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Chapter Forty-Two

Scarlett

D ylan and I have routines. I’ve never had routines with any of my boyfriends before. Never knew it was something I even liked. But Dylan is a routine guy, so it just sort of happened. And now I love it. On Wednesday evenings, he always stops in to my place when he gets back from his therapist appointment in the city. He’s always exhausted and usually moody and on edge when he shows up. If he does ever talk to me about something discussed during a meeting with his therapist (which is rarely), it’s never on a Wednesday. Wednesdays are strictly low key conversations. He has appointments on Mondays, too, but usually goes right home. His family watches TV together most Mondays, I think.

Thursdays, we often do stuff with Jackie and Silas, and Seb and Caroline. Usually Xave joins us, too. And sometimes other people.

On Fridays, we have our joint family dinners.

And Saturdays are the most sacred of all. Saturdays are when we go to Jays and pick up whatever new issues were released that week in the series we’re each reading. We have a whole ritual. We park just outside the historic town center, then walk the rest of the way, always holding hands. Always stopping in at Board and Brews to grab a hot drink and cinnamon roll first and to say hi to Maggie or Caroline or Silas if they’re working. Once we’re at Jays, we spend time browsing—usually separately. Then lounging on the beanbag chairs—always together—and read our new issues. Sometimes we head straight home afterwards, sometimes we linger and talk. Or catch up with Jay. Then head back in the late afternoon.

It’s snowing today and although Sandy Haven is known for being a summer town, I’ve always felt it’s at its best in the winter, with a dusting of snow on the winding streets of the historic center, wreaths and greenery draping shop windows, and warm string lights everywhere. The pairing of fluffy snow and quaint pastel buildings makes it feel like you’re in a real life Christmas village.

Dylan still gets a kick out of the snow. I catch him sometimes dipping his finger in it and licking it with the tip of his tongue. They’re announcing a snowstorm later today, so he’s going to go nuts over that, I’m sure. In that subdued, mellow, crooked grin kind of way that is Dylan’s version of ‘going nuts’ over something.

Jay just got a bunch of issues in from a spinoff series of a comic Dylan’s into, so he hangs out at the cash chatting about them with Jay when we first arrive, while I stroke Jay’s dog’s fluffy head. Knight—short for Bark Knight—is as much a part of Jay’s as the comics are. He’s a huge Saint Bernard who, for some weird reason, loves to sleep on the counter at the cash. And not curled up in the corner, but full-on laid out across the entire surface, so there’s no free space to put your issues on when you’re paying for them, and you end up having to mash them against your chest with one arm while you get your card out of your purse with the other. I thought it was the most bizarre thing the first time I went to pay for a stack of comics and there was this massive horse of a dog sleeping across the entire counter, a thin string of drool sliding from his slightly open jaw onto the sticker covered laminate, his furry folds practically spilling over the edges. Now I can’t imagine this place without Knight snoring away on his make-shift pedestal.

“Snow’s picking up,” Jay says, peering out the sliver of window by the cash that’s not plastered with vintage comic book posters.

“Cool,” Dylan leans over to look. His cheeks are still pink from walking here in the cold and they match his even pinker lips. A few thick snowflakes cling to his long lashes and the golden locks curling around his navy beanie. Can’t say I blame them for lingering.

We spend the next half hour browsing. Mostly checking out a bunch of new issues on the discount shelf. Then make our way to our favorite section, to the left of the cash, where the floor is covered in overlapping faded rugs, and dusty paper lanterns hang from the bare rafters. There’s an old fringed lamp sitting on a lopsided table beneath the window between two floor-to-ceiling shelves of comics, and it’s always on. It’s ugly as sin, but I think it’s what makes the corner so cozy.

We take off our jackets and hats and throw them onto one of the oversized brown beanbags, then settle in together on the other one, laying back, lounging, in the best kind of way.

Dylan leans over and picks up a comic from the stash of four or five he just picked up. Paid for—not stolen.

“Got you something,” he says and lays the comic right across my face.

I laugh and lift it, holding the cover up so I can look at it.

My eyes almost bug out of my head. “You got me a My Little Pony comic!”

“It’s some kind of Rainbow Dash special edition.” He settles in beside me, scoops his arm beneath my shoulders and pulls me in so I’m snuggled into the crook of his arm. “Got Jay to order it in for you.”

“You… Seriously? Dylan… that is just—That’s really, really sweet.” I squeeze an arm around his taut stomach. “Thank you.”

