8
Dylan
Then
I shove my books into my bag and make a beeline for the door, eager to get home. Bodies press forward in every direction, the rush to escape almost frantic. Lost in thought, I don’t see him until we collide—one second I’m walking, the next I’m on the floor, papers scattering around us like fallen leaves.
“Wow, that was graceful,” I mutter, already standing and reaching for his arm. “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”
He grips my hand, brushing off his shorts as he stands. There’s something rugged yet polished about him, his muscular build clearly defined beneath his navy-blue Rockport Titans T-shirt. “You’ve got one hell of a tackle. I’ll give you that.”
“I feel awful,” I insist, grabbing his books and a few stray pens. “I swear, I’m not usually this clumsy.”
He flexes his fingers like he’s checking for injuries before squatting down to grab the rest of his things. “Dylan, it’s fine. At least you’re dedicated to the full-contact approach.”
My lips part in surprise and I scan his face for any hint of familiarity, tousled blond hair falling across his forehead. His blue eyes meet mine briefly, smoldering with a confident intensity. “How do you know my name?”
“It’s a small town,” he says, rolling a stray pen between his fingers before tucking it behind his ear. “Word gets around. Plus, your brother’s on the team. We share a locker room.”
“Oh. Yeah, that makes sense.” Heat creeps up my neck, a reluctant realization setting in. Of course, people already know who I am. I fidget with the sleeve of my cardigan, the fabric twisting between my fingers before I pause, recognition resurfacing. “Wait…you were at the bonfire last weekend, weren’t you?”
“I was,” he admits, rocking back on his heels, like he’s enjoying making me work for it.
“And do I get to know your name, or are we keeping this whole mystery thing going?”
“Colt. Colton Hayes.”
I tap a finger to my lips, pretending to think. “Colton Hayes…nope, doesn’t ring a bell. Is this the part where you tell me you’re kind of a big deal?”
“You know,” he drawls, crossing his arms. “I was going to play it cool, but if you insist…yeah, I’m a legend. Hall of Fame, really.”
“Wow,” I deadpan. “And here I was, thinking you were just some guy I tackled in the hallway.”
“Nope. You’ve officially run into greatness.” He steps back, but not before giving me a once over like he’s memorizing the moment. “If you want another chance to be starstruck, I’ll be on the field later. Feel free to come and admire.”
“Tempting, but I should probably head home.”
“Rain check, then?”
I huff an amused laugh. “We’ll see.”
“Oh, we will,” he says playfully, stepping away. “Later, Dylan.”
I don’t look back as I head home. The air sharpens as the afternoon fades, slipping from warm gold to dusky blue. Each step pulls me farther from the weight of attention, the outside world shrinking behind me as my thoughts settle back into their usual, restless hum.
By the time I reach the front door, my shoulders are tense, bracing for the usual onslaught of my mother’s pointed remarks, coupled with Greg’s unfamiliar presence taking over the house.
But as I step inside, I’m met with nothing but stillness. No prying eyes, no sharp words waiting to hit me. Just space. I kick off my shoes and let out a breath, finally letting my guard down.
My room still doesn’t feel like mine, the packed boxes proof of it. But past them, tucked beneath a pile of clothes, a flash of color catches my eye—my paint palette. I haven’t painted since we moved. I tell myself I don’t have time. That I shouldn’t. But my hands are already reaching.
Settling down, I pull out a canvas and begin. The brush moves instinctively, each stroke pulling something loose inside me. The longer I paint, the more the world outside disappears, leaving just me, the colors, and a blissful feeling I’ve missed.
I’m so lost in the moment that the shift in the air doesn’t register until a shadow cuts across my canvas. I glance up, my stomach tightening as I meet my mother’s pinched, irritated stare.
“What are you doing, Dylan?” She speaks through clenched teeth, the strain bleeding through despite her attempt at control.
“Just…painting.”
