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Chapter Fifteen

Dylan

P hil and Diane split driving me to and from my appointments with the shrink. It’s an hour outside of Sandy Haven, which means two hours total of driving. Always just me and one of them; no-one else tagging along to eat up the silent airtime. Means the drive is almost worse than the shrink session itself. I’m always exhausted after the emotion smack-down with Morley. Takes all my willpower not to lose it on the drive back, with the overload of even more questions. Phil trying to be buddy-buddy. Diane trying to fix me.

The drive with Phil is the worst, since he likes to tack on a “special outing” on the way back. Restaurant, or walk to some lighthouse, or skateboard shopping or whatever. Prolonging the stress from three hours to four, if you include the session with the shrink.

Tonight, we’re hitting a restaurant that has a sign underneath the name that says, “casual dining”. Which is a bold-ass lie. Not one thing casual about this place. Even the building is a fancy old house with high ceilings and huge rugs all over I’d make people remove their shoes before walking on if they were mine.

Always feels like people are staring at me in these places. Like they can tell I don’t belong. Or they know my first instinct is to case the joint to figure out how much I could get away with nicking without getting caught (a lot—in and out in ten minutes if I waited ’til the place was closed for the night). The trashy slum rat tracking mud into their perfect world.

There are huge windows along the back wall, overlooking the ocean. Far as I can tell, everything overlooks the ocean when you’re rich and live on the coast. There are even a couple of fireplaces. Real fireplaces, not the fake electric ones. But no TVs. Another rich people thing—they like to talk. A lot. Especially when they’re eating. Guess a TV would be a distraction. Always figured that was the whole point.

Feels like I shouldn’t be allowed in a place like this the way I’m dressed: worn jeans and faded shirt over an old band T-shirt. But Phil gets real serious when I say that. Tells me, “You belong here as much as anybody else, Dylan.”

Makes me feel weird. In a good way. Also, bad—like I’m a fraud and he hasn’t figured it out yet. Whatever. Food is food. I’m hungry and it’s a free meal. Still getting used to that, too—having food all the time. Whenever you want. As much as you want. Feels like there should be a catch.

We sit at a table close to one of the fireplaces and it’s hard not to get distracted by the flames instead of listening to Phil talk. Asking questions. Always fucking questions with these people.

“You finished a little earlier today, with Dr. Morley.”

Doesn’t sound like a question, but it is. I know that now.

“Yeah.”

“Tough session?”

“It was fine.”

He nods. He always looks disappointed with my answers; not sure why he keeps asking.

The server comes by with our menus and takes our drink orders. Tells us the specials: lobster something. The special in these places is always lobster something. Not saying it’s bad, just not as life changing as these people hype it up to be. It’s an oversized shrimp with a huge-ass shell.

Phil takes a sip of water. “The lobster shepherd’s pie sounded good, hm?”

“Sure.”

Not gonna tell him lobster shepherd’s pie sounds weird as fuck.

Think he knows, though, because he smiles. “You’re going to have the burger, aren’t you?”

My lip tics up. “Yeah. Think so.”

“Solid choice… Can’t go wrong with a burger.”

These are the kinds of conversations Phil and I have when he isn’t asking about my feelings. Total opposite of the conversations he has with the rest of his family. With them, it’s politics and history and news and stuff the girls are learning at school or whatever. Discussions—not conversations. I know the difference now. A conversation you can carry on while you’re thinking about something else. A discussion, you can’t. Need to be fully checked in for those. Not sure I’ve ever had a discussion in my life.

The burger is good. The conversation is bland. I keep losing focus and Phil has to keep repeating stuff. It’s not just the fire distracting me or the insane waves outside; there are a couple of girls around my age sitting at a packed table nearby who keep looking at me and whispering. Gets my back up, but I pretend not to notice. Phil does the same.

We finally finish, and the server brings the bill. After he’s paid, Phil clears his throat and leans forward. Trying to act casual in a way that sets me on high alert.

“Look. Dylan…” He takes a sip of water, then puts the glass down slowly, his eyes meeting mine. “I’m wondering if you could tell me about the hole in your bathroom wall?”

Shit. He knows.

Wasn’t expecting that.

“What hole?”

The corners of Phil’s mouth tighten, and he lifts an eyebrow. This look that means, are we really gonna do this?

And hell yeah, we’re gonna do this. No way I’m admitting to busting up a wall in his fancy house with my bare fist. If he wasn’t convinced I was an animal before, this will seal the deal for sure. I look him right in the eyes.

He inhales long and slow, then blows out softly. “Dylan… Come on, pal. You know what hole I’m talking about.”