He peers down at me with hooded eyes, slides his tongue along his lower lip, poking at the silver hoop. “You always stand there peeking at the issues when you’re waiting for me at the cash. Figure if you’re not gonna quit pretending you don’t want to read the entire thing cover to cover, I’m gonna have to start getting them for you.”

I’m sure I must have the goofiest smile on my face right now—like a real-life version of the toothy smiley face emoji—and I don’t even care. “This is the sweetest thing anyone’s ever got me.”

“You realize I bought you a comic book about horses, right? Not an actual horse.”

“Pony,” I correct him, for the zillionth time. “It’s My Little Pony. ”

“Right.”

“Thank you,” I say again. More serious this time. Because this is about so much more than a My Little Pony comic. It’s about him pushing through lies and fears and comfort levels and taking so many leaps of faith just for us to be able to do what we’re doing right now. Lying side by side, talking, laughing, listening… holding and hugging, running fingers along forearms and collar bones and lips.

God, I want to kiss those lips.

I want to kiss every inch of him, just so he knows how grateful I am to have him in my life. But I think he knows, in his own quiet way. And I don’t care if it takes him another year before he feels comfortable kissing or doing anything more than what we’re doing right now. Because I don’t want to share anything with Dylan that doesn’t feel as right for him as it does for me. Besides, I’ve got my own hang ups, too—ones that will probably start slithering between us when T-shirts get tossed on carpets, bra unclasped, lace sliding softly against my ribs along with memories of that blinking red light and the nagging reminder that refuses to fade completely—the notion that beautiful, private moments can sometimes turn into ugly public lashings.

But if Dylan is willing to work through so much in order for us to keep moving forward—get stronger and happier—then I am, too. Not just as a couple, but separately. Just as two people who want to know what it is to feel lighter.

I snuggle closer into the crook of his arm, my head against his chest, fingers trailing circles on the soft material of his long-sleeved T-shirt stretched across the dips and grooves of his stomach. Outside the paned window, the snow is coming down fast and in thick fluffy clumps, blowing and drifting so it looks like we’re looking into a giant snow globe that someone shook and shook and shook some more.

“That’s so cool,” Dylan murmurs, mesmerized by the beginnings of the storm.

We should probably head back soon; the roads are going to get messy. But we have half an hour or so before we need to worry, and I’m going to savor every one of those minutes. I watch Dylan drink in something I probably wouldn’t have given a second thought to if I wasn’t seeing it through his eyes. And part of me hopes all these things will never stop being novel for him, and another part of me wishes more than anything he gets to a stage where everything about his new life feels familiar and as comfortable as an old sweater.

I stroke my fingers back and forth across his chest, and after a while, he brings his arm over to rest against my hip. Neither of us makes a move to reach for our comics.

“This is okay…” Dylan whispers, almost like he’s saying it to himself. It’s something he does sometimes when we’re snuggled like this. Physically close. Almost like he needs to remind himself that it is okay. He rests his other hand against my head, holding me closer against his chest, and weaves his fingers lightly through my hair.

“Do you ever think about that suitcase?” I ask softly. “The one you and Eli packed… in case you ever needed to take off or whatever?”

His hand freezes briefly, then his fingers go back to playing with my hair. “Yeah, I guess. Sometimes.”

“I think about it sometimes, too,” I confess. “I get this fear that when things are really hard or you have a really shitty week or something, that you’ll hitchhike across the country or take a bus or whatever and collect that suitcase and just… disappear.”

He doesn’t say anything for a while. Then he ducks his chin and places a soft, lingering kiss against the top of my head. “I’m not gonna disappear,” he murmurs into my hair.

And holy crap. Dylan. Just. Kissed me.

And while I get it was on the crown of my head, it was still a freakin’ kiss. I still feel a hundred times more tingly about that scalp kiss than I felt about my first technical “real kiss”. I am bumping this one to Number One—kiss categories be damned.

“You promise?”

“Sure.” His voice is so deep right now. Smooth and lazy and sexy. It’s his early morning and late night voice, I have no idea why it’s showing up midway through the day.

Okay, I have an idea why. And that makes me tingly, too.

“Tell me something you’ve never told anyone else before,” I say softly. My voice sounds like my late night voice, too.

“You want me to tell you something I never told anyone?”

“If you’re okay with it… And I promise it will never leave this room.”

He stops running his fingers through my hair for a moment. Then starts up again. I can feel his breaths getting a little heavier against my scalp; his chest rising and falling a little more deeply.

