Page 123 of Revolve
“We should go before Kian eats your friends,” she says with a slight shiver.
I pull off my coat, wrapping it around her before she can protest. I help her into the car before jogging around to the driver’s side. As I pull out, Aiden’s truck follows closely behind. I hand Sierra my phone, and she settles on the playlist I made for her all those weeks ago.
FORTY-FOUR
SIERRA
ONE LOOK ATthose amber brown eyes and the smile he reserves just for me, and I’m a goner. All the anxiety was worth it. I’d drown before I made this day about that and not Dylan. Because when I met Dylan, he didn’t crawl into my mind and try to strangle my anxiety. He calmed it with the gentlest touch and treated it like any other emotion in my mind, with pure kindness.
So, when Kian called to remind me about the vow renewal and how I had to show up or I’d lose the honor of being his new cat’s third godmother, I didn’t argue. Though no part of me forgot the look on Dylan’s face after I read his mom’s letter. I wanted to be there for him as his girlfriend, no matter if I was still irritated as hell at him for quitting hockey without telling me.
When we arrive at the outdoor venue in Manhattan, set up with clear tents and fairy lights, I give Dylan’s hand on my thigh a final squeeze. He exits the car, but before he can even shut it, Kian’s already opening my door.
“Thanks for coming,” he says as I take his hand, and he helps me out of the car.
“Thanks for the guilt trip,” I say.
Kian tenses. Probably recalling how he said if I didn’t come, I would make a pretty terrible skating partner. He was right. “I’m sorry if I made you feel—”
“No, you were right. I needed the reality check. I’m just surprised you had it in you.”
“I’ve been told I’m an expert in persuasion.”
Dylan rounds the car and aims an irritated look at his best friend. Kian pulls me into the tightest hug and then walks away, the gravel crunching under his shoes. I move to give Dylan back his tux jacket, but he shakes his head. I sigh, half-heartedly rolling my eyes.
“Sorry about him,” Dylan says, shutting my car door and locking it.
“Don’t be. I owe him. He’d do anything for you, you know? People like that don’t come around often.”
“I know.” For a moment, his hand lifts, as if to touch me, but it falters. His fingers retreat, and the hesitation hangs in the air. As if he’s remembering how we left off the last time I saw him. But his eyes betray him. Because he looks at me the way he does on the ice—awestruck.
Inside, the appetizers float around the room, and we stand by a far table. We greet Dylan’s sister, Ada. She beams brightly when she sees me, and elbows Dylan, who only gives her a tight smile. His parents are a few seats down with men I assume are his uncles and parents’ friends. I can’t help but notice there isn’t anyone here who seems to know his mom. She stands quietly by his dad like an accessory.
“You okay?” I ask Dylan, who’s been nursing the same glass of champagne.
“Look at her, she’s fucking miserable,” he spits out, his gaze fixed on his mom. She shifts closer to her husband, only to be nudged away. The look on her face pierces my chest and has a worse effect on Dylan.
Ada touches his shoulder, but he moves away. “This was a badidea.” His hasty move makes the empty champagne glasses fall onto the table.
“Let’s just go,” says Aiden just as everyone else agrees. Dylan shakes his head, anger radiating off him in a way I’ve only seen a glimpse of at his hockey game. I step closer, my heartbeat hammering against my ribs. When I reach for his hand, I hope he knows I’d stand by him just like he does for me.
I take the final step, my hand feathering over his fist, and his tightly curled fingers loosen. His gaze is questioning, guilty, and somehow worried. But then he unfurls his hand and intertwines his fingers with mine. Relief loosens the tension in my body. The exhale that leaves my lips is unintentional, but he sees it for exactly what it is: a moment of vulnerability.
But then he looks over to where his mom watches him, and he pulls away. Ada catches my eye, and I give her a reassuring smile, but she doesn’t buy it.
Dylan stands abruptly. He must see the look on my face, because he kisses my forehead. “I just need a second alone, babe.”
And as much as I don’t want to, I let him go. The farther he walks, the more he pulls at the string in my chest that feels connected to his, and an anxious weight tumbles into my stomach. I watch his back until he disappears, and I don’t realize how long I stare until a warm hand touches mine.
Leyla Donovan watches me with a motherly warmth.
Her white dress drapes her body like a silhouette, and its lace sleeves flare out. She’s stunning. A little frail now, but I know if we were to rewind time, she’d be hard to look away from.
“With the way my son was looking at you, I knew I had to come say hi.” She holds my hand, palm up, her gaze tracing it, and it takes a moment before I see what she’s looking at.
“It’s not a tattoo,” I blurt. “Just something Dylan drew on my hand. It’s silly.”
“No, it’s not silly.” She smiles, touching the tiny retraced smiley face on my palm. “He used to draw the same thing on my hand.”