Doesn’t raise his voice or anything. Calls me “pal” like I’m ten and we’re buddies. Not like we’re … whatever the hell we are. The whole thing is weirding me out. Because he knows. He knows, and he’s still coming in cold. Barely moved a muscle. And it makes it worse—the waiting. Having to read him, gauging his plan of attack while I make it look like I don’t know there is one.

“I don’t know what hole you’re talking about.” I push my chair out, like the conversation is over. Because hopefully it is. Then get up and head for the door, avoiding the table where the two girls aren’t even bothering to hide the fact that they’re watching me.

Full-on staring and whispering loud enough for me to hear. The entire restaurant to hear. “It’s him… Ohmygod, it’s definitely him! I’m gonna go ask for a selfie!”

I walk faster.

Phil follows me. “Dylan!” he calls as I haul ass through the huge lobby area, then out onto a covered veranda that has a bunch of tables on it but no chairs. He calls my name again. “Dylan! Don’t just walk away.” He halts me with a hand on my shoulder. “I’m talking to you.”

I brace myself because it feels like this is where the hit should come.

It doesn’t. He’s messing with me… waiting me out. And yeah, I can play that game, too. I’ve done nothing but wait—for days sometimes—in the past. Usually hated the waiting more than the beat down itself but doesn’t mean I can’t do it.

“Just… let’s talk about this for a second. Have a conversation. That’s all.” He drops his hand. “Please. Just tell me about the hole… What happened?”

“ What hole? ” I double-down on my denial.

“The one you punched in the wall then covered up with a painting…. The one the cleaning lady found when she came across a bunch of plaster dust on your bathroom floor.”

Harder to duck and evade now he’s playing it straight. So maybe just get this over with, yeah? Rip off the Band-Aid and see what I’m dealing with. If he shows me his worst, right here, tonight, then I’ve got a baseline going forward, at least. Whatever it is, I know I can take it.

Let’s fucking do this.

“Oh.” I smirk. “ That hole.” Sneer like a jackass to piss him off. Get it over with faster.

Only he doesn’t take the bait. “Thank you,” he says. “For owning up to it. I appreciate it.”

He’s thanking me?

This man is messing with my head in a totally different way than Eli did. Played lots of games over the years, him and I, but we never played this one. I have no clue how it ends, and I figure that must be part of Philip Braun’s twisted kind of power trip. All that talk about walking away and “don’t get violent” makes him the type who gets off on head games, maybe. Probably fakes you out ‘till you’re fooled into thinking everything’s cool, then strikes.

Fine. I can wait him out.

“It takes a lot of anger to do something like that,” he says, still with the calm voice. “There’s a lot of emotion behind a punch that busts through plaster.”

“Took more than one punch to bust through,” I clarify. Might as well keep pushing him with the attitude.

The corner of his mouth lifts in a sad smile. “Well, I would think it takes even more anger then, to punch something over and over.”

He isn’t wrong.

“What was going through your head?” His eyes fix on mine. “For you to do something like that?”

I stare back in silence. Don’t look away, but don’t engage either. Hell of a loaded question.

“Please, Dylan…” He takes a step closer. “Talk to me. Just… Tell me what hurt you or angered you so much you felt compelled to punch a wall.”

I push my hands in my pockets. Raise an eyebrow, a smirk playing on my lips. Throwing the question back at him without saying a word. But he doesn’t get it, so I say it out loud. “What’ll it take to anger you enough to throw a punch, old man?”

It works. His body eases back. Arm lifts…

My own whips up just as fast to block him.

And he freezes, hand hovering, eyes suddenly wide. An entire reel plays out on their surface in the next three seconds. Shock, then confusion… Then hurt.

“I wasn’t…” He looks at his hand, then my shoulder. Then slowly drops his hand.

Shit. He was going to put his hand on my shoulder.

His breathing is shaky when he looks back at me, and it takes all my willpower not to shrink back. I’m so fucking embarrassed.

“I wasn’t going to hit you, Dylan…” He swallows. “I would never do anything to hurt you.”

I wish he would stop talking. Bad enough it happened. Now he’s gonna acknowledge it out loud that he saw that side of me. Makes me look weak. Like the pussy Eli always accused me of being. More of a freak than Phil already sees me as.

“If there’s one thing I need you to hear from me, son, that’s it. I would never do anything to hurt you,” he repeats.

I nod. Stare at the waves in the distance over his shoulder. Can’t look him in the eye right now.

But he’s insistent. Gonna wait me out ’til I do. Until I acknowledge what he just said. And it only makes me feel weaker.

Change of tactic.

“Sure about that?” I say. And I have no problem looking him in the eye when I finish, “’Cause it kinda hurt being left with a deranged psycho for fourteen years.”

The hit lands hard and right where I wanted it to. Tables have turned, and he’s the weak one now. Ashamed and exposed. Only, I feel ashamed too, because it was a dick move.

