13
Dylan
N ow
When I wake up, the room is shrouded in darkness, and the pounding in my head feels like a drumbeat I can’t escape. Squinting at the clock, I notice the time on the nightstand—2 AM. I must’ve passed out shortly after calling Aaron. We didn’t talk long. I was too drained to hold a conversation, and must’ve fallen asleep the second my head hit the mattress.
My hand sweeps across the bed until I find my phone, wedged between the pillows.
One tap, two, nothing. Perfect. Dead battery.
The room tilts, or maybe it’s just me. The tequila hasn’t worn off—it’s settled in, making itself at home. Regret settles in alongside the hangover, both making it abundantly clear: I’m not as resilient as I once was.
Dragging myself upright, the pounding in my head intensifies with each reluctant step. Pressure building at the base of my skull. A vague mental map of the room leads me to stumble into the corner, where my suitcase waits like a cruel joke. After a few clumsy attempts, my hands finally land on the zipper.
Flipping it open, the realization dawns: no painkillers. Not even a single packet tossed in at the last minute. “Figures.” The frustration clings to the single word, my sarcasm lost on the empty walls.
A slow spin distorts the edges of my vision before my balance catches back up. I rifle through my bag, brushing over something solid—my charger. I shove the cord into the port with more force than necessary, willing it to work quickly, the tiniest thread of control slipping back into my grasp.
Ultimately, I decide I can’t just sit here and let the pain eat away at me. Pushing past the exhaustion, I head for the door. Hotels usually have a drawer of forgotten essentials or a clerk who might take pity on me. I just need something—though at this point, I’d settle for a distraction, or a lobotomy.
The fluorescent lights in the lobby glare down like a personal attack, pressing on an invisible bruise. Each step toward the front desk sends a fresh jolt of nausea surges up my spine, my body protesting every decision that has led to this moment.
I try to push through it, but my legs turn to jelly. My vision spins as I stumble over to a nearby couch and sink into it, putting my head between my legs, hoping the churning sickness will pass.
“Dylan?” The sound of my name cuts through the pain, and my head snaps up to see none other than Brooks Holland at the front desk, watching me with wide, concerned eyes. His gaze catches mine, and he’s on his feet in an instant, stepping toward me. “What are you doing here? Is everything alright?”
“I just—” I part my lips to speak, but the words die in my throat as my insides constrict. My stomach clenches violently, and before I can think, I lurch forward, seizing the nearest vase and retching into it.
Brooks drops beside me in an instant, guiding me onto the couch with a careful grip. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t fumble, like an anchor keeping me from slipping under.
“Easy,” he says, as though my body isn’t actively betraying me. Spent and shaking, my muscles go slack, my weight tilting toward him. I don’t mean to stay there, but moving feels like too much effort, and he doesn’t push me away.
“Are you alright?”
“I—” The answer sticks for half a second before slipping loose. “No.” A wave of fatigue surges through me, engulfing everything in its path, my lungs hitching around a breath that doesn’t quite fill deep enough. “I feel like shit.”
I ease back, each motion calculated in an attempt to regain my composure. Not because I actually feel better, but because looking like I do is the next best thing.
“What happened?”
“I’m just nauseated,” I manage, though my voice betrays me. “My headache won’t quit. No meds. No food. No sleep. And—” I stop, biting back the rest of the sentence with an inhale.
Brooks watches me, but doesn’t pry.
I focus on his eyes, searching for the right words, but all that comes is an awkward pause.
His gaze stays steady, like he already knows I won’t ask unless I have to. “What would help?”
The instinct to wave him off is there, but the pounding behind my eyes wins. “Tylenol. Ibuprofen. Anything, if it’s not too much trouble.” I breathe through another wave of discomfort. “I’ll pay for it.”
“Got it. Stay put, I’ll find something. You’re not paying for it, so don’t argue.”
The moment he steps away, I press my hands against my thighs, willing strength back into my limbs. It doesn’t work. When he returns, he crouches back down beside me, dropping two pills into my palm before handing me a water bottle. I don’t think. I just swallow.
“I should get back,” I say, though I make no move to stand. My eyes drift to the vase, and I cringe. “I— God, I’ll replace that. I promise.”
Brooks huffs out something close to a laugh. “I’d be more worried about making it up to housekeeping.” He leans against the couch, arms crossed. “What’s the plan? Think you can make it, or am I coming with you?”
“I’ve got it.”
“If you say so.” Brooks steps back, but not far, his attention narrowed in like he’s waiting for me to prove myself wrong.
