Page 54 of Glass Half Full
“Apparently she was.”
“Yeah, apparently. How do you go fifteen years without realizing you have a citrus allergy? God, that scared me shitless. I thought her throat was going to close up. It was also really difficult for me and Owen to explain to the paramedic why we had a room full of teenagers eating lemon wedges at the library.”
We both burst out laughing, loud enough to turn a few heads. There were quite a few eventful evenings at the library, but that was the only one to involve emergency services.
“That’s not what you were thinking about though, was it?” Dylan prods after we’ve both calmed down. It’s almost like he can tell exactly what I was thinking, like he’s just waiting for me to admit it.
“It’s so embarrassing.”
“Well now you have to tell me.”
I groan. “You’re going to laugh. It’s so stupid.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “I can wait this out all day, Renee.”
It’s not an empty threat; he really will just sit here. I let out another groan before conceding.
“So, back when I was in the workshops, I kind of...sort of...had like a massive crush on you. I pretended it was no big deal to Tahseen, but she always saw right through me. You were just so...charismatic.”
“Charismatic?”
I point a finger at him. “Do not make fun of me!”
Instead of laughing like I expect him to, he wraps his fingers around mine and brings it to his lips to press a kiss to the pad, to the ridges and swirls of my fingerprint, to the part of me that leaves a trace of who I am on everything I touch.
“You thought I was charismatic,” he repeats as he lets me go. “You looked at me and saw...something worth looking at.”
This is a part of him I’ve only ever glimpsed before. Dylan Trottard, the guy who lights up every room he walks into, has gone dim.
“I can barely stop myself from looking at you,” I admit. It’s the truth. I could spot him in a crowd of thousands. “Sometimes taking my eyes off you is...a near physical impossibility.”
Other than laying his hand on my thigh under the table and squeezing before pulling away, he doesn’t seem to have an answer for that, so I remind him of my question.
“Are you gonna tell me about your best friend?”
He smirks. “I told you, I have a lot of friends.”
“But not a best friend?” I prod. “Did you have one growing up?”
“I...” He trails off, sipping at his coffee and then twisting so he can stretch his arms behind his back in that signature Dylan gesture.
I try not to let myself get too distracted by how good he looks doing it. I only meant to ask a getting-to-know-you question, but we seem to have launched this conversation into the deep end. I sit as still as I can, keeping my expression calm and open as he works out what he wants to tell me.
“I don’t really keep in touch with anyone I grew up with,” he begins. “I didn’t grow up in a bad neighborhood, per se, but it wasn’t great. My mom became a single mother after my dad left when I was seven. It was just me, her, and my brother growing up.”
“Peter.”
He blinks at me in shock after I blurt out his brother’s name.
“You have a poem about him,” I explain, heating with embarrassment. If he thought my teenage crush was endearing, he might be reconsidering it now that I sound like a creep. “I’ve heard you perform it a few times.”
“Right. Yeah. I forgot about that piece.” He runs a hand over his chin. “It was just me, Mom, and Peter. Petey. That’s what we called him.”
“Are you still...in touch with him?”
He doesn’t flinch or get angry, but it does take him a while to answer the question.
“My mom, she...It’s just...hard. All of it’s really hard. That’s my fault, though.”
