by Sierra Hill
This is for the best. The way it had to be. But thank you for everything. I’ll miss you. A lot.
Jesus, she was thanking him? For what? The work he did? Or the things between them?
It was then that he remembered who was waiting for her back in California. If she went back to that bastard, Blaine, he’d fucking kill someone. That asshole didn’t deserve her.
I miss you, too. Everyday.
His fingers typed out the words before he even knew what he was doing. The cursor blinked at him, the message waiting to be delivered. He didn’t expect to be overcome with this caustic sentiment over Sloane leaving. It wasn’t just sex for him anymore. And hadn’t been in weeks.
Sloane meant more to him than anyone he’d ever known. Dylan knew it. And damn it if he didn’t want her back. And what he really wanted to say – the three other little words – were too hard to get out. He didn’t want to have to do it over stupid text.
His fingers felt like they had rubber cement poured over them. The gooey substance preventing him for typing what he should actually tell her.
Fuck it. He’d lay his heart on the line, consequences be damned. If she didn’t return the sentiment, then that was that. He’d live with it and move on.
But if she did…well, then he had some decisions to make.
Dylan hit the send button and waited.
###
Sloane sat on her bed and stared at the text messages that Dylan had sent her two days before, blinking harshly at her, tearing her apart with the guilt that slithered through her entire being. Three little words from a man whom she’d never expected to get attached to so quickly. Three words that ripped her heart apart.
There was nothing more that she wanted to do than to send the same words back to him. To let him know she felt exactly the same way and that leaving him without saying goodbye was the hardest thing she’d ever done. Aside from living the hell she was currently going through with the pending School Board investigation.
Escaping Boston two weeks before was nothing in comparison to the torture she endured sitting through the four-hour long interrogation – or rather, investigation meeting – with the Superintendent and his cronies the previous week. He and his Board-members glared at her like she was a flesh-eating Hannibal Lecter, instead of an unfairly accused high school history teacher. They assessed her every movement. Her every word, as if she wasn’t to be trusted. Treating her explanation of the events leading up to that moment as if it were some fabricated lie.
Harder yet, was having to inform her parents about the situation Blaine had put her in, explaining to them how her ex-fiancé was apparently not the man they all thought he was. He had made her out to be a fool.
But true to form, her mother and father came to her rescue, assisting her with hiring an attorney – Carli Wallingford, a slick, take-no-prisoners, I-eat-nails-for-breakfast kind of lawyer. The woman scared the living daylights out of her, but Sloane was glad to have her on her side.
She spent hours with Carli over the course of three days, going over everything she knew, preparing her statement, the timeline of events, her response to the emailed photos, and everything else that would prepare Sloane for what was to come.
When the day arrived, both her parents and Trista escorted her to the administration building and waited patiently for her out in the hallway while the proceedings took place. Had Sloane not been wearing a dark navy suit jacket, everyone would have known how nervous she’d been by the sweat stains underneath her arms.
Everything hinged on the investigation meeting. Her entire career, all the education leading up to it, the time she invested in her students – it all hung in the balance. The six people sitting at the table across from Sloane – the ones that looked on her like she was a pariah, held her life in their hands. In the decision that they would ultimately make that would make or break her.
What it boiled down to, in the end, was whether the Board believed that she had no knowledge of what Blaine had done. And that the photos and emails she saw in Blaine’s personal email inbox were not an indication that she was privy to his misconduct while it happened, or that she failed to report it in order to cover up the inappropriate behavior on behalf of her fiancé.
The problem with the truth – and her innocence – was that it still wouldn’t matter. The investigation would remain a matter of public knowledge and her reputation would be tarnished. Her teaching career would be ruined, regardless of whether she was cleared of any wrong doing.
Sloane learned a cruel, and very hard life lesson out of this entire affair. There could be injustice served even when justice was adequately bestowed.
Meanwhile, Blaine had been arraigned and charges were filed with the District Attorney. Sloane had read in the papers that Blaine’s computer, phone, email and texts were confiscated by police investigators, who found suggestive text messages and racy photos of him and the female student in various states of undress and sexual positions. The only good news to come from all the media stories was that apparently the female student was eighteen. At least Blaine had that much sense not to seduce a minor.
God, the horror. Who was this man? Sloane couldn’t even digest some of the stories she’d heard after the fact about Blaine’s character. He had obviously duped her into believing he was someone different. He hid his true identity from her. Blaine was a no-good dog. And that, in her estimation, gave good dogs a bad name.
Still staring blankly at the text in her hand, Sloane didn’t know what good it would do to reply back to Dylan. She should just end it for good now because she had no plans of going back there. Besides, she’d just learned the truth about Blaine – a man she’d known for years and loved with her whole heart, but had been burned in the process. So how in the world could she be expected to set that anguish aside to try and love another? She wasn’t ready for that. Even though she had fallen in love with Dylan.
But the likelihood of ever being able to fully trust another man again? Slim to none.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“You obviously need closure, bro. So you can move on.”
Jason’s voice thundered through the empty room, the framed walls surrounding them yet to be dry-walled. Exposed electrical wires and copper wiring lay on the sawdust floors, the construction plans on the unfinished floorboards between them.