I reach my door, grab the handle, and push. Nothing. A harder pull—still no give.
Brooks tilts his head, watching as I try again, but stays quiet.
A fourth attempt ends with me smacking the wood lightly, my patience running out. My head tips back in frustration before I spin on my heel and stalk toward him, expression flat.
“You didn’t grab your key when you left, did you?”
“No.” It’s an automatic answer, but not a confident one. “I was too focused on getting rid of this headache. And maybe I had a bit too much to drink on the plane. Plus, jet lag—”
His voice interrupts my spiral. “Dylan.”
I force my attention back to him. “Yeah?”
“Breathe. No need to explain. I’ll get you a new key.”
“I’m sorry, I just—” My throat works around the words. “I hate feeling like an inconvenience.”
“Pretty sure you couldn’t be one if you tried.”
He leaves to grab a new key, and by the time I finally step inside, gravity pulls me straight to the bed. I drag a pillow over my face, like it might muffle the relentless pounding that refuses to let go. The cool pressure is a brief mercy but my mind is fevered, running itself ragged in the dark. The headache will fade. The ache in my chest won’t—not until I stop running from it.
The sheets twist around me like restraints, trapping me in this restless purgatory. My limbs scream for rest, running circles around my exhaustion like a cruel game.
Sleep, fickle as ever, must have stolen me away for just a moment—long enough for the sharp ping of my phone to yank me back, sending a jolt through my half-conscious body.
Squinting against the invasive flow, I rub my face before reaching for my phone. I fumble for it, but the moment my eyes adjust to the words on the screen, the air in the room seems to thin.
Brooks: Hey, uh…would you maybe want to grab breakfast? No pressure, just thought I’d ask.
My gut reaction is to turn him down. I barely made it through last night, but the emptiness in my stomach tightens like a fist. Begrudgingly, I type out my response, surrendering to the fact that avoiding him won’t fill the empty space in my heart—or my stomach.
Dragging myself out of bed feels like a monumental effort, but the promise of a hot shower wins out. Steam clouds the mirror as my dark jeans and a fitted white cardigan come together as the day’s armor.
My reflection staring back is less than inspiring—pale, worn down, teetering on the edge of exhaustion. I rub at my cheeks, hoping to bring some life back into them, but it doesn’t help. With an exasperated sigh, I make my way to the lobby. As it comes into view, so does last night’s vase disaster, mortification trailing close behind.
“Morning,” Brooks calls out as he rounds the corner, his voice carrying that familiar unruffled comfort, like an old sweatshirt, broken in just right. The dark jacket he’s wearing fits him well, structured but not stiff, the sort of thing he probably threw on without a second thought. Beneath it, a white hoodie softens the sharp edges, fabric stretched slightly across his shoulders. He looks like the kind of warmth you want to sink into, the kind of trouble you know better than to chase—but do anyway.
Meanwhile, I feel like I’m holding my breath in a room with no oxygen.
“Ready to go?”
“Yeah,” I say, smoothing a hand over my shirt like it might press the rest of me back into place. “Food sounds good.” If nothing else, it’s a distraction. One I desperately need.
He shifts, leaving just enough space for me to walk past. For a breath, I don’t move.
Food. Just focus on that. One plate. A simple, forgettable thing.
At least, it should be simple—picking up a fork and chewing—but the whole thing feels like trying to breathe with my head underwater.
As we walk, the ink curling around one of his wrists pulls my attention. The intricate silhouettes of trees, dark and deliberate, seem almost alive against his skin, with tiny stars scattered between the branches like distant embers. Something about it stirs an allure I can’t quite ignore. The urge to reach out and trace the lines, to ask about their meaning, rises before I can stop it.
A deep breath steadies me, but the thought remains. My fingers twitch at my side as I focus on the pavement beneath my feet, willing myself to stay grounded. It feels safer this way—safer not to act on the impulse, not to let him see just how much I’m still drawn to him.
Tracing the edge of my left collarbone through my shirt, I press down as if I could force the memory etched into my own skin deeper or maybe even erase it altogether. But the tattoo remains, heavy in ways ink shouldn’t be.
When his truck comes into view, a faint sting of disappointment catches me off guard. I’d been bracing for the sight of his old pickup from high school—a relic of long drives and late-night conversations, its faded paint telling stories of its own. Instead, a cement-gray Toyota Tacoma gleams in the morning light, its polished edges and modern design a glaring reminder of how much time has passed. The shift feels jarring, like another piece of the past slipping further away.
