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Chapter Eleven

Scarlett

T he sunset outside my window matches perfectly with the deep blue and pink palette of my bedroom. It also fits my mood: dark with hints of badass girl boss. I sink into the cushions piled along the wide window seat; knees bent as I lean over to screw the top off a new coral nail polish my mother brought back from a spa weekend with Diane a couple of weekends ago. I’m grateful for the alone time and the quiet… the opportunity to just “be” after a long, crappy day. Still no new texts from Carter, but it’s been on my mind all day. That and Seb being in hospital, and also the incident with Dylan this morning. He didn’t end up being even one minute late for his first class this morning. Which means somebody gave him a lift. Two days in and he’s already being offered rides by kids he doesn’t even know.

There’s a part of me that resents Dylan for how un-affected he manages to be from everything. How he seems to have a knack for shutting off his emotions and moving on so cooly from situations that would disarm anyone else. As if nothing really penetrates through to his core. Like he’s bulletproof.

Okay, full truth: I’m envious. Because that’s how I want to be. It’s what I’ve worked to be like for years. And I thought I was pretty close to it. But the way my stomach feels like it’s up in my throat right now—how sick I’ve felt all day, ever since that text came in from Carter yesterday—I’m nowhere near Dylan’s level of aloof. Like, if I’m a green belt in being tough as nails, then Dylan Braun is a black belt. And how is that? When he’s the one who’s had the heavier blows to deal with, and I’ve had just the one?

I drag the wooden tray towards me that I keep here to use as a surface when I’m doing my nails, then inhale a slow breath, savoring the fresh scent of burnt vanilla wafting from my oil diffuser along the window ledge. My gaze shifts to the sunset again, then skims the silhouettes of the bare-branched maple trees and the swaying grasses by the Braun’s winterized pool.

And that’s when I spot him. Freaking Dylan, ambling down one of the side staircases off the Braun’s mile-long multi-tiered back deck wearing dark pants, a dark hoody, and an even darker expression.

He continues his steady trajectory across the lower deck, carrying something under one arm. But from the angle he’s positioned, I can’t make out what it is. He glances over his shoulder, like he can sense someone’s eyes on him, then flicks up his hood with his free hand as he turns back. He continues along the wide lower stone patio, all the way to the other end of the infinity pool.

There’s something really masculine about his movements. It’s part of what makes him so attractive: that lithe, confident swagger coupled with looks that verge on the pretty side of handsome. Always with that whole layered juxtaposition thing. This young boy fragility contrasted against hard-edged darkness. It’s fascinating to me because I don’t understand how it works. How someone can be two opposing things at once. Or rather, how someone can be that way and still make it work. Because, in my experience, the only way to chisel yourself into a hardened survivor is to be one way, one hundred percent of the time. Never wavering.

Juxtapositions are murky. They cause imbalance. And imbalance leads to stumbling, then falling.

So then how has this guy survived like this for so long, through way bulkier obstacles than I’ve ever had to face? When he’s this messy mishmash of juxtapositions? After everything he’s been through, how does he remain so seemingly unaffected? Where are those weaknesses the papers practically screamed from the rooftops at us? The rage and the hurt? The bitterness?

He drops whatever he’s holding, and I can tell from the shape of it now, when it falls virtually flat against the tiles, that it’s a skateboard. Proof that Phil made good on his promise to buy him a new one, which doesn’t surprise me in the least. It was probably the most expensive board the store had in stock, too. Phil would buy Dylan the world if he thought it would make him happy.

He flips the skateboard with the toe of his sneaker a few times, spinning it dizzyingly fast yet so effortlessly it’s clearly second-nature to him. Then he does some equally fast maneuver, where he simultaneously kicks the board up a couple of feet as it spins, then lands on it gracefully with both feet.

I return my attention to the tray on my window seat; dip the tiny brush into the thick coral liquid and start painting the nails of my right hand. Like the skateboarding thing with Dylan, this act is second nature to me. I could polish these bad boys with my eyes closed and still do a passable job. It’s a good skill to have. I’ve marketed myself as the type of girl who gets a manicure at least twice a month.

When I glance up again, Dylan is stationary. Still on his board, but leaning back on his heels, hands shoved deep in his pockets—a dark, razor-sharp silhouette against the soft sunset. More juxtapositions. Almost as if they cling to him wherever he goes.

He stands for a while. It’s a cool evening and I can just make out the mist floating from his lips as he exhales into the Fall air; and the shallow rise and fall of his broad shoulders beneath his dark hoodie. I dip the brush into the polish, wipe the excess off against the rim and glide the brush along my pinky nail in a sleek, glossy stroke. Outside, Mr. Tall Dark and Broody slides off his board. Steps down on one end with the toe of his sneaker so the other end pops up into his waiting palm—all in one smooth, effortless motion.

I glide the polish along the remaining nails on my right hand. When I glance up again, Dylan is stalking further down the patio, approaching the sunken stone steps that lead down to the lower grassed terrace. He drops his board onto the lawn, then descends the steps, stopping to sit on the lowest one. Not facing forward, but sideways, with his back against the side of the sunken steps. His knees are bent, his body parallel to the horizon, staring out at… the trees, maybe?

He stays like that for a long time. Long enough that I finish all the nails on my left hand. And he’s still in the same position when I loosely cap the polish, placing the bottle on the corner of the tray. His breathing looks like it’s slowed back to normal. He shifts, and I assume he’s about to get up and go back inside. Maybe retrieve his skateboard and do a few more tricks or something.

Instead, he raises his lower body, lifting his butt off the ground to allow easier access for his hand to shove into his right pocket. He pulls it out, clutching something small I can’t make out, then lowers his butt back to that same sitting position. Then, with a flick of his wrist, something long flips out of the far end, glinting silver beneath the sun’s setting rays.