Dylan kept his head down, continuing to work, hoping to avoid this conversation altogether. He wasn’t in the mood to discuss Sloane or the fact that he hadn’t spoken with her in two weeks. It just made him angry and ready to punch something. Angry because he was a pussy for getting hung up on a girl that had an expiration date. He knew it going in and he knew it now.
But it still didn’t stop him from wanting her back. Or wanting her to love him back.
It became real obvious, real quick, after she didn’t respond to his text, that he’d never meant anything to Sloane. Apparently, Dylan had been just a good time, a physical distraction, a rebound fling for her. She got her kicks and went on her merry way. End of story.
And what was left of him was a broken man. How pathetic was that?
But he couldn’t share those thoughts with Jason. “Really, dude? Sloane and I were just fucking. No closure required.”
A loud clang sounded next to him, garnering Dylan’s attention. He shut off the drill and turned to glare at his friend. And what he saw was not the usual jovial face of his long-time buddy. No, this look was one of displeasure and annoyance.
“How long have we known each other, D?”
Dylan scoffed at the stupid question. Jason knew exactly how long they’d been friends. Since elementary school. Second grade, to be exact. They’d fought each other on the playground over a girl named Amanda. She had told both of them that she loved them and wanted to marry them. And when word spread that she was two-timing, Dylan and Jason were set to rumble.
But when they were sent to the principal’s office for fighting, they started talking about the Boston Red Sox and who was the
best infielder. While they never quite agreed on who the best player was, that was the start of a lifelong friendship – one that both men relied upon during the ups and the downs of their lives.
“You know we’ve been friends since grade school. So what’s your fucking point?”
“My point is, I know you, D. You’re my best friend. I was there with you when you kicked the shit out of Jimmy Kemp in seventh grade. I was there to celebrate with you when you passed your driver’s test. When you got your first blow job – well, not during, but after,” he chuckled, wiping a hand over his sweaty brow.
“I was by your side when you thought you’d knocked up Tami Crenshaw,” he paused and gives the sign of the cross over his chest. Always the good Catholic. “Thank God that worked out. I was also there when you enlisted – and spent six years worried about your ass overseas. You were the best man at my goddamn wedding. The godfather to my kids. We’ve seen each other at our worst, D, and everything in between. But I have never seen you look as lost as you do right now. It’s scaring the shit out of me.”
Dylan scoffed, dropping his head, yanking off his baseball cap dragging his fingers through his messy hair. Jason continued his little speech.
“I can see it in your eyes, bro. You’re fucking in love. And trust me when I say from experience that nothing hurts like a woman can. And you need to do something about it.”
Christ, his friend was intuitive. And apparently some sort of love guru now. Rubbing the stress from the back of his neck, he knew there was no denying it. Jason was right. Everything had changed the moment he met Sloane.
Something about her made him feel differently about everything. Being with her made him realize just how lonely the world felt when the woman he loved wasn’t right by his side.
“Jesus, J. You planning on writing a book on relationships now?” Dylan knelt back down over his work and snickered, trying to veer things off the serious course. Just because Jason was right, didn’t mean Dylan wanted to get manicures together and share his fucking feelings with his friend.
Something flew through the air and clocked him on the side of his head. Dylan ducked his head to the side to avoid any further incoming assaults.
“What the fuck, man? Did you just throw your dirty, filthy towel at my head? I hate to tell ya, bro. That ain’t very helpful if you’re trying to give a pep talk.”
Dylan picked up the towel and chucked it back over at Jason. They’d been working a lot of hours together lately, and probably needed a break.
Business had been booming recently, which in Dylan’s case was both a blessing and a curse. It certainly created a needed distraction during his waking hours so he could keep his mind off of Sloane, but it also took away from his available time to work on his art. At the very least, his hands were never idle during the day or the evenings. It was when he hit the bed at night that his longing for Sloane intensified, his mind replaying all the moments he had with her.
He couldn’t torment himself any longer with the memories of what they shared together. She was the only woman he’d ever felt this strongly about. So fuck it, he was going to make sure she knew it.
If it was the chase she wanted, then by God, she was going to get it.
Dylan picked up his tool belt and put his hat back on his head. He turned to Jason, who was back to work drilling a hole in the dry wall.
“You’re right, bro. I do need closure. And I’m going to get it.”
###
Dylan had never been to California. When he enlisted in the Marines, there was one of two boot camps he could have attended. One in San Diego and the other in Parris Island in South Carolina. Because he lived on the East Coast, he was sent to South Carolina, but had served with many of the guys who hailed from So Cal.
After purchasing his airline ticket, he called up his Marine buddy Dougie, who owned a condo in La Jolla and worked as an engineering technician at the Legoland theme park. How cool was that? Talk about every boy’s dream job growing up.
And from the way Dougie explained it, he really was living the dream, capitalizing on the dating scene, too. Apparently, there were a lot of hot, young college girls from SDSU who worked on the entertainment side of the park. Which meant Dougie had a pretty voracious dating life.
