Page 67 of Because of Dylan

I breathe in. A hint of his cologne teases my nose—fresh, clean, wintry.

He hands me a glass of wine.

I take it, my hands surprisingly steady. “Sorry. I didn't mean to pry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about. The pictures are out in the open for anyone to see.”

“But something tells me you don't get a lot of visitors.” What the hell? Why did I say that?

Dylan tilts his head. “How can you tell?” He sips his wine.

I look around. “I don't know. Just a feeling. This house looks like it was well-loved, but now it feels a little empty.”Fuck a duck! What’s wrong with me? Shut up, Becca!

He nods, takes another sip. “True. The house is mostly empty now. With Tommy in the dorms, it’s only me here.”

“If this was my home, I’d never leave.”Oh. My. God.I look at the wine I have yet to touch. I can’t even blame it for the deluge of words coming out of my mouth.

Dylan smiles openly, like in the picture. My heart flutters into an uneven tempo.

“This house used to be filled with voices and laughter and noises. There were always people over. So much so I had to go outside to be alone.”

I like this open version of him. I like this Dylan. There's no Professor Dick here right now. I hesitate, not sure where we stand—if this is proper or not—but I’ve already put my foot in my mouth, may as well shove the entire leg in.

“What happened?” I think I already know, but I don't want to speak the words in case I'm wrong. And I hope I'm wrong.

“We lost them—our parents, years ago in a car accident on Halloween.” He gestures at one of the pictures with the almost empty glass. His father and his mother, her hugging him from behind, wrapped around his shoulders.

On Halloween? That’s why Tommy ghosted me. I’m so stupid. “I’m so sorry. I know it’s just words, but I really am. Looking at Tommy and you and this house, it’s easy to see this was a happy home.”

He shrugs.

“You said it was years ago, but Tommy is eighteen. Who raised him? And you?”

Silence stretches out as the seconds tick. Dylan takes a long gulp, finishes the wine.

“I raised him.”

“You? You must have been a kid yourself.”

He presses his lips together and, his shoulders go rigid for a second. “I was. I had to grow up fast.”

“I can’t imagine how hard it must have been.” I don’t know what’s worse. To have never had loving parents or to have them and lose them at such a young age.

“Some days I still can’t believe I managed it.” Dylan looks at his empty glass and then at mine, full still.

“I had to fight for custody. I couldn’t let him go to a foster home.”

“You had no other family?”

“No. It was the two of us. No uncles or aunts, and our grandparents died years before. But luckily my parents had life insurance, and that was more than enough to pay for everything we needed.”

I press a hand against my chest, rub at the ache blooming for him. For Tommy. For all that loss. I want to reach out and touch him, soothe the pain I see in his eyes. But I can’t. I hold myself back. Curl my toes into the floor to keep from moving. “But how did you do it?”

He nudges the corner of a frame, taps on the shelf. “I switched colleges and moved back here to be with Tommy and care for him. I changed my major, organized all my classes around his schedule so I could be home when Tommy was home. The first couple years were the hardest. But after a while we got used to our new routine.” He takes my glass and drains the wine.

The gesture is simultaneously intimate and abrupt. A myriad of emotions fleets through his face. He’s not over the loss regardless of what he may have said or how long ago it was. The need to pull him into my arms and hug him as tight as I can until all the pain I see in his eyes disappears, grows. The impulse is so strong I have to cross my arms and dig my nails into my palms to keep from doing exactly that.

He looks at both empty glasses, a questioning expression on his face as if he didn’t know how he ended up here and what happened to the wine.

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