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Chapter Twenty-Two

Scarlett

O n Sunday, I do something I’ve never done before.

I go to a comic book store.

I finished the fourth Sleepwalker issue I borrowed from Dylan by Saturday morning and was seriously tempted to go over and borrow more. That seemed a little overly eager, though, so I refrained. But by Sunday, I decide to take matters into my own hands. I head into Sandy Haven to Jay s , the adorable local comic book store I looked up, that’s up a windy street in the historic town center. Yes. It’s crazy— me, going to a comic book store. But sitting in Dylan’s room on Friday night reading comics, of all things, was probably the most content I’ve felt in a long time. I went from being stressed to the hilt when I first showed up at his place and had to come up with a way to explain what the hell I was even doing there, to slipping into an easy state of total chill. The warm silence, the moon streaming through the skylight, the occasional flutter of a page turning; it all just felt so… easy.

It’s also the first time I’ve felt connected to Dylan. Like I uncovered a side of him that I actually get. Even though I never thought in a million years I would “get” anyone who chooses to spend hours reading comic books.

I meet Gavin at Hooks after hitting Jays and honestly, the meetup is kind of anticlimactic. It’s boring. He’s boring. Or maybe it’s just that we’re boring when we’re together. We have nothing in common. Nothing. Unless you count the fact that we both value our high positions on the social totem pole. But I’ve had relationships with guys like Gavin for a couple of years now, and I don’t remember finding them this depressing. Maybe because I was so focused on the climb to the top and the role those relationships played getting me there?

The thought of changing things up is scary, though. Maybe I’m crazy for considering messing with a formula that’s worked so well for years. Could be I’ll regret it if I call things off with Gavin so soon after we started dating. I haven’t been single for more than a couple of weeks since Grade Nine. Since Carter… whose texting continues to be radio silent, thank God. It’s on my mind a little less now, too, as the weekend passes with still no further attempts on his part to reach out. I doubt that’s the end of his texts, though.

Someone else who’s been radio silent? Dylan Braun. He doesn’t go to school on Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday. Phil explains they want to make sure his hand has a chance to really heal. Keep him away from any situations that might incite a physical reaction likely to bust his fist up again and do even more serious damage. And I get it. They’re being smart. But selfishly, I’m itching to talk to him about Sleepwalker. The story concept is way more cerebral than I ever expected from a dumb comic. Essentially exploring the concept of the human psyche and the intersection between dreams and reality. This isn’t some muscly dude in a cape and tights flying around beating up cackling two-dimensional villains. It’s so much more than that. And yes, I am totally here for it.

Jays only had issues five, seven, and nine in stock, so I’m going to need to borrow six and eight from Dylan. I refuse to skip ahead, so I’m stalled at issue five until I see him again. When he stays home from school again on Thursday, I cave. As soon as we finish supper, I make my way over to the Brauns'.

I can tell, just from the gravelly tone of his voice when he responds to my knock on his bedroom door, that Dylan was sleeping. My suspicions are confirmed when I open the door and find him slowly sitting up on his bed, raking a hand through his tousled hair, looking adorably disoriented.

And did I seriously just use the word “adorable” in the same sentence as “Dylan Braun”? Hot—yes. But adorable? It doesn’t exactly fit. It must just be because I forgot for a second about his new haircut and how good it looks.

“Hey,” I greet him, staying on the threshold, one hip leaning against the doorjamb. “It’s me.”

He gives me a confused look, then glances out the window. His hooded gaze slides back to me. “What time is it?” He scratches his bare chest, and I try not to let my own gaze dip lower, to the rack of muscles that define his stomach.

“It’s seven-thirty.”

He nods, then glances around at his mattress, gliding his un-injured hand along the comforter, dipping it beneath the stacks of throw pillows, clearly searching for something. His hand clasps at gray fabric—a T-shirt that’s almost sliding off the bed, which he slips on. And this time, I do let my eyes briefly skim the ridges of muscle that undulate and dip as he stretches to pull the top over his head. As soon as his head pops through the neck, though, I make sure my gaze has returned to his face. His cheeks are flushed from sleeping, and for some reason, it makes his eyelashes look darker.

“You need something?” He arches an eyebrow.

Now that he’s fully clothed (because I know now that, despite the shirtless modeling gig, he doesn’t like being shirtless), I step fully into his room and make my way over to the bookshelf. “Yes, I need something—issues six and eight. Sleepwalker. ”

He doesn’t answer, but I don’t miss the way his eyebrows lift even higher, like he’s surprised. Possibly kind of happy. At least, I think there might be the tiniest upward tic of his full lips.

