Something More Than This

by Barbie Bohrman

I started to laugh at his reaction. The fact that Dylan Sterling, editor in chief of the Florida Observer, liked to cuddle, cracked me up. This revelation would provide me with tons of ammunition if ever I needed it in the future.

  But then I heard him mumble something under his breath. I couldn’t make it out over my laughing, so I managed to tear myself out of his grasp and asked him to repeat himself.

  “Shhhh wasn’t . . .” he mumbled. Then he added yet more to his undecipherable babble. “. . . you.”

  It was impossible to translate his words since his speech was more like slurring at that point. However, it seemed like hearing himself say whatever he was trying to say was enough to wake him up.

  He looked over at me. “Where are we?”

  “Your condo. Can you walk to your door or should I call my brother Simon to assist us?”

  That seemed to sober him a bit. “Nope, I’m good. Thanks for driving.”

  “What are friends for?”

  Dylan’s face turned serious as he reached for the door handle. When he opened it and placed one foot outside, he answered me.

  “Everything.”

  Later that night I realized what he was saying in his sleep. And to this day, I don’t know why I thought nothing of what he said in what was obviously a moment of stripped down honesty.

  Maybe I didn’t want things to change between us. Maybe I wasn’t ready. Maybe I thought he was talking about somebody else.

  But now, knowing what he said, knowing he meant it and that he had in fact revealed his true feelings for me, I wanted to curl up and die for being so dense.

  And today, as the elevator arrives at the first floor of the office building, I say the same three words out loud to myself that Dylan told me two years ago . . .

  “She wasn’t you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I work from home for the next couple of days, opting to take full advantage of current technology rather than having to face Dylan.

  I’m being a chickenshit like Mimi has repeatedly reminded me, but it’s the only way to not lose my job while I try to work things out.

  The slight cringing I experience comes late Wednesday afternoon when I press Send on an e-mail to Dylan with a finished article. It takes a few minutes of staring at my inbox, waiting for Dylan’s comments, to get a response:

  Thanks and feel better.

  “Well, at least he’s hoping I’m not dying or anything,” I say out loud to myself.

  Then I instantly feel awful because I’m reminded that Dylan has stopped sending me his daily texts. I expected it, but it still hurts deeply to know that every little thing that made us us is gone. I want a do-over. I need to go back and tell him that I do love him and that I do want to be with him. I want these things more than anything. But I don’t know how to do it. Frustrated with myself beyond belief, I decide to tackle one problem at a time.

  Conner . . .

  Okay, I can put this baby to rest once and for all.

  I text him, asking to meet up at our old stomping ground. I’m hoping that he responds, given the fact that I’ve been ignoring his calls and texts since Friday night. If he doesn’t answer, well, at least I have the peace of mind that I tried to make amends before he goes home to California.

  His text comes almost too fast, catching me a bit off guard:

  I’ll see you at the playground in twenty minutes, Shadow.

  I arrive at the park at dusk to find Conner already waiting for me. He sits on a swing, his legs way too long to fit comfortably and crossed at the ankles. He sees me coming and smiles, then motions to his left at the empty swing next to him.

  “I saved you a seat,” he says.

  “Thanks.”

  Sitting down, my legs dangle long enough to anchor me to the ground so I don’t swing too much. I glance over at Conner, who’s watching my every move and waiting for me to say something.

  “So are you ready to go back home?”

  “Yes and no,” he says. “I’m ready to get back to work, but I’m not ready to leave you again.”

  Well, I guess we’re getting right to it then.

  “Conner, I—”

  “No, listen to me for once, okay?” he asks. “I need to explain.”

  “Okay.”

  “Shadow, sorry, I mean Katy.”

  “Conner, you don’t have to stop calling me Shadow. I’ve missed it.”

  Smiling now, he nods at my request. “Okay, so I’ve been thinking about it. About us, about when we were kids and how everything kind of changed and the letter and—”

  “I still have it, you know.”

  I don’t know why I tell him this, but I feel like it’s important that he knows how much it meant to me all these years. Even if the outcome wasn’t something I wanted, I can look back on my time with Conner and smile, because he meant so much to me and still does.

  “When I heard your voice mail that first day you called me out of the blue, I read it again for the first time in years.” I laugh in embarrassment. “I still can’t believe I did that.”

  “It was the best letter anyone has ever written me, Shadow.”

  I stop laughing just as quickly as I had started.

  “I only wish I had done something about it sooner,” he says. There’s a long stretch of comfortable silence between us. “The other night at my house, I’m sorry if I spooked you.”

  “I wouldn’t say that you spooked me, Conner. I think I spooked myself.”