Better for him to think I’m a dick than think I’m weak, though. Also, truth is, it felt good to say those words. Like there was weight to them that’s a relief to be rid of.

Just then, the doors to the restaurant open and the large group walks out—the one with the girls who were staring all through dinner. Most of the people in their group veer off towards the parking lot, but the two girls head off to the side, towards the stone patio extension where Phil and I are standing. I rub my palm against the back of my neck, duck my head, and turn my body. Try to make myself invisible. I can’t deal with this right now.

“Excuse me! Hey! Excuse me—are you the kidnapped guy from the Volt ads?”

I take a few steps to put more distance between us, my back still to them, fingers rubbing at the tension at the base of my skull.

“Can we take a selfie with you?”

I pivot the other way, keep my head ducked.

“Girls, I’m afraid this isn’t a great time,” Phil says, shifting his body in front of mine.

“Just one selfie?” the taller girl rushes past him to my other side, then she’s right up in my space, leaning so close, her cheek touches my shoulder. My gaze jerks up just as her arm lifts, and she snaps a photo on her pink sticker-bombed phone.

I whip my hand out from behind my neck and snatch it, click on the photo still displayed on the screen and delete it, then hurl the phone across the parking lot. It lands with a loud crunching sound against the gravel a few feet in front of the rest of their group, who’ve almost reached their cars.

“Oh my God!” Selfie Girl shrieks at the same time the other one screams, “What the fuck? ”

They both back away. Scream more of the same lines.

Phil stays right next to me though, so I hear him loud and clear when he mutters, “ Shit. ”

First time I’ve ever heard him swear.

“Nat? Emily? Are you girls alright?” One of the women calls out. She ducks and retrieves the phone. The rest of the group is already rushing towards us, looking seriously pissed.

“You really are crazy!” Selfie girl is screaming at me now. “I’m gonna call the newspaper and tell them what you did and that you’re a psycho, just like that killer!”

Her friend or sister or whatever is running towards the group. “The kidnapped guy just threw Emily’s phone!" she shrieks. "He just grabbed it and threw it! ”

Like anyone here needs the play-by-play.

I start walking in the other direction, but Phil reaches out and grips my elbow. He leans in close, and I can smell the mint on his breath from the chocolate that came with the bill. “Go wait in the car.” He doesn’t sound pissed. He sounds resigned. Exhausted.

I shrug him off and he grips my arm again, more firmly this time. “Dylan… I need you to go wait in the car. Please. I’ll handle this.” His tone is firmer this time, too.

He tugs me toward his Audi, and I let him, even though I’m taller. Definitely stronger.

“Are you the punk who just threw my daughter’s phone?” One of the men in suits calls over, almost caught up to us. Phil steps around to my other side, like he’s putting himself between me and an angry mob or something. Which I guess he kind of is. He quickens his pace, still basically pulling me towards the car. Could be he’s worried I’ll take off.

I might. I’m seriously considering it.

This is such bullshit.

“Hey! I’m talking to you!” Suit Guy yells. He’s right by our car now. The whole group is. “That phone almost hit my wife in the head!”

I can’t help the scoff that escapes my lips; that phone came nowhere near anyone’s head.

The guy sees my reaction and loses it. Goes all pink in the face as he motions to Phil. “Is this smart-ass your kid?”

“I’m sorry,” Phil says. “Just give me a second and we can sort this out.” He unlocks the door. Even more eager to get me out of the line of fire. Funny, since I could take on this shmuck with one hand behind my back.

On second thought, maybe that’s exactly why Phil’s so eager to get me into the car.

The woman who picked up the phone is brushing it off and I catch a quick glimpse of the smashed screen. Kind of satisfying that for all this hassle, at least I broke that rude chick’s phone.

Phil opens the passenger door. Guides me inside, like he’s a cop taking me in. Even does the thing where he puts his hand on my head when he pushes me into the seat. It’s weirdly familiar.

“Don’t leave the car, alright?”

I don’t answer, but then he repeats it, leaning right in so we make eye contact. “Alright?”

I nod, ducking to rest my forehead against my clenched fists between my knees. I hear the car door close and Phil locking it, then muffled conversations outside. Everyone talking at once. Raised voices.

Then Phil’s calm voice. Steady. Confident.

A few minutes pass. The voices all get quieter.

Another five minutes.

Then the driver’s side door opens and Phil slides into his seat. I don’t look up, but I hear him let out a slow breath.

Finally, he speaks. “You okay?”

And I am so fucking confused. None of his reactions to anything make sense. I never know what the right move is. What I’m supposed to say. Where my possible answers to him will lead. I just threw some stranger’s iPhone across a parking lot. Now he’s asking if I’m okay? What the hell?