A knife. He’s holding some kind of switchblade.

No way his dad knows about that. Or Diane. Or anyone. He looks off into the distance again, the blade still clutched loosely in the hand he’s resting against his right knee.

Another five minutes pass.

He dips his head, lifts his hand off his knee, then pushes up the sleeve of his opposite arm, knife still casually fisted, like its grip is familiar. Like it’s an extension of his hand. He’s wearing a thick hoodie, so the bunched-up sleeve is bulky around his upper arm. Then he brings the switchblade up to his bare forearm, almost parallel to his limb… and drags the blade smoothly across his flesh in a long, steady line.

I jolt back, inhaling a choked gasp, knocking my knee against the wall beneath the window. When I glance down, a widening circle of coral polish is pooling by my right toe on the tray. I rip a couple of tissues from the box by my thigh and frantically blot up the mess, returning the brush into the tiny bottle. I shove the tray and its mound of coral-soaked tissues aside as I slash my gaze back to the window and the sunset-lit steps.

He’s doing it again—dragging the blade across his skin in a way that is eerily calm. And steady. And almost practiced. Like he’s done this a hundred times before—cut himself like this, with a freakin’ switchblade.

This is— Shit. This is bad.

My body leans instinctively closer to the glass. Even from here, I can see the dark well of blood beginning to seep from the incisions, trailing along his forearm toward his elbow.

I glance around frantically—for what, exactly, I’m not sure. The contents of my stomach threaten to come back up and I lurch to my feet. Rush towards the door. Then stop halfway there. Whirl around and rush back to the window.

I lean in and peer back outside.

He’s doing it again.

Shitshitshit.

I expected punching and kicking and lashing out at other people. I was prepared for something like that. Not okay with it, but prepared. Expecting it, at least. But this—harming himself… I wasn’t prepared for this at all.

Outside, Dylan is leaning over now, wiping the side of the blade along the grass, twice on each side. He flips it shut. Still so calm and controlled. He lets the blade fall beside him against the stone step… stretches his blood-striped arm out to the side, resting it against the grass beside him, basically at shoulder height. Then he drops his head back, too. His eyelids shutter closed, and he inhales… then exhales, his body visibly relaxing. He lowers his knees, stretching his long legs out in front of him along the length of the step he’s sitting on, his limbs limp now, and so very, very still. The scene is similar to how I imagine a heroin addict looking right after shooting up. And it’s horrible… that this is what appears to have relaxed him for the first time since landing in Sandy Haven—that it’s the most at peace I’ve seen him by far.

I pull away from the window again. I don’t know what to do. Should I do something? Or is this none of my business?

But what if he’s bleeding out right now? I don’t know how that works; if that’s something that can happen from the kind of cuts he was inflicting.

God, I can’t imagine telling Philip about this, though. He would be gutted if he knew Dylan was doing this to himself. The boy he lost fourteen years ago, who he already feels so much guilt over—who he is doing everything within his power to heal from the wounds of a horrible past he already feels responsible for. I don’t think he could bear this, on top of everything else. He thinks his son is finally safe and out of harm’s way now that he’s home, under his roof. I can’t take that away, too.

Out on the steps, Dylan shuffles. Lifts his head.

He’s okay…

Right? It’s bad. But he’s okay.

I sink back into the cushions, my senses still on high alert, rattled into a state of heightened awareness. Not at all the mood I was shooting for when I settled in for the evening to do my nails and maybe watch a couple of The Office re-runs.

And yes, I wanted to see Dylan at his weakest, but now that I have, all I feel is unsettled. There’s none of the relief I would expect after having glimpsed his cracks, soothed by the confirmation that Dylan Braun isn’t, in fact, infallible.

“Dylan? Are you out here?” Diane’s voice pierces the silence. She pops her head out of the opening of one of the patio doors.

Dylan looks over… doesn’t say anything—just leans down and palms the knife; lifts his butt again and slips the blade back into his pocket. From his position tucked along one of the steps cut into the terraced lawn, his dark form would be pretty hard to spot if you didn’t know where to look.

He swivels his body and slides his left forearm slowly across the grass, wiping off the blood, presumably. Still so casual, though. More like he’s wiping off a smear of chocolate or something, rather than his own blood.

“Dylan? Is that you? Over on the steps?”

He pulls his sleeve back down, not even bothering to glance at whatever damage he’s inflicted. The fact that the whole process is so cavalier is almost as disturbing as the actual act of cutting himself.

Diane steps outside and walks to the edge of the highest patio. “Dylan! You need to answer when I’m talking to you… You’ve been out here for a while. I’d like you to come inside now. Your father’s going to be home in a few minutes.”

God, it must be so weird being treated like an eight-year-old all the time. Everyone keeping close tabs on your whereabouts, even in your own backyard.

Dylan pushes himself up, scanning the ground around him once he’s standing.

“Come on inside please,” Diane calls out again. “Lord, aren’t you cold out here in just a sweatshirt?”

He ignores her, nudging his skateboard with his toe, doing that thing again where he pops it into his hand. Then he turns and heads up the terraced lawn towards the house. Diane says something to him, but I can’t hear now that she isn’t shouting anymore. Once he reaches the top deck, the two of them slip through the opening into the warm glow of their sitting room.

I slide off the window seat, still shaken up. Put away the nail polish, tossing the soiled tissues in the bathroom garbage because the chemical smell is so strong it’s overpowering the vanilla from my diffuser. Then I take a long shower. And although it calms my breathing, I still feel weird. Disturbed.

Even after watching a couple of TheOffice episodes, my thoughts are racing. So, I give up and go to bed early. I don’t fall asleep until several hours later.