by Jay McLean
Someone hands him a towel; one he wraps around my shoulders. “I’ll walk you up to your room.” He turns me away from Dylan, from my love, my heart, from my hurt, and with Conway’s words meant only for me, he says, “We’re going to clear out and give Banks some time to settle down. He’s had it rough.”
I glance over my shoulder, my body shaking from the cold. Dylan’s watching me, his jaw set, his eyes on mine. There’s still no remorse. But there’s no longer rage. There’s nothing.
And I don’t know what I fear most.
* * *
I watch him from the hotel room window, alone, sitting in the same chair we’d been in hours ago. Besides reaching for the numerous beers, he doesn’t move. He keeps his head down, his eyes on the pool, taking sip after sip, drowning in heartbreak.
I take a breath, my gaze lowering as I try to think of the right thing to do. Conway said to give him time.
I gave him that.
I gave myself that, too.
And yet here I am, exactly where I’d been since he came home. Time doesn’t change anything. But love will. It has to.
Without another thought, I slip on my shoes and make my way out to him.
He looks up when he must hear the pool gate open and quickly looks back down. He doesn’t make eye contact. I know he won’t. Still, I take slow steps toward him, stopping in front of him, giving him the opportunity to acknowledge my existence. After a few seconds of nothing, I take a chance and sit on his lap like I’d been doing before everything went to shit.
The sun went down five hours ago, taking the light and warmth of the day with it. Now it’s cold and dark and the atmosphere is miserable. Even more miserable than the events of the day. It’s quiet, though, all but for Dylan’s heavy breaths.
I loosely wrap my arm around his shoulders and stare straight ahead, not wanting to make eye contact in case it sets him off.
I know that it’s wrong to live my life in fear—especially of him—but I also know that it won’t be forever. We just need to get through this. We have to get through this.
He doesn’t touch me.
He doesn’t hold me.
But after a while, he finally speaks. “Was it thick?”
I tense in his arms, confused by his words. “Was what thick?”
“His blood. Jeremy’s. When you held his head on your lap, was it thick?”
“Dylan…” I finally face him, but he’s staring right ahead. Right at nothing.
“Dave’s was thick, Riley. And I don’t know. I guess I’m just trying to work out exactly what I had on my hands.”
My breath catches in my throat as realization sets in.
He continues, “See, his head was on my lap, and it just…” He lets out a breath through his nose, his shoulders dropping, “…it felt thick. So I’m assuming it was just bits of his skull and… what? His brain? I mean… with Jeremy—”
“Stop it,” I whisper through clenched teeth. I’d tried so hard to forget and now he’s here… making me remember.
He swallows loudly, and leans back further in his chair. “I get it now, Riley. I get what it’s like to be you. To have blood on your hands—to have that guilt weighing on you constantly. I should’ve fucking seen what was going on with him and I didn’t. Or maybe I chose to ignore it. Just like you did on that cliff.”
“Stop,” I cry.
He doesn’t stop. “And the worst part is that I keep seeing it. Keep hearing it. I look into the mirror and I see him standing there, his head fucking blown off, begging me to see him. To hear him. To realize how much he was suffering. But it’s too late, right? Because he’s fucking dead now. What the hell am I supposed to do, Riley? Tell me.”
“I don’t—”
“You think I should drink? I mean, it helps. It blurs the visions a little so it makes it more dream-like. It tricks your mind into believing that’s all it is. A dream. Not a memory. Is that why you did it?”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
Finally, his gaze meets mine. “Or do you think I should write stupid letters even though he’s six feet under? You think that’ll bring him back to life?”
I don’t respond. I can’t. Because when your heart’s breaking, being ripped out of you by the person who caused it to beat in the first place, there’s nothing left. Nothing to say. Nothing to do.
I start to get up but he holds me down. “Or maybe I should go home, get in my truck and drive it right through my dad’s house. Maybe your mom’s, too. Just because. Maybe that’ll help. You think I’ll get jail time?”
I wipe my eyes, my sobs uncontrolled. “Why are you being like this?”
“Because I’m hurting, Riley,” he mumbles, his gaze shifting, his hold tightening. “And I’m allowed to be angry. I’m allowed to be drunk. I’m allowed to hate the world and everything in it. That’s how you dealt with it, right?”
“I never pushed away the people who loved me,” I bite out.
He scoffs. “Maybe you should have. Then we wouldn’t be here. Now we have to go back to our fucked up lives and pretend like none of this matters. I’m not serving my goddamn purpose any more than you’re out there creating a legacy. We’re just two fucked up people with blood on our hands, faking our happiness.”
Forty-Five
Dylan
Getting Riley to fall in love with me was easy. Getting her to hate me is the hardest fucking thing I’ve ever done.
As I sat alone, beer in hand, watching the murky blue water of the hotel pool splash against the edges, I made my choice.
Something in me snapped that night and I’d hurt her. Again. Physically, emotionally, all of it. And there was no way I was going to let her allow me to continue to do it. So, I said things I didn’t mean. Things I knew would destroy her.
I wanted her to hate me so that it didn’t hurt so much when she left.
But she didn’t.