  “How do you mean?”

  I look up to the now night sky and kick my legs out from underneath me. I swing once, twice, and then stop, anchoring my feet in the soft dirt to keep me from moving again. “Because I’m not that girl anymore. That girl had wished and hoped for you to say those things to her at some point . . . but that time has passed. I moved on and so did you. And all of that is okay, because if anything, this short time again with you has reminded me how much I missed you as a friend.”

  “Do you think we could stay friends this time around?” he asks. “I’m being serious. I don’t want to lose you again, Shadow.”

  “Well, that depends,” I say.

  “Depends on what?”

  “Depends on if you actually keep in touch. See, they have this thing nowadays called e-mail. It’s really new and exciting and makes it easy to stay in contact with people you care about.”

  He laughs before his expression turns serious again. “I meant what I said, though. I screwed up with you in the past, and I don’t intend to let it happen again. I want to know everything that’s going on with you . . . maybe not everything. But you know what I mean, right?”

  “Like old times.”

  “Just like old times, Katy.”

  We sit on the swings not saying another word to each other for a moment, then Conner spins in his swing so he can look behind us. Then he spins right back to face me, and the spark that lights up his hazel eyes reminds me of how he looked on that very first day we met.

  “So, I was just going to go across the street and get a Gatorade or something.” He stands up.

  He offers me his hand, and when I put mine in his, it’s next to impossible to hide the smile on my face.

  “Shouldn’t we tell my brothers we’re leaving?” I ask, laughing. “I don’t know if I should trust you.”

  “You can trust me, Shadow . . . you can always trust me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  It’s been a few days since I’ve seen or spoken to my best friend, Dylan.

  The man I’m in love with.

  Who also happens to be my boss.

  And who also probably hates my guts.

  As confusing and as daunting as all of that is, I still manage to get all my work done. And this week, since the Barracudas play on Thursday night instead of their usual Friday night, I’m able to make the game and finish my article in more than enough time to make Friday’s morning edition.

  Which leaves me with a day open to do nothing but think.

  And thi
nk some more about Dylan, of course.

  I worry how our boss/employee relationship will affect my career. Being taken seriously in an overwhelmingly male populated environment hasn’t been easy. And if word gets out that I slept with my editor in chief, my professional reputation will suffer the most. And all the respect I’ve gained from my colleagues from the hard work and late nights I’ve put in to dispel their ideas that I’m his favorite or that I’m not good enough goes flying out the window. So on the off chance that I finally get an opportunity to speak to him, I’m hoping that we can agree to keep the work side of our relationship on track.

  On a better note, at least one part of my life has gotten squared away and resolved. Conner and I said our good-byes and exchanged contact information. Until he came back into my life, I never realized how much I actually needed to talk to him about that night and give us the closure we both needed. But more than that, the void in my life where my oldest best friend had been is filled again. I want to be able to confide in him like when were growing up, and I believe him when he says he’ll keep in touch. And if he doesn’t keep up his end of the bargain, I told him I would fly out to LA and kick his ass again in tag football and embarrass him in front of all of his friends.

  Then my mind goes back to Dylan. The fact that he hasn’t reached out to me has not gone unnoticed. I’ve been thinking a lot about the day we met and how every day since then has been filled with him in some capacity. And as much as I miss him as a friend, I know with a hundred percent certainty that I want more than that. I want him not only as my friend but my lover and to be there when I wake up in the morning and go to bed at night.

  I want all of these things and then some.

  I want Dylan. I love him.

  But I’m too scared to tell him to his face.

  That’s why I’m sitting here alone on the couch and mindlessly flipping the channels on the television after sending off my article to him.

  When Mimi strolls in a little later than usual, because she was obviously with Simon—the cat coming out of the bag on that one in a way I’ll never forget—I’m surprised but glad to see her, since I could use the company.

  “What’cha doing?” She sits next to me.

  “Nothing.”

  “What’cha watching?”

  “Nothing.”

  Then a few minutes pass before she rips the remote out of my hand and turns off the television.

  “Hey, I was watching that!”

  “Really? What were you watching?” she asks, raising an eyebrow defiantly.

  I rack my brain, trying to pinpoint one of the hundreds of stations I was browsing through and can’t think of anything. So I say, “Something.”

  “Real mature, Katy. Real mature.” She chucks the remote on the other side of her, then looks at me with those caramel eyes narrowed, as if she is trying to put me in a trance. “Look, it’s really easy. Just get off of your ass and go to him already. I’m sick of seeing you mope around here and feeling sorry for yourself. And I’m sick of seeing Dylan moping around too, for that matter. The both of you are ridiculous, do you know that?”

