Page 44 of That Reunited Feeling

“Ridges, yeah. They toughen up the more you play. Just takes practice. I’m sure you’ll get it.”

“Would you practice with me some other time?” Dylan asks, his face lit up.

And there it is. The pin prick in my balloon. The iced water on my revived passion. The knife to my heart.

Tom can’t teach him guitar. Tom can’t be his buddy. Or his role model. Tom will be gone in a matter of weeks, out of his life forever, never to be seen again.

And this time it won’t be me who is devastated. It will be Dylan.

And I’ll chop off my own arm before I allow that to happen.

The warm glow of affection that had filled me at seeing them together turns into a heat that sears my insides, fires my protective instincts, and makes me fling the door wide open.

“What’s going on in here?”

Dylan’s and Tom’s faces snap to look at me, their smiles dropping at the sight of what I can only imagine is a weird mashup of love and horror on my face.

“Tom was showing me how to play guitar,” Dylan says. “But I was doing my homework too. I was.”

Tom stands up and places a reassuring hand on Dylan’s shoulder, like they already have an unspoken language that communicatesI’ve got this.

“Dylan was wandering around looking for you to help with his geometry.” He picks up a workbook from the table at the endof the sofa. “I said I didn’t know where you were but asked if I could help.”

Dylan nods, desperate for me to know he hasn’t done anything wrong.

“And once we’d figured out the surface area of the cylinder and the volume of the pyramid”—he plucks one string of the guitar Dylan’s still holding—“I offered a quick music lesson.”

So Dylan’s successfully managed to find something to do that isn’t his homework. And, better still, Tom is actively encouraging him.

Not only that, but look how close they were, how well they were getting along.

“Back to your room, Dylan.” I give him my best parental firm stare.

“But Mom?—”

“Now. Go finish your homework.”

“But we were just?—”

“I saidnow.”

He stands and places the guitar carefully on its back on the sofa and looks at Tom. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Tom says with a warm smile as he hands him his homework book.

Dylan takes it and adopts the trademark teenage shoulder-slumped posture as he pushes by me to get out of the door.

“You ruin everything,” he mutters under his breath.

Knowing that phrase is part of the How to be a Sulky Teenager playbook doesn’t make it any easier to take. Doesn’t make it hurt any less. My insides crumple in on themselves as I do my best to stand up straight and follow through with what I’ve asked him to do.

“I do my very best for you every minute of the day, Dylan. And that’s how you talk to me?”

“Five minutes of fun, that’s all I was having,” he says, finding his voice. “And you spoiled it.”

“It’s okay, Dylan,” Tom joins in. “Do as your mom says. It’s fine.”

Dylan shakes his head, stares at his feet, and slumps his way toward the kitchen and the French doors where he presumably came in.

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