“Painting.” The word falls from her mouth like it’s something vile. “You’d be better off putting your energy into something that actually matters. Trust me, life doesn’t have time for distracting little hobbies. You’ll learn that soon enough.” Her fingers barely graze the air in the direction of my boxes, like acknowledging them is an inconvenience. “Clean this shit up before Greg gets back.”
“Right, because who wouldn’t want life advice from you?” I mumble under my breath, something I know I’ll regret later.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. I’ll clean it up. Wouldn’t want to ruin the facade you’re putting on for him.”
“Watch yourself,” she warns. “Do you have any idea how lucky you are? You should be grateful, Dylan. And this?” She wrinkles her nose in the direction of my paints. “This is why you’ll never get anywhere if you don’t grow up.”
Her words should’ve dulled by now, worn thin from the endless repetition, but they still rip through me like a fresh wound.
“If getting somewhere means ending up miserable like you, I think I’ll pass.”
She clicks her tongue, shaking her head like I’m a lost cause. “I have given you everything, and you can’t show an ounce of appreciation.”
A dry chuckle scrapes out of me. “Appreciation for what? For making me feel like a burden in my own home?”
She moves closer, shoulders squared, her voice a razor’s edge. “Don’t test me, Dylan. I’m not going to let you sabotage everything we’re building here.”
“Sabotage?” I echo, feeling the bitterness rise. “You mean exist in a way that doesn’t fit your perfect little picture?”
She doesn’t yell. Doesn’t warn me. Just launches my palette across the room. The wall absorbs the impact with a dull crack as it shatters, spewing color in all directions. Some of it lands on me. Fitting, really.
“You missed a spot,” I snap, shoving past her, the need to escape burning through me. But I don’t get far. Her fingers clamp around my arm, nails biting in painfully. I whip around, meeting her glare with a flat stare. “You want to talk about growing up? How about you try acting like an actual parent for once?”
Her grip falters for a split second, and I don’t wait for her to recover. I lunge for the door, shoving it open so hard it smacks against the wall. Her voice warps behind me, edges dulled by whatever she’s been drinking, but I don’t turn back. The evening air stings my skin as I stumble into the overgrown yard—just in time to see Beckett pull into the driveway, riding shotgun in a red pickup I don’t recognize.
I see the alarm in my brother’s face a second before the door crashes open behind me. Our mother storms out, fists clenched, her breath heaving like a fucking maniac. My heart sinks as I look past him and spot Brooks in the driver’s seat, reaching across to turn down the radio.
She spits my name, venomous, but as soon as she registers we have company, her spine straightens, dragging in a sharp breath. Her hands smoothing over her shirt while her face rearranges itself into something resembling control. Almost. The fire in her eyes refuses to dim.
Beckett’s concern flares in the tightness of his jaw, his eyes glued onto mine like he’s trying to assess the damage. “What happened?”
Mortified doesn’t even begin to cover what I’m feeling. My life is a total disaster, unraveling for Brooks to see firsthand, and I’m powerless to hide any of it.
My mother’s expression doesn’t flicker, her silence louder than any words. She turns with slow, deliberate precision, walking away as if I no longer exist. The door shuts behind her—not slammed, not rushed, just a final, measured punctuation mark to her anger.
Becks straightens, rolling his shoulders like he’s preparing for battle. “Thanks for the ride, Brooks. Truck’s a problem for tomorrow. Right now, I’ve got damage control to run.” He jerks his chin toward the house, then at me. “Let’s go.”
“No,” I choke out, my breath coming in uneven gasps. I can’t go back in. I won’t.
Beckett’s grip is gentle as he pulls me in. “Come on, Dill. She probably went into her room. You’re not staying out here. Let’s go.”
I can feel Brooks watching me, like a spotlight I can’t escape. I feel seen in the worst way, like my ribs are cracked open and my humiliation is spilling onto the pavement for him to sift through. I cross my arms over my chest, gripping too tightly, my fingers digging in, but I don’t let go. The pressure is the only thing keeping me from falling apart. If I could disappear, if I could sink into the ground and never climb back out, I would.
