Page 42

Chapter Forty-One

Dylan

T he cool, rough surface of the sunken stone steps is familiar to me now. I do lots of thinking out here. Reel over stuff. Sometimes just sit here to wait it out when my breathing is fucked and my heart hammers against my ribs 'till they feel like they're gonna splinter and crack. Hasn't happened in a while, but feeling pretty close to it right now.

It's cold out. Sun's almost set, so it'll be even colder in a bit. Which is fine. Everything's less stifling when it's cold. Feels like my messed up emotions have more room to expand maybe. Dissolve into the mist floating from my lips, like blowing smoke rings. Haven't smoked a real cigarette in a couple years. Not like I ever was a smoker, anyway. Just sometimes on the street, to blur the edges.

"Do you mind if I join you?"

I jerk at the sound of her voice. Not sure how I didn't hear her approaching. Tuck my right hand into my coat and nod as Scarlett brushes past my bent legs. Walks down the steps and sits on the lowest one. Putting space between us. For me or for her, I'm not sure. Probably both.

Her eyes keep ducking to my concealed hand. Trying to see what I'm holding.

"I shouldn't have yelled at you earlier… at Xave's place," she says. Glances back down at my hands.

I nod and our eyes meet. Hers drop again—to my left forearm this time. Sleeve's down but she's still suspicious.

"What are you doing out here?"

I smirk. She's gotten more ballsy since that first night she came out here and approached me. "Thinking," I tell her.

Her nod says she accepts my answer. Her eyes say she doesn't.

We sit in silence for a few minutes. Even with all the words from this afternoon piled up between us, the quiet doesn't feel loaded or awkward. Still feels okay with Scarlett, even after a fight. My gut still feels twisted, though. Heartbeat's still out of whack.

Her eyes dip to my hand. Again. Her lips twist as she bites at the inside of her cheek. She's fighting back words. Fighting back feelings, too, I'm pretty sure. She's pissed or upset or disappointed.

I shift my hand from beneath my jacket. Slowly uncurl my fist and reach it towards her. Reveal my hand. "Take it."

She hesitates a second. Extends her arm, then her delicate fingers curl around my phone—not a knife, like she was worried it was.

Green eyes linger on mine for a second, full to the edges with relief. Because I told her a few days ago I rarely do that anymore—the cutting. And she believed me. Her gaze drops to the screen, and I know the words she's reading because I read them over and over about a dozen times after writing them. Also because it's only one sentence.

One fucking sentence is all I could come up with.

Dylan

Wanted to tell you I'm sorry for being a dick to you earlier

"Was this… for me?" she asks.

I let out a laugh. "Yeah, it's for you." No-one else I would ever apologize to. Except Phil. And Diane and Kenz, I guess.

"Dylan… Thank you." She sounds so touched and fucking sincere that I wonder for a second if maybe she read the wrong text. It isn't exactly the most heartfelt apology. It's barely an apology at all. Nothing close to what I want to tell her.

I shrug. "Wanted to say more, but… I guess I just… I suck at this kind of stuff." My tongue pushes against my lip ring. I swallow. "It's good you called that guy… It's what you wanted. And it took balls." Our eyes lock. "I shouldn't have said that stuff. Knocked you down… It was really shitty." Then I add, "You're not a loser. That asshole didn't win."

One side of her mouth lifts in a smile. "No one wins in situations like that."

"Guess not… Fucking sucks."

"It does," she agrees. Then her lips tick up another notch. "It sucks less now that Dylan Braun said on record that I'm not a loser."

I grin. "Didn't put it in writing or anything. So it's not, like… an official statement."

She glances down at my phone, fingers flying across the screen before I have a chance to realize what she's doing. She looks up, eyes sparkling with laughter. "Now it's official," she says, relinquishing my phone when I reach for it. I glance down at the screen. The text she just sent to herself from my phone.

Dylan

I don't think you're a loser, Scarlett. I think you're actually a total winner. And awesome. And so, SO wise

I laugh, shaking my head. Then lean over my phone, and type quickly.

"What are you writing, asshole?" she asks, scrambling to get her own phone out of her pocket. Slides her finger across the screen just as a pinging sound announces the incoming text from me.

I watch as the humor in her eyes dissolves into something else. She blinks. Meets my gaze. I've never seen her like this. Never with this exact look on her face. Hopeful and happy and cautious and so fucking vulnerable. She holds up her phone. "Do you really mean that?"

Dylan

And also really beautiful

My breathing is normal again. Heartbeat isn't hammering and my ribcage doesn't feel like it's stretched to snapping. Still, I can't fucking talk. Can't find the actual words to answer her. I lick my lips. Nod. And hope to God she can tell—see it in my eyes that I mean every fucking word. And that I think she's those other things she typed, too. That I think she's all those things and more.