Page 19

Chapter Eighteen

Scarlett

T he scene upstairs is even worse than I pictured. Dylan’s room is completely torn apart. His dresser on its side, clothes spilling out onto the floor, his brand new laptop smashed against the baseboard, a lamp, a couple of speakers, and all those carefully curated coffee table books strewn across the carpet. The framed prints Diane chose so carefully are ruined, their glass frames shattered and splayed across pretty much the entire surface of the floor. The bathroom door is torn off the top hinge, and most disturbing: there are two holes punched in the wall beside the bedroom door, a few bits of the white plaster tinted red with blood.

The stacks of comic books, I can’t help noticing, are intact.

The room scan takes me less than three seconds and ends when my attention snags on the nucleus of the storm: Dylan kneeling in the middle of the wreckage wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs, his chest heaving and smeared with blood. Beside him, Phil’s crouched awkwardly on one knee, holding back Dylan’s right arm with both of his. On his other side, dad is hunched over, gripping Dylan’s left arm while simultaneously trying to use his leg to restrain the rest of his body.

Diane takes a quiet step into the room. Mom and I do the opposite, stepping back into the hallway and off to the side a bit, not wanting to seem like the three of us are entering as a pack—reinforcements or something. Which is really what we are, I guess. Although, honestly, I’m not sure what good mom or I would be as reinforcers. I could barely arm-wrestle Chloe a couple of weekends ago.

“Dylan.” Diane takes another step forward.

His eyes snap up, wild and dilated. Darker than their usual emerald green. More like the deepest, murkiest part of the ocean. His freshly cut hair is wet and disheveled and dripping onto his flushed cheeks, down his neck, his chest… the droplets turning pink as they trace undulating tracks through the blood smeared there too.

“This,” I think numbly, “is the wild, out-of-control boy the media were all clamoring about.”

But seeing him like this, it seems less like a wild explosion we’re witnessing, and more like a crude unraveling. Like he has come apart at the seams after the strain of trying for so long to keep everything stitched as tightly as possible. And all I want to do is put him back together.

He jerks against Phil and dad’s grasps but just ends up staggering back a few paces, pulling the two of them with him.

“Oh, honey… Your hair…” Diane crouches down to his level, both hands coming up to cover her mouth. “You cut your hair.”

And I know, right then, that she is the reason he did it. He pretends he doesn’t care. That he doesn’t want anyone’s approval. But maybe claiming he doesn’t care about approval isn’t just an ingrained behavior—maybe it’s a reaction to not knowing how to handle the fact that suddenly he does.

Either way, those few words Diane just uttered were the exact right thing to say. He stops struggling for a second, chest still heaving. Breaths deep and labored, but possibly not as labored as Phil and dad’s.

“You didn’t need to do that,” Diane practically whispers.

His full lips curl up in a snarl. “I didn’t do it for you.”

He’s lying. I know he’s lying. I think Diane does too. She looks like her emotions just took a huge hit. Her own mouth quirks but into a sad smile. “Well… if you did… I’m sorry you thought it mattered that much to me.” She lets out a shaky sigh. “You shouldn’t feel you need to change anything about yourself to get my approval—or the approval of anyone in your family.”

“You’re not my family.” His voice is raspy. Hollow. “None of you are my fucking family. ”

There’s a beat of silence that feels taut. Something goes on behind his eyes. Suddenly, he twists his body, jerking his arms in an almost practiced maneuver that allows him to wrench himself free. He whirls around, glancing at his surroundings, almost as if he’s not sure where he is. Confused at how this magnitude of destruction came to be.

“Dylan…” Diane pulls herself back up, so she’s standing. “Could we please just talk for a few minutes?”

He spins to face her, and she flinches. I don’t blame her—he’s erratic and un-predictable right now. Wild and teetering on the edge of his own self-control. His eyes narrow. “I’m done talking.”

“Okay.” Diane nods slowly. “We don’t have to talk. Could we just sit, then? Breathe…. Catch our breath for a second?”

He stares at her. No indication in his eyes what’s going through his head.

“I think… It sounds like you’re frustrated because we’re not giving you enough privacy,” she says calmly. His eyes narrow even more, but she continues, “And maybe… you could be right. The way we’re checking up on you all the time is probably stifling.” She chances a gentle smile. “And probably really annoying.” She takes a step back and lowers herself again, this time so she’s sitting on the carpet up against the up-turned dresser. Luckily, it’s on a patch of rug clear of broken glass.

