Page 124 of Revolve
I blink. “He did?”
“I had a habit of clenching my fists when I’d get upset. Sometimes, a little too hard and my nails left bloody indents on my palms. Dylan was young, and it must have hurt him to see someone he loved hurt themselves, so one day, he came to me with a pen and I watched him trace this smiley face on the center of my palm. He’d say, ‘It’s for the next time you forget that you’re hurting yourself by digging your nails into your palms. You’ll be hurting him too.’”
My heart feels like it’s been pierced by one of my ribs. My palm suddenly feels heavier than ever, and I have the urge to tattoo the damn thing on my palm.
I stare at her, stunned. “I had no idea.”
“You’re the figure skater, right? Sierra. I’ve seen you two on TV.”
“You watched our performance?”
She nods again, then stares into my eyes like she’s reading my soul. I don’t dare move. “Take care of him, Sierra. He’ll be good to you. I promise.”
Leyla steps away, her dress flowing behind her. She stands next to Dylan’s dad, but he doesn’t bother to acknowledge her as he talks to his guests.
When the time ticks closer to eight, everyone moves to the seating area by the altar. It’s been eighteen minutes since Dylan left, and I’m getting more anxious by the second. But when I’m about to call his phone again, he comes to sit beside me.
Dylan’s leg is shaking. When I press my palm into his, he squeezes it so tightly it kind of hurts, but I don’t have the heart to tell him. Aiden, Summer, and Kian are close behind us, and every so often, they pat his shoulder in a silent show of support.
Ada’s sitting on the other side of Dylan, and she seems about just as uncomfortable as him. She’s been playing with the hem of her silkdress the entire time. Then, when the piano plays, we stiffen. That’s when I fully see Darragh and notice that his blond hair and blue eyes are a stark contrast to Dylan’s, but they’re nearly identical in every other way. The man’s got the same broad shoulders, strong jawline, and aquiline nose. I think his dad is just an inch or two shorter. Cold, piercing blue eyes find us, and he looks at Dylan, who’s ignoring him, then at me, and I kind of want to shrink into a speck of dust, but also give him the finger.
“You okay?” I whisper when Dylan’s grip tightens. “Because I may or may not have a working hand after this.”
As if my voice is the only thing that penetrates his thoughts, he loosens his hold immediately. “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t realize.” He kisses my hand, soothing the redness. His mother’s words flutter back to me.
“I probably deserve it with how many times I’ve almost broken your hand in the kiss-and-cry.”
Dylan exhales an amused breath, like he’s trying to be present with me but can’t forget where we are right now. He soothes a hand over mine, so gentle, I feel it more than when he was squeezing it. “You could never deserve any type of pain, Sierra.”
“Neither could you.” We watch each other for so long, I almost don’t hear the piano playing again. But Dylan does, because his leg starts to shake, and when he turns to look at his mom, he freezes.
Her gaze doesn’t look for her husband. She finds Dylan first. Her lips lift into an almost elated smile, but then Dylan drops his gaze back down, and it’s like something hits her.
When Leyla reaches the end of the aisle, his dad smiles softly, taking her hands. She doesn’t even look at him. Her eyes are locked on Dylan, but he won’t meet her gaze. The seconds drag as the minister’s voice drones on.
And then, without warning, Dylan lets go of my hand. Before I can react, he’s walking—straight toward his dad. The guys curse behind me.
“Are you happy now?” Dylan says to his dad, cutting off the minister.
The whole place grows deafeningly silent, and the guests watch the scene like a daily soap. It irritates me that they stand there watching someone who’s clearly hurting, as if he’s the problem. Ada gets up from her seat to stand next to her brother.
“Dylan,” his mom scolds.
“You’re just like him. You both will do anything to keep up this act of being the perfect couple, yet you’re living in that apartment locked away while he goes and fucks whoever he wants.”
“That’s enough!” his dad shouts.
“Fuck. You,” Dylan spits out. That’s when his friends start to reach for him, and even as he pushes them off, they don’t let up. His dad starts to say things about his drinking, about his impulsiveness, but Dylan breaks out of his friends’ hold
“You think you’re better than me?” His dad continues with a sardonic chuckle. “Look at you. Look at your mom’s, your friends’, your girlfriend’s faces—the fear in their eyes. You’re just as bad as me—”
That’s when Dylan lands a punch square on his dad’s jaw.
There’s a collective gasp that resonates in the tent, the loudest coming from his mom, who falls to her knees beside her husband, who’s spitting blood from his busted lip.
But this time when the guys pull Dylan away, he lets them. Seeing his mom pulls him out of his anger, like he only just now realizes what he’s doing.
He finds my wide-eyed stare and looks away just as quickly like he can’t bear it.
