Page 66 of Because of Dylan

Chapter Twenty-Nine

I squeezemy hands around the steering wheel to stave off the trembling of my fingers. I’ve been sitting in my car staring at the house for minutes. The well-cared-for lawn is still green, but it won’t be long before snow and bitter cold dulls its color to a muted yellow. It's a beautiful house in a middle-class neighborhood with lots of space between homes, and nothing like the cramped, crappy house I grew up in.

As welcoming as this neighborhood is, all I can hear in my head are the words,you don't belongon repeat.

I suck in a breath and release it. I turn off the car and grab the wine bottle I bought so I wouldn’t come empty-handed. Stepping out, I look at the house again. Like most of the houses on the street, it has two floors and sits in a nest of well-trimmed trees and shrubbery. The home is so inviting with its cream-colored siding and stone face—my nervousness is temporarily abated. Movement through a large bay window catches my gaze. Someone knows I’m here. No going back now.

Tommy opens the front door before I’m halfway up the walkway. He rushes out on socked feet and pulls me into a bear hug, squeezing all the air out of me.

“She's here,” he yells over his shoulder as he drags me into the room.

Rich mahogany hardwood covers the floors of the open-concept home. From where I stand a few feet inside the door, the living room is to my left. Bookcases line the wall opposite of the bay window. The far wall houses a huge wood fireplace with an even bigger flat-screen TV on top. Soft chocolate-brown leather couches face the fireplace. The center table is made of a single slab cut from a tree and at least three inches thick, polished to perfection and beautiful with its uneven shape and knots. A deep red carpet underneath it all makes the space cozy. Paintings and other artwork cover the walls. In the back corner, there’s a baby grand piano.

My fingers itch to touch it, even if I can’t play.

The home is such a discrepancy from my own, I’m momentarily off-kilter. Like an alien looking in through a window. I shut down the insistent voice telling me I don’t belong and take a deep breath.

The smells of baking and roasting invite me farther in, and when I turn around, I see him. Professor Dick—Dylan. He wipes his hands on a dish towel and drops it on the counter before crossing the space between us with an extended hand. Dark-wash jeans and a black Henley make him look younger. Like Tommy, he wears socks only.

“Miss Jones. Welcome to our home. Glad you could make it.”

So formal. “Call me Becca, please.” His hand is soft and warm against mine.

“Is that for me?” He points at the wine bottle I’m hugging against my chest like a shield.

“Yes. I'm not sure if you like wine. I can’t really cook or bake living in the dorm. Tommy said you didn't need any food and had everything covered. I figured a bottle of wine would be okay.” I’m babbling. My voice sounds hoarse to my ears and a little wispy too.

I give him the wine and realize he's still holding my hand. There's an awkward moment when we let go and look away from each other. When I look up, he smiles, his face lit up. My body sways a little. I want to touch that smile with my fingertips, memorize it on my skin, save it for later.

Tommy clears his throat. “Okay. This is cozy. Dylan, shouldn’t you go back into the kitchen before something burns? And you, Miss Becca, come with me and help me set the table.” Tommy smirks like the Cheshire cat.

I forgot he was there. What the hell is wrong with me?

Dylan blinks and steps back with the wine.

Glad I’m not the only one zoning out.

Tommy takes my hand. “Take your boots off, you’ll be more comfortable.” He lifts a foot and wiggles his toes, showing me his sock with a turkey leg design and separated toes like a glove.

I laugh and take my boots off by the door, glad I have my favorite and warmest socks on.

I help Tommy set the table. “This is a beautiful set.” I admire the antique rose and gold pattern on a plate.

“Yeah, Dylan saves them for the special occasions, Thanksgiving and Christmas, and that's it.”

“Is it a family heirloom?”

“Yes, belonged to our grandparents. They're gone. They're all gone now.” His voice deflates.

Tommy looks at the table as if lost in memory. Perhaps happier memories. Then he glances up and offers me a small smile.

“I’ll be right back.” He walks down a hall.

Not sure of what to do, I walk back to the living room and look out the window. Wind knocks down the last few stubborn leaves from the trees, they dance in the air for a moment before falling to the ground. Everything gets knocked down eventually. I blink away the negative thought and turn away from the window. The bookcase draws me in. I run my fingers over the spines of several books, the kind you’d expect to see in the Harry Potter library. Old leather-bound books, antiques by the look of them. There are photos too. Several of a couple, probably in their forties, smiling at each other. More frames with the same couple and two boys, Dylan and Tommy. Tommy is very young in most of the pictures. Maybe six or seven years old. Dylan is a teenager, tall and skinny. He smiles freely. These are happy pictures. There’s so much love in them. In the way they touch, in the way they look at the camera, so open and carefree.

I search the walls of the room for newer pictures and find none. My gaze drifts back to the image of a smiling Dylan. A smile not unlike the one he gave me earlier. The kind of smile that melts cold hearts.

“That's our parents.” Dylan’s voice startles me. He is inches away.

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