“For most of my life, I was scared of women,” he whispers. And his next breath hitches.

I feel his heartbeat quicken beneath my palm.

I want to tell him I’ve known his secret for a while now. But it’s my secret to keep now too, so I’m going to handle it like it’s the most fragile thing in the world. To me, it is the most fragile thing in the world. And he shared it with me.

“Because of Eli?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you scared of me? ”

He laughs. A low, gruff noise that makes him sound so much older than seventeen. “At first, yeah. You scared the shit out of me.”

“I don’t know if I should feel flattered or offended.”

He flinches. “ You shouldn’t feel anything. I’m the one who should feel embarrassed.”

“Don’t feel embarrassed. Ever. Okay?”

He does that same gruff laugh again. “You want me to promise never to be embarrassed about anything ever again?”

“Okay, yeah.” I chuckle. “That was kind of a big ask.”

“Kinda.”

“What about now? Are you still ever scared of me?”

He shifts his body, ducking his head in front of my face so I can see the way he’s arching his eyebrows at me, telling me, “ seriously? ”

“So, that’s a no?”

“That’s a no.” His fingers pause in my hair again. “Are you asking because of how… the way I get weirded out sometimes with physical stuff? Fooling around?”

“No!” I laugh nervously. “I mean… maybe? I don’t know. I guess I want to know if there’s ever anything I do that makes you uncomfortable, or pushes buttons that trigger whatever freaks you out. Because I’d feel really bad if I found out I was and I didn’t know.”

“It’s never anything you do. It’s just Eli’s voice sometimes… I hear it in my head. Stuff he said, it’ll mess me up. Even though I know it’s fucked up or wrong or makes no sense… it still messes with me sometimes.” He blows out a long breath. “Shit… I sound crazy, huh?”

“I swear you don’t sound crazy.”

“Sure.”

“I swear.”

He goes back to playing with my hair and it gives me the courage to ask, “What did Eli tell you about women that made you so scared of them?”

“Just… none of it makes sense. It’s complicated. He was messed up in the head. Like, legitimately crazy... It was all this talk about women being manipulative and using their looks and stuff to reel you in and shit.”

“Reel you in for what reason, though? To do what?”

“That’s the thing," he practically whispers. " He never told me. ” Dylan rolls his bottom lip between his teeth, the dull glint of the hoop disappearing momentarily. “And I was never allowed to ask. He lost it the worst he’s ever lost it on me the one time I did. Said if I didn’t know, then I was halfway reeled in and weak for not resisting.” His teeth worry his lip ring again. “And hearing all the time about how conniving women could be to lure you in—but not knowing what they’d do to you if they succeeded—that was the worst part about it. Made you imagine the worst. Keep you awake for hours some nights, if a woman had smiled at you that day or talked to you. Or fuck—if a girl touched you."

God, I hate Eli Sampson so much for how he messed with Dylan’s head. “That sounds really horrible,” is what I tell him, though. I know the one thing he hates even more than talking about Eli Sampson, is when other people talk about him.

“Yeah. Sounds insane when I talk about it now. But took me years to start realizing that stuff was all batshit crazy talk. Didn’t fully realize it until…. I guess until really recently. I still hate thinking about it, though. Any of that stuff from before.”

“Then we won’t talk about it anymore,” I tell him, squeezing him lightly with the arm slung over his torso. “I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have asked. I just… I get scared sometimes that I’m going to do something that will feed into those fears or secrets or whatever. And I figured maybe if I know them, I won’t be as likely to do that.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then says, “I get that… Should maybe tell you, then—it’s fucking embarrassing but I’m uh… I'm sort of bad with… the dark. Like, when you can’t see ’cos it’s pitch black—I’m not good with that.”

“Like that time in the theater,” I say. “When you left, and you were sitting on the floor of the lobby?”

“You knew?”

“Mmhm.”

“But you told that guy it was ’cos I hated crowds.”

‘‘Which wasn’t a total lie. And I figured you’d prefer I say that than say about the dark.”

“Yeah. Was glad you said that.” He turns his head. “But how did you know—that I was freaked out by the dark?”

I turn my head, too, to meet his jade green gaze. “Because I felt your body go all tense and your leg shaking. I could hear the way your breathing suddenly changed…” My finger traces circles against his chest. “Because I see you, Dylan. Even when you can’t see me—I still see you… Even in the dark.”

His hand squeezes against my hip, and I press against his chest in response.

