Page 87 of Because of Dylan

“But …”

“It’s late, Becca. The car will be fine. Send your boss a message so he knows you’re safe. I’ll take you home.”

I take his hand.

I get into his car.

He drives me.

We don’t talk. I’m fascinated by his every move, the gentle way his hands grip the steering wheel, how he checks his mirrors before changing lanes and how his thigh tenses when he steps on the gas pedal. He’s a careful driver. The ride is smooth. We get to campus far too fast.

“Where to?” He slows down when we reach the main road into Riggins.

“What?”

The corners of his mouth quirk up. “Which building do you live in?”

“Oh. The blue dorm.”

He drives no more than twenty miles per hour, as if he too wants to slow down and extend our time together. “Do you know why all the dorms have different colors?” There’s mischief in his eyes.

“So it’s easier for people to find them?”

“That too, but that’s not the original reason.”

He parks near my building, but keeps the car running. We’re away from the lights and hidden from curious eyes. I look at all the other buildings, each a different color. It’s dark now, save for a few streetlights here and there, but during the day the buildings sit next to each other like a brick-and-mortar rainbow.

“What’s the original reason, then?”

“Back in nineteen seventy-eight, an artist called Gilbert Baker created the rainbow flag in San Francisco. As you can imagine, a lot of people were not happy about it. But a few years later, Riggins, being the progressive university it was, painted all the dorms a different rainbow color as a silent support for gay rights. They never officially said anything about it. But that’s the real reason. The official reason, as you said, is to make it easier for people to find their buildings.”

I look at the buildings again, seeing them in a new light. “That’s so cool, how do you know that?”

“My parents were professors here. They told me that when I was a kid.”

“I had no idea.” We stay silent for a while. Both looking at the buildings. “Is it hard? To work here I mean?”

He unlocks his seatbelt. Turns my way. “Sometimes. I have so many memories of coming here as a kid. Helping them carry papers and books. Taking classes for college credit while still in high school and stopping to have lunch with them when they taught in the summer. Sitting in their lectures sometimes.” His gaze grows distant—he goes to a place I cannot follow but would give anything to experience. I’d trade the pain of love and loss for the relief of getting away from my mother in a heartbeat.

“It’s bittersweet, I guess.”

He nods. “In more ways than I imagined possible.”

“What did they teach?”

“Dad was an economics professor, and Mom taught history. Meals were always filled with world events discussions.” He smiles, his voice lighter, happier.

“And you chose—”

“Psychology,” he confirms what I already know.

“Is it something you always wanted to study?”

“Not really. I kind of fell into it, or more likely embraced it out of necessity.” He looks away, half of his face in shadows—the car’s interior light paints his skin blue.

“What do you mean?” I speak so low, I’m not sure he heard me.

“It was senior year of high school. A few months before graduation. I was all set to go to Dartmouth …” He’s silent for a while. I wait.

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