Page 25 of Because of Dylan

No one has ever chosen me before. Not even myself.

“I hope that with time, you can learn to trust me,” he says.

I don’t know why, but I already do.

Chapter Eleven

I hesitate,hand on the doorknob—holding off for a few extra seconds before I have to step out of my room and face the world again. I close my eyes, rest my head on the frame and try to push away the thoughts that have taken residence in my brain.

One last time, I allow myself to relive the meetings with my father. His words about changing the past weigh heavily on my chest, even though they were about him and not directed at me. Much of my life was out of my control. Other people forced their wills on me.

“But the last four years, that’s all on you Becca,” I whisper to no one. “You made a mess out of yourself.” The choices I made to take control of my life are not something I’m proud of. Or something I ever allowed myself to look into too close.

I need help. I know I do, but I have no idea where to start, and the thought of sitting with someone face-to-face and speaking the truth terrifies me. I push the thought away, open the door and take the stairs out of my dorm. Monday classes await.

“Hey there!”

“Ahhhhhh!” I jump and step back. The scream is out before I realize who tapped my shoulder.

“Sorry?” Puppy dog eyes beg me for forgiveness, but Tommy’s laugh betrays him.

“Tommy?” My heart is trying to escape my chest.

“That’s me.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Hmm, waiting for you to walk to class together.”

I press a hand to my chest, my heart still beating wildly. “You scared me to death.”

“You’re not dead, so technically, that’s not true.”

I squint my eyes at him, hoping it looks like a nasty dirty look. “You disappeared for a week. You didn’t return any of my messages.”

All the lightness evaporates from his face. “Yeah, I was dealing with some … stuff.”

That’s it? No explanation? Just stuff?

I turn on my heels, veer off the walkway and cut through the grassy slope that will take me to the Maslow building. My feet hitting the ground with unnecessary force. I trample the poor grass and grip my backpack harder, hands curving around the straps until my nails bite into my palms.

“Hey, wait up.” Tommy catches up with me. “You mad at me?” His pace quickens.

He tries to stop me, but I flinch away. I’m acting like a brat. My emotions controlling my reactions.

“Becca, stop!”

I keep going. “I have class, and I don’t want to be late.”

He jogs around me and forces me to stop and look at him. “I’m sorry, okay? I had to deal with something, and I didn’t want to drag you into it.”

His eyes search mine, so open and eager. He’s out of breath, dark shadows under his eyes, he blinks, and wetness gathers at the corner on one eye.

All the fire inside me extinguishes. “No. I’m the one who should apologize. I have no right to be mad at you. You have a life, and I’m nothing to you.”

“You are not nothing!” Tommy steps closer. “Do you hear me? You’re somebody, and I care about you.”

There’s a golf ball-sized lump in my throat, and my eyes are trying to leak again. Talking to my father two days ago opened a faucet of endless tears, and I can’t even blame it on PMS. It’s not the right time of the month.Damn it.I dig in my bag and find some sunglasses to put on so I can blink the tears away without looking deranged. The golf ball is stuck—I don’t even attempt to speak and nod at him before resuming my walk in a normal pace now. Tommy trails next to me, and we walk in silence. Him with his stuff and me with my monsters.

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