Brooks swings the door open, and I step up quickly, tucking my hands beneath my thighs the moment I sit. My stomach gives a quiet growl, a not-so-gentle nudge that breakfast is overdue. Brooks settles in beside me, his fingers tapping once against the wheel before he shifts the truck into gear.
The tires crunch over pavement as we merge onto the road, Rockport spilling past the windows. It’s like looking at an old photograph, the edges faded but the core still intact. Every mile seems to draw my anxiety deeper. This town is a time capsule I’m not sure I’m ready to open.
The second we stop, the past rushes up to meet me—Ruby’s Diner. The name on the weathered sign feels like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, I consider walking back to The Drift. This used to be our place, where everything felt unshakable. Now, it’s the last place I want to set foot in with him. Regret coils in my chest. Hindsight mocks me. It’s a small town with limited options. I should’ve seen this coming.
I make no move to open the door. My fingers stay curled in my lap, my breath shallow, my pulse a steady drum against my throat. Maybe if I sit still long enough, I won’t have to do this.
Then, the soft click of a handle.
Brooks rounds the truck, his footsteps sure against the pavement. The inside of the cab feels safe, distant—but when my door swings open, the barrier shatters. A rush of air spills in, taming the blaze spreading through me. I grip the seat, but his gaze holds me captive—expectant, patient. He’s not letting me stay here.
My legs are stiff when I shift forward, muscles locked in quiet rebellion. The first step feels impossible—like the moment before cliff diving—but Brooks doesn’t waver. His hand rests lightly on the doorframe—not pushing, not rushing, just waiting.
Inside, muted chatter fills the air, pressing in with the scent of fried bacon and fresh coffee. But the lights cut through it all, casting long shadows on the wood-paneled walls. Everything here feels like it’s been paused in time, stubbornly resisting the years. The aging photos hung haphazardly along the walls catch my attention, their worn borders framing moments I can’t forget, no matter how hard I try.
One photo stops me—a shot of Cape Mercy Lighthouse. A figure leans against the railing, silhouetted against the vast ocean, the sun glinting off the waves below. The familiarity doesn’t settle—it writhes, like a trapped insect under glass. Air stalls in my throat as the reason clicks into place. The photographer captured not just the lighthouse, but a moment I never thought would be shared. Salt-laced air lifts my hair, the water stretching endlessly toward the horizon—like standing on the edge of a moment that no longer belongs solely to me.
Brooks had said photography could hold time still, that it could turn a fleeting feeling into something permanent. Looking at this photo now, I understand exactly what he meant.
“Let’s grab a seat,” Brooks says, pulling my attention from his photo on the wall.
I follow him, easing onto the stool as it wobbles beneath me. The menu stares back, its words bleeding together the longer I try to focus, my mind grasping for something—anything—solid.
Brooks lifts a hand in greeting, catching the attention of the woman behind the counter. “Morning, Brooks. Didn’t expect to see you before Sunday.”
“Dylan, this is Nadine,” Brooks says, tipping his head slightly toward her—a motion that feels instinctive, like muscle memory. Like the two of them have shared a thousand conversations at this very counter.
“Now there’s a name I’ve heard more than a few times.”
“And here I thought I was flying under the radar.”
She chuckles softly, her energy radiant in a way that makes it hard to hold onto my defenses. “Oh, you were. Until Ruby opened her mouth. Let me take a guess—coffee to start?”
I exhale quietly relieved by the shift to something mundane. “Yeah, that sounds perfect, thanks.”
She steps away to grab a pot, and I let my gaze wander around the diner, taking in the worn booths and chipped checkered tiles, trying to find something new.
Ruby Miller appears from the kitchen, her copper-red hair perfectly styled in silky waves that match her presence. The remnants of yesterday’s awkward encounter dissolves in an instant, replaced with a comfort that feels like home.
“Dylan! Sweetheart, Nadine just told me you wandered in,” she says, her voice brimming with its natural sparkle. “And Brooks—well, there you are. I knew you two would end up back here together soon enough.”
“Morning, Ms. Miller.”
She waves a hand, dismissing any formality before planting herself in front of us with a no-nonsense look. “Okay, here’s the deal. You two are ordering whatever you want this morning. It’s on me, got it?”
“That’s too much, Ruby. We can’t let you do that.”
Her playful tone carries over as she winks. “Oh, I’m not joking, babydoll. It’s not every day we have a little reunion here. Consider it my treat. You both deserve it.”
“Ruby, seriously. I’m the one who dragged Dylan out this morning. I’ve got it covered,” Brooks counters.