“I’m a fucking catch, huh? Seventeen-year-old guy who’s scared of the dark.”

“I’m scared of people realizing I’m not as tough as I pretend to be,” I tell him. “For two years, I dated boys just because they seemed like the kind of guys that would help me stay popular and couldn’t tell that everything about me was fake.” I start tracing circles again. Round and round as his chest lifts and falls. “So yeah, being afraid of the dark is way less embarrassing than the stuff I’ve been afraid of.”

In The Morning by The Ballroom Thieves starts playing softly on the speaker perched on the bookshelf above us. One of my favorite songs. Even more so now.

“Being scared of anything is kind of an ego punch when other people know about it, I guess.”

I keep tracing circles. “When did you get all deep and wise?”

“Literally just now… Pretty sure it’s not gonna last.”

I laugh. We lay there for a while, me tracing circles. Him sliding his finger back and forth along my side every once in a while. My breath hitches every time he does it. I’m sure he notices, but he doesn’t let on. Outside, the snow is still falling steadily, making everything look fluffy and dreamy and soft in a way that smoothes out all the rough edges.

“Anything else you want me to know so I never make you feel uncomfortable or anything? Or if you don’t want to talk anymore about this kind of stuff, that’s cool, too.”

He turns his head again and goes back to looking up at the faded dusty lanterns. “How about I promise to tell you if ever you’re stepping near any land mines?”

“So I don’t have to worry about triggering them, and you don’t have to worry about sharing all the stuff with me you don’t like talking about… That is a smart idea, Dylan Braun. I am giving you a gold star for that one.”

“A gold star, huh?”

“Yup. Two of them.”

He chuckles. Shifts onto his side, pulling me with him so we’re lying face to face, the beanbag molding to our bodies. He props his head up against his fist. “Can I ask for something else, instead of two gold stars?”

I narrow my eyes. “Depends what it is.”

He imitates my narrowed eyes and tilts his head. Flashes a devilish grin. Doubles down with a slide of his tongue along his full lower lip. And then brings it home with a flick of his lip ring. “I think you know what it is.”

I think I do. My heartbeat suddenly kicks into double-time.

“Okay… Then, yes,” I whisper.

“Okay then…” He leans in. So slowly.

I feel his warm breath against my chin before I feel his lips against mine. They’re soft and gentle, and so are his fingers pressed against the back of my head, pulling me closer, his thumb grazing along the crease of my neck in a way that makes me shiver and then moan. And then his tongue swipes slowly against mine and his breath hitches. A sound escapes the back of his throat that makes my insides melt. My outsides, too… everything right now feels like it’s melting. Into him. With him. The kiss deepens. He initiates and I respond and he leans in and my palm travels along the length of his spine until the tips of his soft curls tickle the ends of my fingers, and I weave them into the silky strands. He tugs lightly at my lower lip with his teeth, grinning mischievously. Or like the cat that ate the canary, or maybe both. And this time I’m the one poking his lip ring with the tip of my tongue. It’s warm and rigid and feels strange against his soft lips. But also ridiculously sexy. He tilts his head, his mouth moving against mine, making that sound again at the back of his throat.

And then the music gets really, really loud—only it isn’t The Ballroom Thieves anymore. It’s Marvin Gaye.

Let’s Get It On.

Followed by Jay’s cackling laughter. Shockingly high for such a huge, burly bear of a guy.

“Get a room, you couple of horn dogs!” he calls, killing himself with laughter now.

I chuckle against Dylan’s lips. But he doesn’t even pull back, just lifts one arm behind his back to give Jay the middle finger.

He slides his mouth along my cheek. “You said two stars, right?” he whispers against the shell of my ear.

“I did.”

His lips trail back to my mouth, and he kisses me again. Shorter than the last one. Just as amazing. And with an epic soundtrack this time. Because Jay is singing along now, full on belting at the top of his lungs. And he is a horrible, horrible singer.

And now I have a new favorite kiss.

I giggle, and soon my head is thrown back, and I’m dying with laughter.

A few seconds later, Dylan is laughing, too. “Asshole!” he yells at Jay, who responds by singing even louder. Then adding cheesy step-touch dance moves that make his belly jiggle.

Dylan rolls onto his back, shaking his head slowly from side to side. He rakes a hand through his hair, eyes closed. “Fuuuuuuck,” he groans. But he’s smiling.

And that’s all I care about.

That, and the fact that he just kissed me. And he wasn’t freaked out.

And it was so, so good.