She kept her arms wrapped around me the entire night in that hotel room. She kept her smile in place as she said goodbye to the guys she’d met the night before… guys whose opinions of me had no doubt changed and she held my hand as I walked her to her car for the long ass drive back home.
On the outside, her love for me had never wavered, even after what I’d done. Inside though, she was hurting. She had to be. I needed her to be.
The week on base went by slowly. Too fucking slowly. My friends who I’d once taken a fucking bullet for no longer respected me. They left me alone.
Riley didn’t. She called often. Messaged even more. She asked if I was coming home or if she should come here. After five on the Friday, I finally called her. She answered the phone like she did every time. Her voice high pitched and happy to hear from me.
I guess it’s true what they say; ignorance is bliss.
Why don’t you hate me, Riley?
I showed up five hours later and went straight to bed. No words spoken. No affections shared. Just like I’d planned.
I never looked at her. Never acknowledged her.
Like I said, I wanted her to hate me.
Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt like hell.
No worse than after the fourth hour of lying in our bed—the bed I spent days in, watching her, falling in love with her… she has her arms wrapped around me, her breaths warm and even as they hit my bare chest. I reach over and switch on the lamp on the nightstand, my heart breaking as I look at her sleeping peacefully. My fingers twirl in her hair—her messy hair I’d always loved. Her lashes fan across her cheeks, cheeks I’ve kissed so many times before and for a moment, just one single moment, I second guess myself, wondering if I’m doing the right thing. I run the back of my fingers across her face… so beautiful and so innocent and so damn perfect and I know, deep down, I know she doesn’t deserve anything I’m doing to her.
I don’t deserve her.
As gentle as I can, I remove her arms from around me and get out of bed. I look toward the bathroom, to the still-smashed mirror and I feel my heart shatter. Not
just for her, but for me too.
It’ll hurt.
Her.
Me.
Everyone around us.
I switch off the light, grab my bag and head for the door, taking one more look at the girl I’d planned on spending forever with. The light from the hall filters through the room, landing on her. Slowly, her hand moves, feeling around the bed, her eyes snapping open when she feels the emptiness. The same emptiness I feel inside me.
Then she sits up, her eyes slowly moving to me.
She covers her mouth with the back of her hand, a single sob escaping her. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to.
But I do. Because it’s the last thing I’ll ever say to her. She needs to know. I owe her that much. “I’m so sorry, Riley.”
I check into a hotel nearby because I’m too fucking tired to drive.
The more time that passes, the more I see Dave. Yes, I know he’s fucking dead. Doesn’t stop him from making an appearance in my life.
Most of the time it’s in the mirror. I should be seeing me. I see him. Right now, I don’t know what’s worse.
Sometimes I hear his voice, the sound of his cry right before he pulled the trigger.
Sometimes—and these are the worst—he just appears out of nowhere. Today he sat in the car next to me. I had an entire conversation with a dead man, out loud. He told me about his brothers, how many birthdays he missed and how much he missed them. I told him he was a fucking pussy. That if he really felt that way he should’ve thought about how much they’d all miss him. It’s not like he’d come home and they’d be able to make up for lost time. He was dead. He was also a fucking asshole.
I blame it on lack of sleep. There’s no other explanation for it. Apart from the fact that I might possibly be certifiably insane.
“I thought you liked Riley.”
“I love Riley,” I tell Dave, or the ghost of him, or my vision of him, or whatever the fuck is happening right now.
“You’ve got a pretty fucked up way of showing it.”
“What the fuck would you know?”
“Man, she would’ve been better off with me.”
I rub my eyes, trying to fight off sleep. “You’re fucking delusional, dude.”
“Says the guy who sees dead people.”
Forty-Six
Riley
I drop the pen on the notepad and read my letter to Dylan over and over again. Sighing, I tear out the page and put it in the new jar and set it on the bench.
I run my fingers across his tools, my lips pressed tight to suppress my cries.
I’m sick of crying.
I’m sick of wiping away the tears.
I’m sick of hurting.
I’m sick of not finding a solution to the pain.
I’m sick of all of it.
“Ry?” Jake calls from behind me. His grin widens as he walks up the driveway and I curse myself for leaving the garage door open. “Dylan inside?”
I fake a smile and shrug.
His eyes narrow as his footsteps slow. Then he laughs nervously. “Where is he?”
“I’m not sure,” I tell him.
He drops his gaze to the boxes on the floor—the real reason I’m out here. “What’s all this?”
I smile, a real one, and for a second I forget about the hell I’m living in. “It’s a new work bench… some state of the art thing. I was hoping it would be here before he got home but they were a few days late on the delivery. Not that it matters.” I shrug. “He’s been home a month.”
Jake rears back a little. “I’m confused. Kayla said… wait. So he’s been home a month?”
I nod. “On base. But he’s—” I can’t lie. He’s not home. “Around.”
“Asshole didn’t even tell me he was back. Did he just want to spend alone time with you or something?”
I laugh. I can’t help it. And then I cry. Something else I have absolutely no control over.
He settles his hands on my shoulders as he dips his head, his eyes right on mine. “Are you okay, Ry?”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“You don’t seem fine.”