I hold up the comic I borrowed from him Friday night. “Issue four. Returned and still in pristine condition,” I state, tucking it back in its rightful place before retrieving issue six. When I turn back, Dylan’s watching me, his tongue gliding along his lower lip, prodding at the tiny silver hoop.

“You’re skipping five?”

“I went to Jays and bought it. I couldn’t wait.” My shoulder lifts. “So, yeah. I may be slightly invested.”

"Jays?"

“No one’s told you about Jays?”

No answer.

"Jays is the comic book store in town.”

“There’s a comic book store here?”

“Okay, full disclosure—I’d never been before this weekend. But it just might be one of the coziest stores in Sandy Haven.”

His nose wrinkles. “Cozy?”

“Like, if a Marvel store had a baby with Olivander's—that’s the vibe at Jays.”

His expression doesn’t change.

I roll my eyes. “Oh my God, just—trust me. It’s a great store. Tiny but packed with floor-to-ceiling comics.”

“Cool.”

“Actually, it’s totally dorky.” I drop into the same chair as last weekend. “But also very awesome. We can stop in some day after school, if you want.” I glance at his cast. “When are you going back, anyway? How’s the hand?”

He chews the inside of his cheek and lets out a hollow sigh. Rakes his hand through his hair again. “Fine.”

“Are you going back to school tomorrow, then? Or is Phil making you wait until next week?”

“I think tomorrow.”

He doesn’t sound sure. Maybe he doesn’t even know? It’s like this guy isn't allowed to make any decisions about his own life. I think I’d put my fist through a wall too if my life was as closely monitored as his is.

“If you could choose, would you rather stay home for as long as you could get away with, or go to school?”

He answers right away. “School.”

Huh. Not the answer I was expecting. “So you like school?”

“Don’t necessarily like it. Just like going to school more than I ever liked not being allowed to go.”

Oh. Wow.

“Shit. So Phil keeping you home this week must be kind of like… a bad case of déjà vu, then.”

“Don’t know what that means.”

“It means this week must be sucking for you.”

He rubs the back of his neck. Another familiar gesture which is kind of… sweet. “Pretty much,” he mumbles.

And what is wrong with me? Not only noticing the raised vein that runs the length of his forearm, but finding it strangely attractive? God, am I turning into one of those girls like Victoria Ledworth and Taylor Karinski who notice these weirdly specific details about a guy?

He drops his hand when he sees me staring. I think he assumes I’m looking at the red horizontal scars along his forearm. Which yeah, I guess technically I am now. And there aren’t just those three red ones that he inflicted last week. There are a bunch of other ones, too. Which means Phil and his therapist must know about what he does to himself. It gives me a little relief. Still… there are so many of them. A few are pale pink, but most of them are white. Dozens of scars, at least, crisscrossed like tightly woven latticework.

That’s a lot of escaping. A lot of pain.

I avert my gaze. Force myself back to my feet to distract from what he just caught me staring at, before he gets pissed or reacts. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about Sleepwalker since Friday.”

He doesn’t say anything. Which means at least he isn’t snapping at me to stop gawking and get the hell out of his room.

“I thought comics were supposed to be like… Superman and Thor and Hulk or whatever.”

He shrugs. “Those are comics.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah. The best comic book heroes are more interesting than those guys.”

I thumb through his collection. “I get why you like them so much, now. Comics, I mean.”

“So, you finished the fifth issue?”

A question from Dylan always feels like such a precious thing. It makes me overthink my answer. Even one like this, with only a simple yes or no answer.

“Yeah. On the weekend.”

I want him to ask me questions that have strings of potential answers—strings of answers that have the potential to get woven into conversations. I’d even settle for a question that could lead to me being allowed to ask one back without him getting suspicious or annoyed.

“So?” he says. “You think Rick’s gonna become aware of the sleepwalker’s presence?”

And just like that—he delivers. I feel my chest flutter… because a question like that is a perfect start.

“He better. I’ll be pissed if he doesn’t… “ I tilt my head, eyeing him expectantly. “Tell me he’s going to realize in the next couple of issues.”

Dylan can’t keep himself from grinning. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him smile and my God… I wish I could see him shed his armor completely, because even seeing this tiny glimpse of what’s beneath it? It’s amazing. I hope he finds more reasons to smile now that he’s free from that psychopath who messed him up so badly.