I apprehensively follow Beckett inside, my shoulders curled inward, every step heavy with exhaustion. The house is eerily quiet again, and I worry it’s the kind that doesn’t feel like peace but rather another storm biding its time. Mom’s door stays shut, for now. In Beckett’s room, I sink onto his bed, and he sits behind me. He’s my only constant in a world where nothing else seems to stay in place.
“Did she hit you?”
I shake my head, trying but failing, to find the right words. “Not this time. She just threw my paints.” I wipe my face, but it doesn’t matter. My hands are shaking, my whole body trembling with the effort of keeping it all in. Beckett tugs me into his arms. I stiffen, resisting the comfort I don’t feel like I deserve, but the moment his hands settle on my back, the fight drains from me. My breath shudders, my body folding in on itself as the reality of everything finally crashes down.
“Why is she like this?” I sob, my voice breaking.
“I don’t know, Dill. I wish I did...but it’s not her. It’s the alcohol. You know that, don’t you? We’re almost out, okay? We can make it until graduation.”
I know he’s right, but time feels endless, stretching between now and the moment we can finally leave. Beckett and I have been planning our escape since we were kids—whispered schemes under blanket forts, fingers tracing imaginary routes on old maps. Colorado was always the dream, the place frozen in memory like a photograph. Snow-dusted sidewalks, jagged peaks in the distance, and the tiny park where we tried and failed to sled on patches of stubborn ice. Ever since we left, we’ve sworn we’d go back, rent a little place, and work whatever jobs we had to. It wasn’t about money or success. It was about reclaiming something that once felt like home.
It’s cruel how time drags when you’re desperate for it to speed up. The closer we get to leaving, the heavier each day feels—like wading through quicksand, knowing I’ll be pulled under if I let my guard slip. I’ve lost count of the nights I’ve listened to her scream, felt the agonizing pressure of her anger pressing into my skin. It never changes. It never stops. It’s not like when Beckett and I were younger, back when she still cared—if she ever really did. Now, there’s only this version of her, the one whose voice is always sharp, whose words always bruise. And somehow, I’m the one she targets the most, like punishing me might fix whatever’s broken inside her.
There were nights I used to pray she’d change, that I’d wake up and find the mother I used to know waiting for me at the breakfast table. But that hope withered away a long time ago. This is who she is now. Maybe this is who she’s always been, and I was just too young to see it.
I shrug off Beckett’s arms, pressing my palms hard against my face before forcing a steady inhale and standing. “I should clean up,” I murmur, as if wiping away the mess could somehow make the rest of my life feel less out of control.
“Let me help,” he offers, pushing himself up.
“No, it’s fine. I can handle it.”
He doesn’t move at first, watching me closely, like he’s trying to figure out if I really mean it or if I’m just pushing him away. “Dill, you don’t always have to do everything alone. I want to help you. I can’t just stand here and let you push me away when I know you’re struggling.”
I swallow, avoiding his eyes. “I’ve got it, Becks. Really. Just let it go.”
His posture softens, and I can see the hint of defeat in the way he lowers his shoulders. “Alright. But I’m still here. And I’m not going anywhere, even if you try to shut me out.”
I take a slow breath, my eyes lingering on his face for a moment before I step back into my room. The door creaks slightly as it shuts behind me, and my gaze lands on the dried paint smeared across the wall. It’s nothing new. I’ve scrubbed away her anger more times than I can count.
I used to think if I tried hard enough, I could fix things. That if I was careful, quiet, perfect, she’d love me the way she used to. The thought leaves a sour taste in my mouth. My phone buzzes in the back pocket of my jeans, pulling me back to the present.
Brooks: Hey, it’s Brooks. Got ur # from Beckett. He wasn’t too stoked, but I talked him into it. ;)
Brooks: Just checking if ur ok
I bite my lip, feeling my ears redden, and despite myself, I bounce slightly on the edge of my bed, the thought of him having my number making me a little too happy.
Dylan: I’m good. Thx tho.
I know better than to admit how I really feel. Letting someone in means giving them the power to hurt you. I learned that lesson young, and I’m not about to forget it now.
