest? Maybe. But becoming Evelyn’s friend has felt natural.
No matter how close we get, I still want to impress her. It’s my name that’s going to be the talk of the town when everyone sees all of my hard work pay off, and this release becomes one of the biggest debut releases anyone has ever seen–which it will be because I’m manifesting it. Okay, so obviously, I didn’t write the book. But, with the social media strategy that I put together, Evelyn has gained another 10,000 followers in the past week, and that number is only going up. That has to count for something.
I fling myself into the subway before the doors shut and nearly crush me. I’m already running so behind; the last thing I need to do is get severely injured on my way to the shoot. I snort as I sit, thinking about what Katherine would do if I ended up in the hospital–probably tell me to rub some dirt in it and come to the office. The laugh I chuckle to myself turns into a small shudder.
She’s lightened up a little since the presentation, but I’ve let myself become the office punching bag, and any reminder of it strikes a nerve. I’ve always prided myself on being ambitious.
Out of my high school graduating class of a little over one hundred, only a handful have left Woodland Heights. Most stayed home, got married, and had babies. I never envisioned that for myself. The fact that I left town is a miracle in itself. There was a point in time when I wasn’t sure if it was possible. Mom spent all her days buried in bed, a bottle of whatever she could get her hands on placed on the nightstand next to her.
The day she agreed to go to rehab, the pressure on my chest eased immensely, and I no longer felt like the room was closing in on me. There were no guarantees that it was going to stick–that she was going to stay sober–but it was a step in the right direction after a year of constant panic, unsure of whether or not she was going to live to see another day.
With each passing day, the idea of leaving town felt more like a possibility. She kept getting stronger, relying less on outside substances to find joy. Eventually, she was approved to move back home. While she still attends AA meetings at least once a week, she refused to let me stay home to take care of her. She told me that she wanted me to be selfish for once and chase my dreams. So, I applied to some jobs here in New York, never expecting to hear back .
Now, it’s been a couple of months, and I can’t see myself living anywhere else. Something inside of me clicked the minute I stepped off that plane. I feel more at home with millions of strangers than I did in the small town I grew up in.
A pang of guilt runs through me at the thought of my mom at home by herself. She’s since gotten into Pilates, joined a local book club, and started casually dating (which I haven’t entirely accepted yet), but I can’t help but envision her sitting alone day in and day out. I pull out my phone and shoot her a quick text, letting her know I love her and will be calling her after the photo shoot right as the overheard speaker calls out my stop.
12:02.
I push my tote bag higher onto my shoulder and break out into a full sprint towards the photoshoot. By the time I arrive, my lungs are on fire, and I’m choking down as much air as possible, but it’s only 12:10, which means I’m only ten minutes late. It’s far better than the twenty minutes I was expecting. Despite despising being late (yes, I am the stereotypical Virgo in many ways–that being one of them), I give myself a small pat on the back. Sometimes, you have to celebrate all the small wins you can get.
I rush over to the water station and pour myself a cup, chugging it to help ease the burn. After two refills and a quick fan with a flier I find lying around, I feel more level-headed and ready to support Evelyn. It doesn’t take long to find her near a rack of clothes, throwing pieces onto the ground in a frenzied tornado as she paces.
“Everything okay over here?” I ask tenderly, trying not to set her off the deep end even further. She spins on her heel to face me, placing a hand on her chest.
“Oh, thank god, you’re here. I’m on the verge of losing it.”
“I can see that. Take a breath.”
Evelyn sits on a nearby flimsy cardboard box, which slowly crumbles under her weight until she’s resting on the floor. She lets out a sigh and runs a hand down her face. I place a hand on her shoulder, getting down to her level. It’s bizarre seeing someone who’s usually so put together look like they’re moments away from an absolute meltdown, especially over something so trivial.
I think back to my hot yoga date with Scarlett, where I had the same realization about her. Knowing that everyone in my life is putting on a polished facade soothes a restlessness I didn’t realize was weighing on me up until this moment.
“Hey, what’s going on? It’s just a photoshoot. You’ve already written the book. That’s the hardest part. Now’s the fun stuff.”
She puffs out a breath and looks up at me, tears welling up in her eyes. “I know, I know. I think it’s all just hitting me now. Everything I’ve worked so hard for these past couple of years is about to be in front of everyone. What if they hate it? What if I fail?”
I slide closer to her and grab her hand, giving it a light squeeze of encouragement. One singular tear falls, and she lifts her shoulder to wipe it off her cheek before any more can spill.
“Hey, don’t cry. Your makeup looks too good to cry. Look, I’ve read the book. It’s one of the most magical stories I’ve read in a long time. And that’s saying something because I’ve built quite an extensive library, ” I joke. “I laughed, I cried. It had everything I could ask for in a book. And if someone can’t see that, they aren’t worth your time anyway. You can’t please everyone. There are going to be some people who probably don’t like it. But I promise you won’t fail. Besides, who did you write this story for? Them or yourself?”
She swallows the lump in her throat and wipes one last stray tear. “I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was a little girl. I’ve dreamed of being someone’s favorite author for as long as I can remember. When I was younger, I would spend hours daydreaming, writing short stories about everything I could think of. My poor parents. I made them read everything I wrote, but they would tell me how talented I was every single time, without fail. They acted as if everything I wrote was the best thing they’d ever read in their entire lives.
“But even with parents who supported every one of my dreams, I never thought the time would come to publish my life’s work. To put my heart and soul out there for the world to read it. I just wanted to prove to myself that I could do it. That my dreams weren’t silly,” she sniffs.
“Your dreams are never silly. I think what you’re doing is incredibly brave. Putting yourself out there is extremely vulnerable. I see your passion and how much you love the story you’ve crafted. It was clear from the moment I picked it up. Because you love it so much, others will love it, too. There’s no doubt in my mind,” I console.
She pulls me into a tight hug, making my wobbly on my feet. I rest my hand on the ground, trying to stay upright as I return her embrace.
“Thank you, Dylan. You’re right. I can do this. No matter how scary it is.”
“You absolutely can. Now, let’s get you an outfit picked out and photo-ready.”
I look down at my watch again– we’re now almost thirty minutes behind schedule. My eyes travel over to the photographer, who’s doing his best to look busy, not wanting to interrupt us during this emotional moment. Standing up, I brush off my pants and lend Evelyn a hand to stand.
“Here, try this out.” I grab a simple yet sophisticated high-collared black dress that beautifully contrasts with her marble skin and russet waves. She’s naturally beautiful, and I don’t want to take away from that for even a second. Without a word, I usher her into the nearby bathroom and lean against the wall, waiting for her to finish up.
“Looks like your ability to give one of your world-famous pep talks hasn’t gone anywhere.” A booming voice calls from behind me, sending all my thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind.
What’s he doing here?