Page 20 of Reality With You (Arden Beach #1)

“I’m not looking for revenge, Dylan,” Lennon said. “I don’t want to relive the past, especially not for someone else’s entertainment. Like I said, clean slate.” He nodded, but the look in his eyes suggested he knew their slate was far from clean. “Friends?” she suggested. “No drama.”

A soft smile touched his lips. “Friends.”

They clinked glasses. Their gazes remained locked as the moment lingered. The twinge in her heart and ache between her legs whispered liar .

A loud knock at the door startled them both.

“Damn, that was fast,” Lennon said, grateful for the delivery person’s well-timed interruption. She hopped off the counter and reached for the wallet in her bag.

“I’ve got it,” Dylan said, already slipping his wallet from his back pocket as he strode toward the door.

They ended up on the floor of her living room, dining on their takeout and reminiscing about the drawer in their first apartment together that was filled with sauce packets from various takeout places because 1) he was obsessed with his sauces, and 2) neither of them could cook.

Dylan’s gaze landed on the record player and albums on the shelf behind her.

“Remember how we used to listen to music for hours on my bedroom floor?” He reclined against the edge of the white leather sofa, his long legs stretched out in front of him with his feet crossed at the ankles and a small amount of beef and broccoli left in the box on his lap.

“What was that game we used to play? Where we’d play the first notes of a song, and the other had to guess what it was … ”

A grin spread across her face. “Name That Tune.”

“That’s right. You’d always cheat and play like, half a note of some obscure song no one had ever heard of beside you and the musician’s parents.”

“That’s not cheating, that’s superior skill,” Lennon corrected.

“The game was rigged against me.”

“I was encouraging you to broaden your musical horizons.”

“By cheating.”

“You discovered a lot of new music through me, didn’t you?”

“That is true,” Dylan reluctantly admitted. “I just had to suffer the shame of losing in order to get it. Not really a fair trade.”

Lennon blew a dismissive raspberry. “That’s a totally fair trade. Nothing compares to the gift of discovering great music.” She popped a small piece of sweet and sour chicken into her mouth.

“You used to make me paint your nails and watch Grease for the five-hundredth time.”

She smiled wickedly around her mouthful of chicken, glancing upward in sweet remembrance. “I loved that game.”

“I’m sure you did.”

Lennon arched an eyebrow at him. “Want to play it now?”

Dylan assessed her with trepidation. “Why, so you can beat me again and destroy the self-esteem I’ve painstakingly rebuilt over the years?”

She rolled her eyes. “Stop being so dramatic. I knew you were competitive, but I didn’t know you were that afraid of being a loser.”

His eyebrows jumped up as he released a sharp laugh. “I didn’t know you managed to become an even bigger savage than you already were.”

“Like wine, I get better with age,” Lennon remarked proudly.

“And more bitter,” Dylan added.

She stuck her tongue out at him. “Come on.” Lennon nudged his foot with hers. “You used to be fun.”

“I also got more bitter with age.”

“A bitter loser.”

Dylan rolled his head back, groaning. “Fine.”

Lennon excitedly sat up, pulling her legs in to sit cross-legged. She grabbed her phone to open a music streaming app.

“But no weird, obscure songs from Europe or a small 1920s jazz band or anything like that.”

They played a few rounds of the game, giving each other three chances per round and keeping score based on how long it took them to figure it out, if they managed to do so at all.

Dylan surprisingly held his own better than he had in the past. She was impressed—and a little turned on.

He still, however, did not win any of the rounds, though he came close on the last one.

Lennon laughed so hard, her side hurt at the fit he threw when he narrowly lost. He was so proud of himself for coming close and so disappointed with his ultimate defeat over Queen’s These Are the Days of Our Lives clinching her win.

She hadn’t admitted it to him, but she was sweating a little up to the very end.

Dylan was correct—it was rigged against him—but his hyper-competitive aggravation was part of the fun.

And, like when they were kids, she enjoyed the excuse to share music with him that he hadn’t heard before.

She appreciated the way he intently listened when she described why each song was special, word-vomited background on the artists, and pointed out the techniques used in their production.

For the last song, she broke out her noise-canceling headphones—a birthday gift from Erin—so Dylan could properly hear all the details she described to him and feel the music. “And so, we can fix the embarrassment of you not knowing this song,” Lennon added.

“I know the song,” Dylan asserted, running a hand through his hair. One of his habits when he was frustrated or nervous. Or both. “I just couldn’t peg it from the first few notes.”

“It’s OK to admit you’d never heard it. It’s not one of the more well-known Queen songs. I won’t judge you. Much.” She flicked an eyebrow up as she calibrated the sound to be perfect for the song.

“I’ve heard every Queen song at least once,” Dylan said as she handed him the headphones. Their fingers brushed. Her stomach tightened.

“They’re my favorite.”

“I know.”

Something about the way he said it, paired with the soft, serious look in his eyes, held more gravity than she expected. A flutter rippled through her.

Dylan slipped the headphones over his ears and closed his eyes, resting his head back against the sofa cushion as she pressed play.

Lennon watched him experience the music.

The small muscle contractions in his face.

The gentle tap of his long fingers on his thighs.

The rise and fall of his chest as it gradually fell in time with the music.

Her gaze followed the sinews in his forearms beneath the pulled up sleeves of his Henley, the deep blue stretching over his sculpted biceps.