Brooks: Cool. Wanna hang tmr after practice?
Dylan: Idk…where?
Brooks: Surprise lol
My fingers hover over the keyboard. A simple yes would be easy, but easy doesn’t mean safe. Not after what he saw today. It’s probably just pity. A check-in disguised as an invitation. I shouldn’t fall for it.
Dylan: ummm, why tho?
Brooks: Why not?
Dylan: cuz u just witnessed my origin story as a future therapy patient…
Brooks: And???
Dylan: AND?
Brooks: All I saw was how tough u r tbh
I shift, trying to ignore the heat blooming across my face, a flush spreading steadily from my neck up.
Dylan: U don’t even rlly know me
Brooks: Not yet. I wanna fix that.
My brain short circuits for a second, then immediately kicks into overdrive. A thousand interpretations all elbowing for attention. I read it again, hoping for clarity. All I get is more confusion and a racing heart.
Brooks: Just say yes Dylan ;)
Dylan: Fiiiiine
Dylan: Yes (:
I shouldn’t let this mean anything, but it does—because people usually leave, and the fact that Brooks still wants to spend time with me after today feels significant.
Brooks: Let’s goooo!! see u tmr
As soon as I set my phone down, my stomach gives an obnoxious growl, like it’s reminding me I’ve ignored it for way too long. I’m barely halfway into the kitchen when the air shifts—thick with syrupy laughter that’s too loud, too sweet, like it’s trying to cover something up. Mom’s pressed against the counter, Greg’s hands tracing lazy paths along her back. I freeze just inside the doorway, my stomach twisting, hunger draining out of me like water down a sink.
Mom turns to me, flinching for a fraction of a second before turning it into a grin that feels as fake as a store mannequin. “Hi, baby! How was school?”
“Good,” I reply, the word feeling clunky in my mouth as I try to match her fake cheerfulness.
“That’s great! I’m making dinner if you’re hungry. Mac and cheese with hot dogs—your favorite.” She’s still performing, putting on a show for Greg, as if that’ll somehow smooth over everything. I haven’t liked mac and cheese with hot dogs since I was eight, but I nod anyway.
“Thanks, Mom.” My smile feels as artificial as the powdered cheese.
Beckett slides into the room, one hand drumming absently on the counter. His raised brow is subtle, but I catch it. I nod once, a barely-there movement, trusting him to get it.
“Dylan, sweetie, could you set the table for us?” Mom asks, her voice honeyed with too much charm. I can’t remember the last time we did this—played pretend. But pushing back now would only make things worse.
“Sure,” I answer, stacking plates in my arms.
We sit down, and without missing a beat, Mom starts dishing out food. She serves Greg first, of course, making sure his plate is just right before moving on. I don’t know many adults who treat mac and cheese like a gourmet meal, but I figure it’s better not to question it. We’re just extras in the show she’s putting on.
I chew mechanically. Each bite feels like swallowing cardboard, but I don’t stop. Neither does Beckett. We eat like we’re on a timer. No words. No glances. Just quiet endurance.
As soon as our plates are empty, we clear them without a word, slipping away before the fragile peace at the table has a chance to break. I lead the way to my room, Beckett following close behind, neither of us looking back.
“Well, that was a nightmare,” he mumbles, collapsing onto my bed.
“Don’t get comfortable. That was too easy. She’s holding it in.”
“Maybe she’ll get laid, and we’ll get a free pass tonight,” he jokes, attempting optimism.
“Ew, Beckett. I hate you for that sentence.”
“What?”
“If I have to picture them naked, I might actually vomit,” I say, shuddering.
“Hey, you’ll be grateful if it buys us a drama-free night!”
“Here’s to hoping,” I say, crossing my fingers for emphasis.
Beneath the sarcasm, dread coils in my stomach. Mom is a ticking time bomb, and deep down, I’m terrified. When she finally goes off, we won’t have time to run. We’ll just have to brace for impact and hope the blast doesn’t take us down with her.