The old Dylan would have been impressed with Dougie’s awesome single life and options.
The new Dylan just wanted a place to crash so he could track down his girl. That’s why three weeks after Sloane just up and left Boston, Dylan did the only thing he could think of to get in touch with her again. She no longer answered his texts or called him back. So he used the only other weapon in his arsenal.
The sun was so bright, Dylan had to shield his eyes from the glare, even with his sunglasses on. The glistening water was hypnotizing, boats and surfers dotting the ocean as far as he could see – the ocean breeze covering his skin with a warm sheen of dampness.
This was nothing like his time in South Carolina or the few trips he took to Florida. There really was a California vibe that permeated the air. The people he’d met so far in passing were chill and laid-back with purpose. Unlike the idiots in his hometown who were constantly at each other’s throats, yelling obscenities and off-colored remarks to people they didn’t even know. Ah, gotta love East Coasters.
Dylan crossed the street and stood in front of the gallery window. On it was etched The Channing Gallery in dusted gold, spelled out in calligraphy-style lettering. He’d found the number and address on the business card that Sloane had given him on Christmas. The studio belonged to her mother, and he had placed all his chips in one basket when he decided this was his last ditch effort and final hope of tracking down Sloane.
A buzzer beeped somewhere overhead announcing his arrival as he stepped into the air conditioned entrance, his eyes adjusting to the lower-intensity, florescent lighting. Dylan removed his aviators and had his first real look at the studio and surrounding art. Vibrant, modern pieces in all shapes and sizes lined the interior walls, and sculptures and various other conceptual art pieces were selectively displayed in the space in the middle of the room.
“Is this your first time to Channing’s?” a sweet feminine voice asked him from behind. Dylan turned to acknowledge the welcome and was surprised to see an older version of Sloane standing in front of him. This woman was obviously Darla Channing-Fitzgerald.
Dispensing with any mystique or intrigue, Dylan said, “Hello. I’m Dylan Hemmons. You must be Sloane’s mother.”
There was a hint of surprise in her expression, but it was quickly masked with a polite, respectful smile that appeared on her elegant face. She raised her hand to shake Dylan’s in welcome.
“Yes, I am her mother. And how do you know my daughter?”
And there it was. The evidence that Sloane had meant what she said from the beginning. Dylan would mean nothing to her after she left. And certainly not worth mentioning to her own mother.
“Well actually, Mrs. Channing-Fitzgerald. I’m a friend of Sloane’s from Boston. And I’m hoping you can do me a favor.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sunday brunch with her parents at their country club had never been high on Sloane’s list of exciting weekend activities. However, while she awaited the hearing results and tried to stay out of the media eye, her only social activities had been going to the club, or visiting with Trista.
Her parents had been members for decades. It made complete sense to Sloane why her mother liked to network, considering the line of work her mother did was based on referrals from those who could afford the treasures she hawked.
“Good morning, Mother,” Sloane said, trying to keep her voice upbeat, even with the cloud of doom that hovered over her. She leaned down to place a quick kiss on her mother’s cheek before turning to her father. “Good morning, Dad.”
Eamon Fitzgerald stood up from his chair and wrapped his strong arms around his daughter, pulling her into his tight embrace. She sighed at the comfort and peace her father provid
ed her, reminding Sloane of how lucky she was to have been blessed with such loving parents. Although she and her mother weren’t always on the same page when it came to her life decisions, both of them constantly demonstrated their love and affection for their daughter.
Her father kissed the top of Sloane’s head before releasing her with a squeeze of her shoulders. “My angel, you look gorgeous as always. I’m so glad you could meet us for brunch today, sweetie. We haven’t seen much of you this past week.”
Sloane moved around the edge of the table and sat down between them. Unfolding her napkin and placing it on her lap, she gave them both a smile, glancing between the well-tailored, beautifully elegant couple.
Her mother’s hair was a white, chin-length asymmetrical bob, which complimented her long, graceful neck and accentuated her high cheekbones. Darla was a classic beauty, slim and fit from years of swimming at the club gym. She didn’t look a day over fifty.
And her father was a silver-haired fox, who could still garner the attention of women everywhere he went. With the soft smile and easy charm he exuded, Eamon was the George Clooney of the San Diego pediatrics community. And the two of them together were a handsome couple, having been married for over thirty years. There was no doubt in Sloane’s mind that her parent’s retained the same level of love for one another as they did when they first married.
Sloane admired their relationship and had dreamed of the same kind of marriage with Blaine. But the bastard blew that wish to smithereens.
“Darling, I’m so glad you could join us today. You do look beautiful,” her mother said, before jumping in with a less-than-positive observation.
“But I can see you’ve been losing weight, my dear. We need to rectify that. You need to stay healthy.”
Darla patted Sloane’s hand gently in an admonishing, yet reassuring, sort of way.
Sloane knew she’d hear something about her appearance today. And she couldn’t really argue with her mother, because it was true. Over the holidays in Boston, she’d been so busy, she rarely stopped to eat. And when she did, it was burgers and fries from Curtis’ kitchen. Not very healthy.