“Ha! I knew it.” I grin back. “My boy Rick is totally going to catch on soon.”

Dylan shrugs. And this guy, who has perfected the art of the poker face and is usually such a sharp bluffer, is doing a terrible job at it right now. Seeing him this way is the highlight of my week.

I hold up the comic. “Well, I guess I’m just going to have to read on and find out, huh?”

“Guess so.” Another twitch at the corner of his lips.

“Do you mind if I stay here to read it?” I ask, in a voice so uncertain I barely recognize it as mine. “Then, if you’re cool with it, I’ll borrow issue eight. Like I said, I have seven at home.”

He doesn’t say anything for long enough, I assume he isn’t going to respond. I prepare myself to make the walk of shame towards the partially open door. Accepting the silent cue to leave.

It’s the kind of reaction that should feel wrong to me, since it’s so different than the way I act around anyone else, but it feels oddly okay. Maybe because, with other people, I’m more concerned with my own feelings. With Dylan, it’s his feelings I’m intent on navigating. Still, it hurts, knowing I just overstepped.

But then he answers, “Sure.” His tongue flicks at the hoop again.

I exhale a sigh of relief. “Cool.” Then belly flop onto the foot of his bed. “Time to see if I’m right.”

I glance over at Dylan as I open the issue to the first page—and his expression has suddenly morphed into… something totally opposite of the crooked grin. Shock, at first, but then worse than that—it's fear. And some other emotion I can’t quite place, but whatever it is, it’s strong. And definitely not content anymore.

The comic slides from my hands. “Is something wrong? Or did—”

“Nothing’s wrong. You need to leave.”

He’s on his feet now, like he’s trying to get as far away from me as possible.

I get up. “Okay…Yeah, sure.” My gaze darts back to him as I make my way towards the doorway. “But are you… Is everything okay?”

“Get out.”

“I’m sorry. If I did something.” I still don’t understand what the hell just happened. “Do you want me to—”

“I want you to get out of my room. And stay the hell out of my life.”

Okay. What?

I stand frozen for another second, probably with my jaw hanging open. When I notice his chest starting to rise and fall a little more quickly, I pull myself together. “Okay. Sorry,” I practically whisper, then slip through the doorway and rush down the stairs. I leave through the front door, too worried I might have to face Phil or Diane if I head down the hallway to the side door we usually use when we come over. God knows what I’d say to them. I don’t even know what happened up there that made Dylan's mood do such a sudden one-eighty.

It hits me though, as soon as I step out onto the front steps.

It’s because I lay on his bed. That's what triggered whatever emotional response it was I just witnessed.

Light suddenly floods out of the Brauns' side door, catching my attention and alerting me that someone just opened it. I hear Dylan’s voice call out to whoever’s inside. “Just heading outside to get some air for a few minutes!”

My breath hitches. Crap.

Crap. Crap Crap.

I fast walk the rest of the way to my own house, calling out a brief greeting to my parents when I enter. But there’s no answer. The door that leads down to the basement is open, though, which means they’re probably in the home theater. I hustle my way to the kitchen at the back of the house, but don’t bother turning the lights on. Instead, I stand at the patio doors, peering out to see if I’ll catch a glimpse of Dylan in his backyard.

I’m hoping I won’t. I’m hoping he’s sitting in one of the floodlit areas on one of his decks, doing exactly what he said—just getting some fresh air. Lounging in one of the Adirondack chairs or something like he was that first evening I met him.

But I spot him right away, striding across the lower patio, heading for the terraced lawn… and those damn stone steps. The ones that sink into the shadows and provide the perfect hiding spot for someone who wants to do something they don’t want anyone else to see them doing.

Only I do. I see him.

I wait, reminding myself to stay calm. Because I am really, really stressed out right now. I have no idea what I’m going to do if Dylan went out there to do what I think he did.

But he’s got that cast on, right? Maybe that will stop him from being able to do… that. I really hope so. Because if he was mad at me for sitting on his bed, I can only imagine how thrilled he’ll be with me if I have to rat him out to his parents for doing the one thing that seems to provide him any real kind of “escape” from his life right now.

He’s reaching into his pocket with his left hand.

Shit.

It’s definitely that same stupid, stupid knife.

If I had to choose, I’d prefer he go back up to his room and trash it all over again. Because then at least the harm he’d be doing would be loud and obvious… and his father’s issue to handle, instead of mine. Because I don’t know what to do.

I have to do something.

I’m going out there.