Page 66 of Bad Boys Don’t Date Clumsy Girls

His statement makes me sit back, like it physically slapped me across the face. He had the same revelation about me that I had about him. We’ve been teaching each other to trust again. I stare at his carved features, his floppy hair, his intense gaze—currently trained on the soda in front of him—and I wonder if we really could be good for each other. I clear my throat and his gaze lifts to meet mine. Unhurried, but hopeful.

“What did you do to earn the community service?”

His face falls, but also darkens. He seems equal parts sad and mad, but I don’t feel as though it’s directed at me.

“It was because of my dad. He had borrowed money from some tough dudes, and they were demanding payback, but he didn’t have it. They put more and more pressure on him to pay up or they threatened to break his legs, or something equally stereotypical. This has happened to Dad a couple times over the years, so I wasn’t worried, but they must have had someone watching the house, because somehow, they figured out that Mrs. Bandweather was a weakness. They showed up at her work one day and threatened her.”

“Oh, that’s terrifying.”

“Especially for Mrs. Bandweather and her family. Luckily, Dad was freaked out too. He got the money and they let him know where to make the drop. It was an abandoned building in the industrial park. They told him when they’d be there.” He shakes his head. “I went with Dad to make sure he made the drop and didn’t stop and gamble it away. We were headed out of the building when the cops showed up and busted us for trespassing. Dad already has a record, so they took him to jail. I was a first-time offender, so I got off with community service. I think my service is so long because of my dad.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re probably hoping to scare me straight. They don’t have to worry. I do not want to follow in dear old Dad’s footsteps.”

I study him and consider what it would be like to be associated with him. Would I get a bad girl reputation? Do I care? “Can I ask you something?”

Dylan nods.

“I don’t fully understand the bad boy image. The more I get to know him, the less authentic it seems. Why?”

Dylan’s lips purse. He closes his eyes for a second before responding. “Dad has some scary friends. Having a tough guy reputation saves me from being picked on or preyed on.”

I let my gaze skim over his beautifully carved features. There is always more to the story, isn’t there? I think of thirteen or fourteen-year-old Dylan having to keep himself safe from his dad’s friends and my heart breaks for that little boy.

“Is it disappointing for you that I’m actually just an average guy?” Dylan searches my face for my answer.

I smile. “I doubt you’re average.”

I wrap my hands around the base of my cup. I realize there is a more important topic that I’ve avoided addressing with Dylan. I swallow my fear. “The other day when I ran out of the shelter and didn’t come back?”

His gaze sharpens and he nods his head once.

“I was freaked out because I recognized that while you were teaching Popeye to trust again, you were…” I’m forced to swallow again when a lump of emotion lodges in my throat. I can taste the tears in it, but I’m determined to be strong through this admission. “You are teaching me too. It scared me so much, I actually ran away. But honestly, Dylan, I’ve been running and hiding my whole life.”

He reaches across the table and rests his long fingers over my wrist. “Sounds like we might be good for each other.”

I blush and peek at him through my eyelashes. “I was thinking the same thing.”

My phone buzzes. I pull it out and see it’s a text from Joel. “She’s out.”

Dylan stands and holds his hand out to me again. I take it and he pulls me from the chair. We walk hand in hand toward the waiting room. He stops just outside.

“I should get back to school. I hope everything went well. We’ll figure out how and when to make this work?” His voice lifts at the end in a question.

I nod and smile. “I’d like that.”

He steps forward and wraps his long arms around me. It feels so good. I wind my arms around his waist and rest my cheek against his shoulder. We stand like that for a few seconds, then Dylan whispers, “Thank you.”

He leaves with a shy little wave, and I stand until he disappears around a corner. Then I step into the waiting room to learn what the rest of my near future will look like.

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