She looks so out of place in her tapered Ralph Lauren chinos and black cardi, with her sleek bob cut and gold earrings—sitting on the floor in the middle of a room that looks like it was just ransacked by a couple of goons after a drug deal gone south.

Dylan watches her for a second, saying nothing. Sweeps his gaze across the floor.

On the other side of the room, dad and Phil start getting to their feet. Diane turns her head the tiniest bit, inclining her chin almost imperceptively towards the floor. They both look back at her, slightly baffled. But when they crouch back down, she gives them another micro nod before facing Dylan again.

“Fuck!” He kicks his desk. “Fuck!” Another kick.

My breath hitches.

“Dylan,” Diane says in that same calm voice. “Please. You’re going to—”

He aims another swift kick with the heel of his foot, but at the desk chair this time. It careens across the floor, then crashes against the wall, and before it’s even fallen onto its side, he’s turned back to the desk, and kicks it three more times in a row. Hard.

“Please, Dylan… Please, just sit.” I can tell Diane’s fighting back tears now, but she’s determined to sound calm and in control. “You are going to hurt someone. Or hurt yourself more than you already have. Please… just sit down for a few minutes and breathe.”

As if on cue, a drop of blood slides from his hand onto the carpet, almost in slow motion.

And oh my God— his hand! His right hand is dripping with blood, his knuckles smashed, the skin completely peeled back in one spot. It’s where most of the blood came from, I realize—the crimson smears across his torso, and all over dad and Phil’s fingers… Their shirts. Phil’s cheek.

“You’re scaring me.” Diane’s breath hitches. “You’re scaring the girls.”

Dylan’s eyes flicker back to his step-mother and widen for a brief second. He swallows, then stumbles back again, and his back hits the wall. Both hands lift to his freshly cut hair, his bloodied hand limp while his left hand fists the damp strands. He slides slowly down the wall until his butt hits the floor, head tilted back, hands still clutching at his damp, disheveled waves, streaked red in some places now from his bloodied hand.

Phil and Diane exchange a look. “Thank you,” Phil mouths. She gifts him a wobbly partial smile. Phil sighs, leaning with dad against the wall adjacent to the one where Dylan is sitting with his head propped back, knees bent, fingers fisted in his hair. He closes his eyes, his long, pretty lashes a harsh contrast against his blood-streaked cheeks.

“ Fuck .”

I’m stunned at how he makes that one word—the most crass, un-original swear-word in the English language—encapsulate so many emotions in that moment. And then he almost negates it when he lets his head drop forward, eyes opening to take in the extent of the destruction he unleashed, and utters, “I’ll clean it up.” His tone empty and monotone. As if the mess he created is what this is really about. As if the pain and rage and deep-rooted turmoil can all be cleared up as swiftly as a thorough room clean. Tidy, sweep, and throw it all out in trash bags on the curb in the morning.

No one says anything. I think Diane is still in shock. Processing. Dad and Phil are recovering from the past fifteen- minute scuffle, both still pink in the face, Phil’s shirt sleeve torn and stained with Dylan’s blood. And Dylan looks like he’s somewhere else entirely, his gaze hovering above the upturned desk chair, distant and almost empty. A few inches away from his left foot, the blue plastic number six Kenz gifted him lies on the rug, still tied to the leather string he attached it to, but obviously ripped off during the scuffle.

“We should take you to the ER,” Phil finally says. “Get your hand seen to.”

Dylan blinks, then glances down at his mangled hand. “Probably just a couple broken fingers.”

Like a couple of broken fingers is just a scratch. No big deal.

Diane turns to him. “And then we should talk about—”

“I’m done talking.”

“Alright, well… We’re not going to just ignore—”

“I’m. Done. Talking,” he repeats, the edge to his voice a warning that the rage is still there, simmering just beneath the surface. It’s enough to send everyone back into another couple minutes of silence.

I see the moment Dylan’s eyes land on the plastic six. They settle there for a minute, his eyebrows furrowed the tiniest bit. His tongue pokes at his lip ring, then he tugs it lightly between his front teeth.

Diane sighs. “Okay… Well, let’s all take a breather for the rest of the evening. But we do need to talk about this at some point, Dylan.” She glances over at Phil. “I spoke with Dr. Morley a few minutes ago. The three of us are going in to meet with him in the morning.”

Dylan drops his head back again. He looks drained. Whatever fire was fueling all that rage might still be there, but it’s simmered to embers. Still scorching and probably easily combustible, but not nearly as lethal for the time-being.

“Mama?” Kenz appears on the landing. She approaches the bedroom before mom or I can intercept her. Takes a step into the room and gasps. “Mama, what happened?” Her mouth drops open. “What happened to Dylan’s room?”

