Page 110 of Revolve
THIRTY-NINE
SIERRA
I’M NERVOUS. LIKEsweaty hands, heart pounding, legs weak kind of nervous.
It has nothing to do with the way his gaze melts every bit of my composure like hot wax. It’s because I have a surprise for him. A part of me was stalling because I don’t know if I’m crossing some casual, partners-who-have-sex line, but Dylan’s my friend, and I care about him.
As we head down the hallway, partygoers erupt in cheers and hands clap his back. But when I glance over my shoulder, his posture is stiff, his face unreadable. He doesn’t acknowledge anyone.
As soon as we enter his room and he shuts the door behind us, Dylan freezes at the sight before him.
I wait for some sign that he either likes or hates it. But his expression is unreadable. The kind of blank slate that makes my stomach twist. His gaze darts around the room, snagging on the photos dangling from the ceiling, each with a note on the back. There are at least fifty of them. There are pictures of him and Kilner, some with the guys at last year’s Halloween, where they dressed as Snow Whiteand the seven dwarfs, a few with Summer and Kian hiking or at the carnival.
And then there’s our picture. He looks at that one the longest.
I hadn’t even known Lidia took that picture. A balloon lies by his feet as he steps farther into the room, and he looks at it like he’s trying to figure out if it’s real. His fingers hover over the edge of the paper, brushing it gently as he flips it to read the note I scribbled on the back.
It’s a picture of me sitting on the rink bench while he ties my skates. From my furrowed brows and his smile, I realized we were probably arguing. Likely because he said I did something wrong, and I begged to differ. All that while I held out his gloves for him and he tied my skates. Lidia said it was her favorite picture of us because no matter how much we argue, we still unconsciously take care of each other.
Dylan looks at me now. Just as I open my mouth to explain or bolt from his room, the confusion in his expression softens, shifting into something that looks like realization.
“You did this?” he asks.
I still can’t tell whether he’s happy or not. I’m so used to reading his face, to assessing every move of his body so I can bounce off it, but none of those learned cues help right now.
I swallow hard. “Your friends helped.”
“But it was your idea?”
I nod, trying for a casual shrug. Kian was over studying with Scarlett last week, and I ran it by him, regretting it as soon as he started singing playground kissing rhymes. He and Scarlett must be closer than I’ve realized, because she only looked at him and he agreed to help. That’s why Kian sent Dylan to pick up the cake earlier. This whole setup was a team effort, but the idea had been mine. Because I wanted Dylan to see how much everyone cares about him, not just when he’s drinking or being the life of the party, but for the person he is in between too.
“You said you hate celebrating your birthday. I thought we could create a new memory. A better one.”
“Why?” His voice drops, quiet and rough in a way I’ve never heard before, like it’s wrapped in something fragile. He looks like a little boy again. All soft hope and wonder on his face. There’s something so raw and unguarded about the way he looks at me that it nearly breaks me.
“Because you deserve to have a good birthday. It’s a special day, no matter what you’ve made yourself think.”
“But I am celebrating. There’s a party right out there.” He points to the door where the bass of “The Spins” by Mac Miller thumps against the bedroom door. But all I can focus on is how he’s trying to convince himself he doesn’t deserve this.
“And it’s great. Your friends really love and care about you, but I can tell that’s not you, at least, not anymore. They know that too, so they wanted you to have this. They wanted something just for you.”
“They?” He steps closer, and a black balloon nudges against my leg.
“We,” I correct softly.
“And the pictures. Whose idea was that?”
“Mine,” I admit, meeting his gaze. “Everyone sent me their favorite pictures they had with you,” I explain. “Lidia gave me the one with us when she heard.”
This time, when he steps forward, the tips of his shoes graze mine. The air between us tightens, charged with something that feels far too big for this room.
“You make this so fucking hard,” he says, his voice low and edged with defeat.
My heart stumbles, then flips over itself.
“How am I supposed to show you that you’re different for me,” he continues, his eyes burning into mine, “when you go and do things that make me want to bring out that side of me? The one thatwouldn’t be satisfied until he had you in every position he’s ever dreamed of.”
A pulse starts low in my stomach. “You’re trying to be different for me?”
