Page 46 of Reality With You (Arden Beach #1)

SIX YEARS AGO

Flickering light from the television. Burnt coffee and lemon ammonia. The steady patter of rain on the windows.

Lennon briefly shut her eyes, a thick wave of disgust rolling through her. More shuffling.

“Oh—hey. You’re still up,” Dylan said, the words dragging on his tongue.

“Yeah,” she answered, staring at the television. An empty mug, textbooks, notebooks, highlighters, pens, and her laptop littered the coffee table.

Dylan continued into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cabinet and pressing it to the built-in water dispenser on the refrigerator door.

Sitting up, Lennon watched him fill the glass, leaning his forehead against the stainless steel.

The water overflowed, and he barely reacted, pulling it away from the door and dumping some in the sink before gulping the rest down.

His throat contracted with each swallow until he finally came up for air.

Dylan set the glass down, then braced his hands on the counter’s edge, staring off into space. His eyes were hazy, red. His face ruddy. Barely there—everything about him dulled and distant and slightly foreign.

Lennon hated it when he was this kind of drunk. It wasn’t like when they’d get buzzed at parties, loose and silly. When he came home like this, he was a shell of himself. Like a stranger.

All the warmth left her body.

“Did you burn something?” Dylan lifted his head with the sudden revelation, his brows drawn together.

“Coffee.” After half the bag of coffee grounds spilled on the counter, floor, and her. She’d been so busy cleaning everything up, already distracted by him not being home yet or answering any of her texts—three hours ago—that she let it brew for too long.

Dylan hummed in response. He swayed a little as his eyes slid shut.

The anger that had been simmering in her all night boiled over. “Why do you keep coming home like this?”

He let out an exasperated exhale, hanging his head. “Can we talk about this later?”

“No. You never give me a straight answer. I’m sick of you deflecting.

” Lennon’s voice pitched a little higher as her nerves unraveled through her exhaustion.

“This isn’t like you. Staying out late partying, coming home fucked up all the time.

Ever since you were drafted, you’ve been acting differently.

We barely see each other, and when we do, you’re usually coming home like this. What the hell is going on?”

“Just blowing off some steam,” Dylan answered laggardly, a touch of annoyance sharpening the edges.

“Bullshit.”

Dylan blew a sharp stream of air through his nose, his head low. He didn’t answer. Just kept his arms braced on the counter, leaning forward, only his mess of hair visible.

“Goddamnit, Dylan.” Lennon shoved the blanket away as she stood, padding toward the kitchen to stand on the opposite side of the counter.

She gripped the back of one of the barstools.

“I know you. I know when something’s wrong, so stop treating me like I’m an idiot and actually talk to me .

This has been going on for months.” She analyzed his tense shoulders. “Are things not good with the team?”

A muscle flexed in his jaw. “No. Everything’s good. We’re on a streak.”

“Then, what’s wrong?”

The low murmur of the television hung between them as she waited.

“Nothing. I’m just … tired. S’all,” Dylan answered flatly.

“I’m tired, too. You’re not the only one working full-time and going to school.”

“Working at a record store and playing on a professional baseball team is a little different.”

Lennon’s body clenched, almost in a gasp. Shock and a tinge of shame stabbed her in the gut—shock that he’d said it and that she felt some kind of way about it. He didn’t seem to realize he’d landed a blow, his head still lowered like he’d fallen asleep right there.

“Well, some of us didn’t grow up with a fast track to our dreams,” Lennon shot back.

Dylan’s only response was a tightening of hands on the counter, the muscles in his arms flexing.

He didn’t talk much about the team. He’d been playing on the Tidebreakers’ minor team for almost nine months, and all she got in response when she asked how things were going were noncommittal answers.

It was like he wanted to keep their life together and his baseball life separate.

It didn’t help that their schedules rarely overlapped.

She couldn’t leave to go with him on the road because of school and her job, which she needed to pay bills and her student loans.

She’d gone to a couple of games in town but couldn’t go with him to the celebratory parties afterward because she always needed to go home and study or work on her music.

They’d gotten married to ensure their lives remained intertwined, and somehow, the opposite had happened.

It seemed like Dylan didn’t want her to be a part of his new one. Lennon couldn’t shake the nagging feeling in her gut that he was hiding something from her. That he was intentionally shutting her out.

It was driving her fucking crazy.

“Are you sleeping with someone else?” she asked boldly.

Dylan’s head shot up. “What? No. Lennon—no. You know I’d never do that.” Despite the slight slur of his words, he infused them with assurance that left no room for question.

Which left only one other possible answer.

“Are you regretting this?” Lennon’s voice trembled slightly. He appeared to think about it, his eyes darkening as they shifted away from her. Her stomach bottomed out. “Oh, God, you are,” she released on a breath. Tears stung her eyes. “I told you we didn’t have to get married yet.”

Dylan’s gaze snapped to hers after a delayed second, his brow sinking again.

“What? No, that’s not—no.” He shook his head, scrunching his face as if thinking were physically painful.

He pushed off the counter, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes.

“I’m sorry, I really can’t do this right now. I have a splitting headache.”

It felt like the blood was rushing out of her—like she’d been sliced open, and it was pooling at her feet. Suddenly, everything was wrong. This room, the air, her body. Like she didn’t belong there.

Like she wasn’t wanted there.

“I’m gonna shower. Try to get some sleep.

I have a training in the morning,” Dylan said, his voice heavy with exhaustion.

He walked over to where she stood frozen by the barstools, staring at the wilting potted plant neither of them remembered to water.

The smell of hard liquor closed in on her.

Beer used to comfort her from all the years of smelling it at the ballpark, but this scent made her sick. A reminder of the stranger he’d become.

“Hey.” Dylan’s hand gently clasped her elbow, his thumb resting in the crease.

Lennon turned her head, glancing up through her lashes.

She could see how bloodshot his eyes were this close.

And how haunted. “It’s not you.” His voice cracked with guilt, barely above a whisper.

“I promise.” Dylan brushed his thumb along her skin, leaning in to press chapped lips to her temple.

She listened to him shuffle into the bedroom, shuck off his shoes, open and close a drawer, and finally shut the bathroom door.

Dragging herself back to the sofa, Lennon dropped to the cushion and opened her laptop. The rejection email from her dream record label stared back at her. It kicked her in the gut again, as it had a hundred times since she’d opened it that afternoon.

Swallowing thickly, Lennon closed the window and shut everything down before lying back on the sofa, pulling the blanket over her.