Ruby flicks an imaginary speck of dust off her sleeve before sending a mock-accusatory point his way. “Oh no, sugar, this isn’t for you. It’s for her.”
Nadine chuckles from her spot behind the counter as she brings over our coffee. “You’ll lose this argument, Brooks. You know first hand Ruby is as stubborn as they come. Just let her have her way.”
Brooks lets out a resigned groan, tilting his head slightly. “Fine, you win. But you know I’m ordering half the menu now, right?”
“I always win, babydoll. Go on ahead. I won’t regret a thing. But let’s not kid ourselves, you’ll be ordering the same pancakes you always do.”
True to form, Brooks orders the same pancakes he’s sworn by since we were younger. I, on the other hand, opt for strawberry waffles, though my appetite flickers in and out like a faulty light. Ruby stays close, keeping the conversation light like a well-timed distraction from the tension that might take root once we’re alone.
The conversation flows easily, like it always does when we’re together. There’s no rush to fill every pause, but somehow we’re always talking. It’s comforting, like slipping into a pair of shoes you’ve had forever. And then, New York comes up.
I start talking without even realizing it, telling them about my move there after finishing my art degree. I think I’ve said it a thousand times before, but it feels different now. I moved there because I craved invisibility—because the city had a way of blending people into the masses. I liked that. I liked being just another face in the crowd, where nobody cared if I was there or not. It was like I could finally be myself without anyone noticing.
Then, I start to tell them how I met Aaron—except I hesitate, his name catching in my throat. Brooks stays still, but his shoulders pull back, a barely-there shift that speaks volumes. I tread carefully, choosing my words like stepping stones across a river, mindful of every placement.
“We connected over art,” I say, testing the waters, eyes flicking to his, tracking his reaction like a second heartbeat. “Eventually, he convinced me to come work for him.” The words feel heavier now.
I push forward, filling the silence further before it can stretch too long, explaining how stepping into Chelsea Art Haus felt like entering a different world—a symphony of bold colors and kinetic art, everything demanding attention. It’s not the quiet life I thought I wanted, but it’s predictable. And these days, predictable feels like a win.
Brooks is quiet—not in an uncomfortable way, just listening as Ruby peppers me with questions, offering little of his own. Every now and then, he answers when prompted, but for the most part, he’s content to sit back and let our conversation unfold around him.
I don’t push him. We don’t need to talk about everything. But there’s starting to be a part of me that wants to, to bridge that gap and close the distance after everything that’s happened.
The clink of dishes and the sizzle of the grill are familiar background noises, almost making everything feel normal. But then Ruby’s sharp clap cuts through it all. She’s smiling, her eyes bouncing between Brooks and me like she’s trying to piece something together.
“Feels like just yesterday you two were sneaking out back during Dylan’s breaks, thinking no one noticed,” she says, a teasing note in her voice.
Her words hit me like a sudden wave, pulling me under before I can even brace myself. It’s strange how something so casual, so innocent, can dredge up a memory I thought I’d forgotten. I’m back there in an instant—reliving those stolen moments with Brooks.
I remember how he’d lead me through the back door, the cold bite of the metal handle against my fingers as we slipped away, shutting us off from everyone else. How his laugh would echo in the alley as we passed old wooden crates and faded posters on the wall, the ones that had started peeling away years before. Then, he’d pull me close, and in that slip of time, the world would soften, as though we were the only two starts left in a sky emptied of everything else.
“That was a long time ago,” I say, forcing a casual tone, though the edge in my voice betrays me. The last thing I need is for this conversation to wander further.
Ruby isn’t deterred. She chuckles lightly, brushing off my attempt to redirect. “Long time or not, I’ve watched a lot of folks come and go over the years. Let me tell you, what you two had? That kind of connection doesn’t just come along every day. Most people go their whole lives without finding it.”
Beside me, Brooks shifts in his seat, and a soft sound escapes him—his throat clearing, maybe—but he doesn’t say anything. It’s impossible to tell if his lack of response carries agreement or discomfort.
“People change,” I say, knowing she wont believe me.
Ruby’s eyes hold mine, unfazed. “Maybe. But there are things you can’t rewrite, no matter how much time passes.”
The bell above the diner door jingles softly. It’s a small sound, but it ripples through the restaurant, drawing my attention. The room grows unusually quiet, conversations faltering mid-sentence. Even Ruby pauses, her energy suddenly still as her eyes lock onto the door.
When I follow her stare, icy clarity hits me. I understand the reason for her reaction now, but there’s no escaping it. No escaping her.
Denise Rivers.
My mother.