“Dylan?” Phil’s voice is even softer this time, and I feel his hand rest on my shoulder.

My head snaps up. “ What? ” I yell, shoving his hand off. “What the fuck do you want me to say? I don’t know what you want me to say!”

He jerks back, eyes round and stunned.

I drag my hands through my hair and drop my head back against the headrest.

“I want you to tell me how you’re feeling,” Phil says, still calm, even after everything I just threw at him. So fucking sincere.

“Why? Why does it matter how I feel? What difference will it make to anything?”

“Because.” He swallows. “If I know how you feel, then I can get a better idea of how I can help you… And how to make all of this easier for you.”

Why does everything he says seem like it might be a trap?

I cannot let myself fall into another trap.

“Dylan, look… I realize you don’t know me. And that you probably don’t trust me—that you have every reason not to trust me. And I can’t change the things that made you that way. Or say anything that will make you realize how sorry I am for what happened… But I am here now, and I’m not going anywhere. I don’t care about some girl’s cellphone, or a hole in the bathroom wall… It isn’t about that. Destroy the entire house if it’ll help you feel better—if that’s what you need to do. I still won’t turn my back on you. And I sure as hell will never, ever, lay a hand on you.” He waits a beat. Probably for me to look at him. When I don’t, he drops his voice. “Nothing you do will ever make me not want you.”

I keep my head tipped back but shift my gaze to meet his eyes. “That a challenge?”

I sort of mean those words, too. I need to know what it takes to make him lose it. Wasn’t lying about that baseline. Finding out what his limits are—and how hard he retaliates when he’s pushed past them—that’s information I need to know. Also, he’s known me for a couple weeks, and I’ve barely dialed anything up beyond a low two. He hasn’t seen me at my worst. Hasn’t even seen my baseline. He’ll be eating his words as soon as he does.

“No Dylan, it’s a promise,” he says. “That I will be here for you, no matter what. You don’t have to fight alone anymore.”

My stare slices back to the car ceiling. “Thought you didn’t believe in fighting.”

“I said I don’t believe in violence.”

He’s doing it again—messing with my head. I don’t even know what he means by that.

“Like with those girls just now,” he explains. “You didn’t need to lash out at them. I would have dealt with them. Or at the very least, helped you handle the situation.”

I let out a huff. No way I’m letting someone like him handle anything for me. Him or anyone else.

“I need you to understand that, son,” he says. “You are not alone. You’ve got a lot of people in your corner now. Not just me. But Diane and your sisters. Even Chloe”—he chuckles—“who might not seem like it right now, because she’s thrown off by not being the oldest anymore. And you have grandparents on your side now, too… who I had to fight off from coming up to visit as soon as you got home. And the aunts and uncles you’ll meet soon. And all our friends… they’re all rooting for you.”

He’s not as smart as he thinks, because those people aren’t rooting for me—they’re rooting for him . They’re rooting for him to hold it together while he deals with a kid who turned out to be a punk who steals and lies and fights off cops with his fists but can’t even pass grade five math. Who can’t follow along with any of their dinner discussions. Who didn’t even realize he was being made a fool of for fourteen fucking years.

No one roots for a guy like that.

Phil must see the doubt in my eyes, because he doubles down. “If you don’t want to open up to me, I wish you would talk to Diane, at least. She’s a good listener, and she wants to be there for you… It might not seem like it all the time, on the surface—but she wants so much to connect with you, Dyl.” He leans back in his seat. “She’s the one who researched psychologists… stayed up past midnight for nights on end looking up information and checking referrals and calling around. She found your tutor. She talked to the school. Diane chose the colors for your room and agonized over it because she wanted it to be just right, but she also wanted to make sure there was enough room left for you to add your own stuff. Put up your own posters or whatever.” He sighs. “She just isn’t sure all the time how to act around you. And she worries about the girls… How to help them adjust to suddenly having a new brother and that sort of thing.”

He leans over and rests his hand on my bicep, and our eyes meet. “It’s new for her, too,” he says. “But she hates what happened to you, and she wants to be there for you.” Then he rolls his eyes. “And I know she seems disapproving sometimes. But that’s mostly just about the long hair and lip piercing and all that meaningless jazz—it’s not about you.” He smiles. “I promise you, Dylan. You are wanted and you are not alone.”

Not sure what to make of everything he just said. It’s a lot. Too much to pick apart on the spot.

He might be a good guy, though. Could be he’s the real deal.

Course, I thought Eli Sampson was the real deal. Can’t forget I’m not the best judge of character. Can’t forget I’m a head-case who was committed to a psych ward for three months, and still sees a shrink twice a week. I can trust my own judgment even less than I can trust whatever words come out of my father’s mouth.