I wipe my eyes and take a breath. And then another. Looking for the strength that’s not-so-slowly diminishing. “I’m okay. Really.” I point to the boxes by my feet and release another lie. “It’s just overwhelming. I’m trying to grasp how I’m going to build all this and remove the other one and I don’t know…” I scratch my head and look back up at Jake. “I just want to make him happy. That’s all.”
He tilts his head, as if searching for my hidden meaning. He won’t find it. It’s the only piece of truth I’ve voiced since he’s been back. I do want to make him happy. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.
“I can call the guys to come and help if they’re around. I know Cam’s here. He might be able to get one of Lucy’s dad’s workers and we can get it done in no time.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “That’d be good.”
Jake gets on the phone and fifteen minutes later, Cameron shows up with Lucas—Jeremy’s friend from high school and Cam’s brother-in-law.
“I brought a professional,” Cam says, tapping the back of his hand on Lucas’s chest as they walk up the driveway.
“That’s good,” Jake says to me, “I’m good at lifting heavy shit, Cameron’s good at designing it, but neither of us are great with tools. That was always—”
“Dylan,” I cut in, and Jake and Cam instinctively bow their heads.
“’Sup, Hudson,” Lucas says, nodding in greeting.
“So you know what you’re doing?” I ask, shuffling on my feet.
He nods again. “Yep. I’m working construction full time for the old man now.”
“And me!” Cam says, pointing to himself. “I’m his boss.”
“Fuck off.”
“You’re fired!” Cam booms.
Lucas picks up his tools he’d just set on the floor and spins around. “Laters!”
“No!” I yell. “I need your help.”
He turns around, his smile wide. “I’ll do it for you, Hudson. I owe you this much.”
I drop my gaze at the memory of Jeremy he instantly invokes in me. Another sob rises from the pit of my stomach, catching in my throat before it leaves me.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah. I’m fine… just…”
“Jeremy?” he asks.
I nod. “Jeremy.” I don’t know why I’m thinking about Jeremy the way I am. Why I suddenly find myself missing him the way I do.
Jake clears his throat. “So how long do we have until D gets home? You want it to be a surprise, right?”
“He won’t be home tonight,” I let slip, but don’t bother to right my wrong.
“Where is he?” Cameron asks.
I look up, three sets of eyes on me—their expressions matching that of Dylan’s family as I stood in their hallway. They look worried. I am worried. I don’t know what to say, so I give them a half truth. It’s better than the constant lies falling from my lips. “I think he just needed to get away for the night.”
It doesn’t take them long to demolish the old bench and put the new one up, and it’s only when I see it in pieces on the back of both Jake and Lucas’s truck as they drive away that I realize I’ve made a mistake. Dylan has a personal attachment to that bench—the years and years he spent working on it and I just took it away. He won’t see the good I’d tried to do… he’ll only see the bad.
He only ever sees the bad now.
I curse under my breath, already fearing his response. And of all the emotions that could possibly lead me to what I do next, fear is the greatest one.
Dylan
Riley’s calling.
I don’t know why she’s calling.
I ignore the call only for it to ring again. And again.
Then a text comes through.
Riley: I’ve been pulled over. The brake lights were out, I guess, and it’s registered under your name. The officer asked you to
come and bring some identification.
I sit on the edge of the hotel bed and check the time. It’s nine at night. I don’t know if I’ve slept or if I’ve just been in a daze but last I knew it was light out. I call her back, but I don’t speak.
“Dylan?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper.
I grab the beer sitting on my nightstand and take a few sips. “Where are you?”
She gives me her location and I take another sip. Then I dress, grab my keys and go to her.
She’s not hard to find, the flashing lights of the police car give her away. I park behind both cars and get out, pulling out my wallet as I walk toward them. A part of me is angry she’s driving without brake lights, not just because it’s fucking dangerous, but because I’d specifically asked Dad to take care of that shit because I knew she wouldn’t.
She’s still sitting behind the driver’s seat and when I walk up, the officer turns to me, aiming his flashlight in my eyes. “You’re the owner of this vehicle?” he asks. He’s my dad’s age, same build, no beard.
“Yes, Sir,” I tell him, pulling my military ID from my wallet and handing it to him.
He flashes his light on the ID and looks up at me. “Camp Lejeune?” he asks.
I nod. “Yes, Sir.”
“Did Ms. Hudson tell you why she was pulled over?”
“Yes, Sir. Brake lights. I’ll take care of it first thing.”
He steps closer as he hands me back his ID, then freezes in his spot. He shines his light at my face again. “You been drinking, Lance Corporal?”
I suppress my eye roll. “I was having a beer when I got the call, officer.”
“How many beers?”
“Just the one.”
“I’m going to trust you,” he tells me, his voice stern.
I stay quiet, because everything I want to say would just get us in more trouble. I’m not intoxicated, but I’ve definitely had more than one beer.
He turns and starts walking back to Riley’s window.
I lean against the car, my arms and legs crossed, waiting. I just want to get back to the hotel. Back to solitary. Back to silence.
“Here’s your license back, Ms. Hudson. You’re going to have to leave the car here and get it towed. It’s illegal to drive it the way it is.”