My gaze flashes to Dylan, who stretches out his left leg until his toes are touching the plastic six. He covers it with his foot and drags it closer, hiding it from his sister. The gesture breaks my heart a little. And maybe that’s the answer to his question earlier, about why I care what he thinks. Maybe it’s because he does these subtle little things like this that make me like him, despite all the other things he does that make him so un- likeable. Or, at least, they make me want to get to know him better. Because, despite everything, that psycho didn’t thoroughly break him. Somehow, through it all, Dylan managed to hold on to these tiny little scraps of humanity—a vulnerability that reveals itself in these brief glimmers. And those glimmers make me want to scrape the surface of his ice-hard shell to uncover more of them. Because I know there must be more.

Diane gets to her feet. “Kenz, honey. We’re coming down really shortly. Can you please wait with Chloe and Sadie downstairs?”

But Kenz doesn’t even look like she heard her mother. Her wide eyes are still taking in the wreckage. They finally land on Dylan. “Why did you do this?” She looks thoroughly dismayed. “How come you were yelling at daddy and yelling at Craig and you screamed the ‘f’ word and you did this to all of your special stuff mama got for you?”

Dylan meets her gaze. His eyes look so empty right now. Like he’s battling a hundred different emotions, but can’t land on any single one of them. And like he wants to be anywhere but here. He swallows, but doesn’t say anything.

“You need to say sorry,” Kenz tells him. “Kay? You need to say sorry to mama and daddy and you need to never do that again… Okay?”

Dylan’s fisted left hand unfurls and he flexes his long fingers, pressing them against the hard wood. His tongue pokes at his lip ring, then along his lower lip as his Adam's apple bobs again.

He sucks in a deep breath through his nose… Dips his eyes. But doesn’t say a word to his sister. I’m not sure he knows what to say.

“Alright, sweet pea,” Diane says. “Let’s get you back downstairs, okay? Maybe you can watch a show in the TV room with Sadie.” She ushers her out of the room, and as they approach the stairs, we can hear Kenz still talking.

“Dylan was so naughty, huh mama? He’s in so much trouble ’cos he was so naughty doing that to his stuff and saying the ‘f’ word, right? But not too much trouble. Okay? Because he’s sad because of his life before, when he was lost, right? Right mama?”

Diane answers, but they’re too far down the stairs now for us to hear. Then a few seconds later, mom follows them.

Dad gets up. “You good here?” he asks Phil softly.

Phil stands too. “Yeah, I’ve got it from here.” He tries for a smile, but it’s watered down by a bunch of other emotions. “Thank you.”

Dad nods. He pats Phil’s arm and holds his hand there for a second, squeezes him. The two exchange a look that makes me happy Phil has a best friend like my father to support him through all of this.

Dad turns to Dylan once he reaches the doorway. “Your sister’s right about the apology, son. Would be the right thing to do, if you could find it in yourself once you’ve cooled down a bit, to just tell your folks you’re sorry… I’m sure it would mean a lot.”

Dylan doesn’t look up at him from where he’s still sitting on the floor. But dad acts like he did. “And take care of that hand, alright?” he says.

Still no acknowledgement from Dylan.

Dad pats Phil one last time, then heads downstairs. And I want so badly to follow him, but I need to confess. Admit my part in all of this. Because it’s weighing on me like a freight-load of bricks.

I sidle into the room just as Dylan’s getting to his feet somewhat awkwardly, given his mangled hand.

“Here.” Phil tosses a pair of jeans at him. “Can you put these on?”

"Yeah," Dylan mumbles. And I stand numbly as he struggles to pull his jeans on with just his left hand and the thumb of his right hand. Then I snap to my senses and turn away. It feels weird to stand here and watch him put his pants on, even though I guess technically I’ve been watching him in his skivvies for the past ten minutes. But clothing—or lack of clothing—was not on any of our minds then. The only thing we were aware of was the intense scene unraveling before us.

When I turn back, he’s still working on the zipper. Which, honestly, feels like the most awkward part to watch. So I keep my eyes focused on his face, determined to get this over with. “I can help clean up,” I tell him.

Dylan looks over at me, his eyes wide at first, like he’s surprised to see me, then narrowing with suspicion. Then, he ignores me completely, glancing around once he finally gets his zipper up, presumably looking for a top.

“Thanks, Scarr,” Phil says, sounding a little more like himself. “Dylan and I will deal with this, though, once we get back from having his hand seen to.”