She studied him again, getting lost in the dip of his cupid’s bow and the little scar above the left side of his lip from a stray ball splitting it open when he was six.

The wisp of hair that curled over his forehead.

The little line between his eyebrows illustrating his concentration.

Brooding. Achingly beautiful.

Her heart stretched and reached out, yearning to touch him. She curled her fingers into the fluffy rug to avoid indulging herself.

The way her soul breathed a sigh and glowed with warmth in areas that had long been cold, dark, and dormant brought sadness with it in her realization that, like this apartment, it wasn’t hers to keep.

It was temporary, wrapped in conditions.

They may be sitting on the floor, laughing and listening to music together like they had when they were younger, but it didn’t erase all that had transpired between them.

All the times he chose his career and teammates over her. All the times he shut her out. All the times she needed him, and he wasn’t there.

All the reminders that, while he may have loved her, she had obviously loved him more.

If she had been so easy for him to put aside then, why wouldn’t she be now?

As the song drew close to the end, Lennon began to scroll through her phone, so it looked like she’d kept busy while he listened to the music.

When it finished, Dylan opened his eyes like he was coming out of a daze.

He pushed the headphones down to hang around his neck. “Wow,” Dylan said. “That song is …”

“I know, right?” The lyrics captured the feelings of nostalgia that had been creeping in and haunting her lately. Maybe subconsciously, that’s why she chose it in the last round. Music had a funny way of finding you when you needed it. “Makes me feel sad in a good way.”

The corner of his lip twitched up, his expression a bit spellbound. “Yeah. That’s it.”

“Truly great music does that for you. It’s a sort of catharsis.”

Dylan looked at her. “Someone is going to feel like that about your music someday.”

Lennon’s heart swelled and contracted in quick succession. Grief and doubt smothered the part of her touched by his comment. She closed the music app. “I hope so.”

“Have you worked on anything lately?”

“Not since the label dropped me.” Lennon reached out for the headphones. He slipped them away from his neck, handing them back. They were warm.

“Why not?”

Lennon shrugged. “Haven’t felt inspired.”

“You sure you’re not avoiding it?”

She glared at him for calling her out like that.

“Look, I know you,” Dylan said. “When you’re hurting, you hide from whatever it is that’s causing the pain. You put up a wall around it.”

“Anything else I should know about myself, Dr. Freud?”

“That you’re a gifted artist, and it’s not your music that let you down, it’s the people you trusted with it who did.”

His words struck her like a cord being snapped deep in her belly, vibrating outward all the way to her fingertips. He didn’t seem to be only referring to her music.

Lennon hated herself for doing precisely what he said and erecting her walls, but she couldn’t help it. It had been a long day. A long couple of weeks.

A long six years.

She was tapped out.

His sitting there across from her like this—on the floor, at night, in such a strangely intimate way—had her head and emotions all muddled.

“Well, I should probably finish unpacking,” Lennon said, placing the headphones back in their case, zipping it. “I have a brunch thing tomorrow morning with Avery. I’m meeting the other girls on the show and filming my first official scene.”

“Hope it goes well,” Dylan said encouragingly.

“Thanks.” Lennon smiled weakly.

“I’m starting later this week. They want to film a day in my life. I told them it would be boring, but, hey, it’s their show. What do I know?” Dylan extended his arms above his head, the hem of his shirt lifting to reveal the soft hair trailing from his navel into his jeans.

Lennon averted her attention before he caught her. “That’s what I said when this whole thing first came up. They’re probably going to regret it when they find out all I do is write music, play music, listen to music, and talk about music. If I’m not doing any of those things, I’m eating or asleep.”

“Same, except replace it with baseball.”

They both laughed. An awkward moment followed, the eye contact and easy rapport suddenly too intimate in her quiet, cozy apartment. Lennon stood, and he followed her lead.

As Lennon led him to the door, she said, “So, to recap, we reconnected again recently when I moved back. We’ve both been busy living our own lives. We’re friends now, no bad blood or grudges. Nice and boring.”

Dylan smiled, but it didn’t quite make it to his eyes. “Right. Friends.”

Lennon studied him, her instincts tingling that he was holding something back.

A troubling thought occurred to her. Was he worried she still harbored romantic feelings for him?

That she may try to reignite that part of their relationship and he’d have to pull away from her again?

Had he caught her staring at him—seen something that made him nervous that she expected something from him?

“I’ll make it very clear to everyone there’s nothing else going on,” Lennon assured him. “And I’ll let you know if the producers try to do anything to force a different narrative.”

Dylan nodded. “Sure. I’ll do the same.”

As she opened the door, he stopped beside her. Silence hung between them for a moment. She wondered if he was about to throw up that barrier.

“To be honest, I haven’t been feeling a lot of hope for the future lately,” Dylan admitted hoarsely, a window to the pain he harbored briefly cracking open in his eyes as they avoided hers.

“But … I’m starting to feel different. Like, maybe there is a light at the end of this long, dark tunnel.

” He finally met her gaze. The vulnerability in it made her breath hitch.

“Thank you for giving me a chance to be in your life again. And for letting me go on this crazy adventure with you. I hope it’ll end up being something good for both of us. ”

Lennon put on a smile even as her heart squeezed. “Me too,” she said, swallowing the lump in her throat. She gripped the edge of the door. “Have a good night, Dylan.”

“You, too, Lynx.”