Page 88 of Because of Dylan

“My girlfriend and I drove together every day. That day she got mad at me because she saw me talking to another girl. It was innocent, but Annelise had always been insecure. We had a fight on the way back home. She made me pull over and got out of the car. I tried to follow her, but it was a one-lane road with barely a shoulder. When the other cars started beeping behind me, I had to go. I looped around and came back looking for her. It was less than half a mile from her house, and when I didn’t see her I figured she had made it home.”

He goes silent again. My heart constricts. I fear whatever he will say next.

“I texted her. A dozen times. And when she didn’t answer, I thought she was still mad. I wish I had never listened to her and stopped the car.”

I reach to him and squeeze his hand. He looks at our hands together, and I let go. When he speaks, his voice is so low I have to lean in to hear him better. “The call came three hours later. Someone—a jogger found her in a field. She’d been beaten unconscious and was half-naked.”

“Jesus.” Tears sting my eyes. We have this in common, his girlfriend and I.

“The police came after me. I was out of my mind with guilt and fear. They wouldn’t let me see her or tell me exactly what happened. They kept asking me the same questions over and over. She woke up the next day and told them what happened. She was never the same.”

“It was not your fault, Dylan. You know that.”

He looks at me and then drops his gaze. Three fingertips tap his knee.

“Her family blamed me. She blamed herself. I tried to stay by her side, support her. She didn’t go back to school. This is a small town. Everyone knew what happened. She couldn’t stand to be pitied. And then there were the assholes and bullies—they sent her nasty emails and texts. I went after them, got into a lot of fights. She got help, went to counseling a couple of times a week. We thought she was getting better. But then …”

I try to get closer to him, but the seatbelt holds me back. I unlock it, pull my legs up onto the seat, and take his hand between mine. The need to comfort him greater than my fear of rejection.

He closes his eyes. “She killed herself.”

“Oh my God.” I hurt for this girl I’ve never met. My lungs lock up, and I have to make a conscious effort to breathe. That too could have been me. The idea of ending it all whispered in my ears more than once.

He blinks several times, his mouth turns down, his chin quivers. “All I could think of was the moment I stopped my car and let her go.”

“You couldn’t have anticipated it. It was not your fault.” I squeeze his hand harder, try to break the hold the memory has over him.

He doesn’t meet my eyes. “I trashed my entire room. My parents didn’t stop me. They stood at the door and watched. When everything was in pieces on the floor, my mom hugged me, and my dad brought in trash bags, and we cleaned the mess.”

He brings our laced fingers to his chest. His heart beats wildly against the back of my hand.

“When I started at Dartmouth seven months later, I switched my majors. I couldn’t change what happened to Annelise. Or bring her back. But I needed to understand why she did it. And I wanted to make sure it never happened to anyone I loved again. I never saw the signs. Even now, knowing everything I know, there were never any signs she wanted to take her life. I’m still not sure that’s what she intended to do.”

I muster all the bravery I can, and I take a risk. Pulling our laced hands back, I press his fingers to my cheek and kiss his knuckles as if the small gesture could take his pain away.

Dylan shifts, disengages, tucks my hair behind my ear. His fingertips linger on my neck. I shiver. He grips the back of my head and pulls me closer, his lips inches away from mine. I close my eyes, inhale his clean scent. He leans in, breathes me in, and kisses my forehead. His lips stay there for a moment, and then he pulls away, slowly reversing his every move until we no longer touch.

Dylan blinks away the memories. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You listened.”

I could listen to him reading a math book. His voice has the same calming effect on me the therapist’s voice does. Hmm … they sound similar too. Never thought of that before. Maybe all psychologists learn to talk with the same soft tone.

He looks over my shoulder. “I’d walk you to your door, but …”

I look to the building entrance. A few people are hanging out by the door, smoking.

“Yeah, probably best for me to go alone.” I’m glad it’s too dark for anyone to see inside his car. Last thing we need is gossip about a professor and me.

“Can you text me when you get to your room?” He gives me his phone. “Put your number in, and I’ll text you.”

I hear what he doesn’t say … so he knows I’m safe. I put my number in his contacts, give his phone back. We stare at each other, his gaze drops to my mouth. I lick my lips, wishing I could taste him.

“Good night, Becca.”

I open the door watching him, frigid air digs its icy fingers into me, and I shiver. I step out, close the door, walk to my building, look back. He’s still there. I go inside, get into the elevator. My phone buzzes. I look at it and smile.

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