I swallow. “Part of this is my fault,” I confess, then take a deep breath. This is so much harder to do than I thought. “I’m really sorry, Dylan.” My eyes meet his puzzled gaze when I say his name. “I told you dinner was in fifteen minutes, when it was actually right away. It was totally—”

“Fuck’s sakes,” Dylan spits. “Don’t flatter yourself.” He turns and goes back to scanning the floor for a top. “Not everything is about you.”

My instinct is to snap at him. Hit back with an equally hurtful barb. But I take a breath. “I’m not saying it was about me. I’m just saying you wouldn’t have been in the bathroom… in the shower—with the door locked…” I swallow again. My mouth is so dry right now. “If I’d told you we were eating right away.”

He grabs a hoody off the floor, tilting his head in my direction. His eyes are steel green right now. Still so much darker than they usually are. “Can we not talk about the goddamn shower anymore?”

Phil lets out a low chuckle.

Good to know someone sees the humor in all of this.

“I just thought you should know. And I’m sorry for lying.”

I’m apologizing to both of them, but Phil is the only one who acknowledges it. He pats my arm and nods, giving me a smile that’s tired but still so genuine. Dylan says nothing. He’s busy trying to put on his sweatshirt and failing. Phil steps closer to help pull it over his head, then holds the sleeves so he can get his arms through.

It seems a little weird that he’s putting a clean sweater on over his blood-smeared, sweaty body, but no way I’m going to be the one to point that out. Especially after the glacial stare and that “no more talking about the goddamn shower” comment.

My phone buzzes and I pull it out of my pocket, glancing down at the screen—but not before I notice Dylan roll his eyes.

“It’s a text,” I tell him. “It’s really not worthy of an eye roll or jerky comment every time one comes in.”

He responds, ironically, with an eye roll.

The text is from Gavin. He and a couple of friends are heading to Xavier’s soon. I can’t decide if I’m relieved to be escaping this whole situation, or guilty for leaving. I text back.

Scarlett

Be there shortly

Phil and Dylan are heading to the hospital, and it’ll just be awkward if I stick around while the other three re-hash and analyze the insanity of the past half hour over re-heated pork and veggies. I figure I can grab some takeout on the way.

When I look up from my phone, Dylan isn’t in the bedroom anymore. The light is on in the bathroom and I hear the water running, so he must be rinsing the blood off his hands before they head out.

“Alright, I’m going to go get cleaned up a bit before we hit the ER,” Phil tells me. He squeezes my arm lightly as he passes. “Not cool that you lied to him, Scarr,” He says, and my stomach drops. Then he adds, “But I appreciate that you came clean. That meltdown was going to happen regardless of the dinner timing thing tonight… It’s been brewing since he got here.” He rubs a fist against his forehead. “And I’m sure it’s not the last one we’ll see over these next few months… He’s dealing with a lot.”

I want to say something that will boost him up, but I have no idea what that might be. Morale boosting is sort of out of my wheelhouse. “You’re a good dad,” is what I end up going with.

“Thank you.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Not sure a good dad would abandon his son to a serial killer for fourteen years. But yeah, I’m going to do my best to do right by him now that I have him back.”

“You didn’t abandon him to a serial killer,” I remind him. “A serial killer kidnapped him.”

“Sure,” he says. “Semantics, though, really. Fact remains he was with the bastard for fourteen years, and I wasn’t the one who pulled him out of that situation.”

“You did the best you could. You can’t do more than that, right?”

He nods, his smile a little warmer this time. “Thanks, Scarr. You’re a good nut.” He heads towards the landing and starts down the stairs.

“You’re an even better nut,” I call after him.

Before following, I glance over towards the bathroom. The door’s open and Dylan is standing at the sink. Only he isn’t running his hands under the water. He’s just standing there, head ducked, un-injured hand gripping the edge of the marble countertop so hard I can see the whites of his knuckles from over here.

And it suddenly hits me—he may have all these people in his corner now, and so many people wanting to do nothing but bestow him with unconditional love, but it means nothing to him—because he has no idea what to do with it. He doesn’t even understand what it is. Love is an utterly foreign concept to Dylan—just one more added new thing to navigate. And I wish he didn’t hate me so much, because I want so badly to let him know he doesn’t need to do anything with it, other than just accept it.

He lifts his head, and his eyes land squarely on mine in the mirror.

“The fuck are you looking at?” He loosens his grip on the countertop and unfurls his torso until he’s standing at his full height. He clenches his jaw. “ Get. Out. ”

I turn and walk out of his room, closing the door behind me as I leave.