Page 11 of Glass Half Full
But I can’t share that. Not with him.
So I opt for more sarcasm.
“You feel...good?” I finish his sentence for him. “Or wait, what was it you said earlier? Really good? That was a truly innovative use of the English language.”
“You know what, Renee? I think I’m going to have to put a quota on your sassy remarks. One per day. Max.”
The slyness of his tone makes my cheeks flush with a fresh rush of heat, but I can still give as good as I get.
“Why do I get the feeling that’s not gonna happen?”
“You know, I wasn’t allowed to say it to you at the time since you were an actual kid,” he informs me, “but you always were a bit of a little shit. I see nothing’s changed.”
I laugh along with him, but that last sentence rings true. Too true.
Nothing has changed.
I’m still a kid to him. He’s seven years older than me. He’s my boss.
I make myself repeat that thought over and over again as we continue the conversation.
“Hey, question for you before I let you go,” Dylan adds after we agree that I’ll start on Monday evening.
“Yes?”
And then he asks the one question that’s guaranteed to rattle me like a fucking earthquake.
“Are you still writing?”
The words hurtle me back more than three years, to a stifling summer night just a few days before the start of September. I can practically feel the fabric of my dress clinging to my thighs.
A white dress. I couldn’t have been more of the cliché ingénue if I’d tried.
I can still remember the last words he said to me. I can remember every moment of that night like it’s a strip of negatives, the seconds captured click by click, permanently imprinted on the film of my memory. After all these years, I can still hear his voice in my ear. I can feel his hand on my cheek, his touch so light I was never really sure I hadn’t imagined it.
“Keep writing, okay?” He’d sounded like he was begging, like the thought that I wouldn’t listen hurt him so bad he was almost scared to say the words. “Just promise me you’ll keep writing. The world needs your words.”
I don’t know if he can still feel that summer night on his skin, but I can and I do, and it’s far too much to handle.
“I, um—” I start to stammer.
“Sorry,” Dylan interrupts. “That was personal. You don’t have to answer that.”
As crazy as it is, I can’t help thinking he’d understand far more than anyone else if I tried to explain why those words he thought the world needed have gone somewhere I can’t seem to follow.
But itiscrazy, and the last thing I want to keep being is the crazy girl.
“So, uh, Monday at four, right?” I choke out.
“Yep.” The silence stretches for just a moment too long, his breath loud enough for me to imagine it brushing my cheek, caressing me with its heat. “I’ll see you then.”
“See you then,” I echo.
Four
Dylan
BLASON: A form of poetry that describes and praises the physical attributes of its subject