  “You’ve seen him?” I ask, startled. “How did he look? What did he say?”

  “Girl, you don’t want to know.”

  I look at her with a death stare. “If I didn’t want to know, I wouldn’t have asked. Come on, tell me, please?”

  “It’s your funeral.” She sighs dramatically and then says, “Well, he looked like shit and not at all like himself. He hasn’t shaved in a couple of days and has some serious stubble going on, and now that I think about it, it kind of makes him a little dangerous looking and a lot hot . . . hotter than usual and—”

  “Stop! Just skip to the part where he spoke to you about it instead.”

  “Fine, relax, I was just getting to that part. He basically said that you tore out his heart and spit on it and then burned it into tiny ashes that are now scattered all over the ends of the earth.”

  I stare at her incredulously. “He did not say all of that. Did he?”

  “He might as well have.” She stops and turns in her seat to face me. “Katy, you broke his heart, how do you expect him to feel?”

  “I know I did, but . . . but I’m hurt too.”

  I feel like the asshole that Mimi thinks I am right now. I can tell that she wants to call me some name or another by the look of disbelief in her eyes. But she bites her tongue and realizes she doesn’t need to say a word since I’m already feeling like the biggest heel in history and the worst best friend to boot.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.” I falter for a second, then say, “I want to fix this with him, more than anything. But it’s not that easy, Mimi. He won’t talk to me.”

  She laughs.

  “What is so funny about that? It’s true.” I lean across her to where my messenger bag is resting against the sofa on the floor. Pulling out my iPad, I swipe and touch keys until I reach my e-mail and put it in front of her face. “See! I’ve sent him e-mails and nothing. He doesn’t answer me. It’s pointless.”

  “Katy, Katy, Katy, you have the power right there in your hands to make things happen, and yet you sit here and pretend that you don’t know what to do.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  She points to the iPad. “You’re a writer, figure it out.”

  Then she gets up and goes to her bedroom, leaving me on the couch to figure out what the hell she means. I look at the iPad again and then over my shoulder to where she disappeared . . . I do this a few times until an idea registers in my head.

  I am a writer. And if he won’t answer my e-mail, he’ll answer my letter . . . he’ll have no choice.

  Checking the time, I have just enough of it left to make the deadline for the Sunday morning edition. But first, I have to make a call and hope that I can get someone to do me the hugest favor in the world.

  Florida Observer: Letters to the Editor, Sunday, September 27, 2015

  Dear Mr. Sterling,

  It is with a heavy heart that I put pen to paper and write this letter to you.

  Here it goes . . . I’m in love with my boss who happens to be my best friend.

  But I don’t know what to do because I think I’ve screwed things up between us.

  How can I tell him that I want to be with him every waking moment of the day and then fall asleep in his arms? How can I tell him that if he asks me again not to go in the middle of the night, that I never will? How can I tell him that I want more than friendship?

  Tell me, please, because I can’t lose him.

  Always,

  Your Katy

  P.S. Turn around.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  I sit nervously inside of my car, watching Dylan as he gets ready to read the Sunday newspaper.

  I know his schedule like the back of my hand. And if there is one thing, without fail, that he does like clockwork, it’s come Sunday morning, he’ll buy the newspaper and come to the beach to sit and read it from start to finish.

  So when Mimi called me out, I knew that I had one shot to get the letter printed in the Sunday edition. Luckily, I’m friendly with the person in the office who controls the printings. After a last-minute call to him on Friday night and an endless amount of promises that I would never ever be late on a deadline again, he agreed to run my letter in the “Letters to the Editor” section without Dylan’s final approval.

  Of course he was terrified of the repercussions and made me swear up and down that if the higher-ups or Dylan himself had a problem with any of it, I would take the fall. And at that point, once the letter was printed and out there, there would be no question of the way I feel about Dylan, my boss. So the repercussions for me would be tenfold no matter the outcome. But I decided that he, us, is worth the risk. And I completely realize that the prospect that I may very well be without a job soon is something I should be worried about a lot more than I am. However, the fear of losing the man I love for good is decidedly wor
se. I can always work elsewhere, or do something else in the field that will keep me going until another job materializes. But I couldn’t just sit there and let him slip through my fingers. So I chose to shout my feelings for him from the rooftops. Go big or go home.

  I woke up at the crack of dawn and practically ran out the door to beat Dylan to the beach and get a spot where I could hide.

  And like clockwork, Dylan showed up.

  It’s the first time I’ve seen him since I left his office on Monday morning. And the sight of him makes my pulse race and my heart thump away in my chest as if it had been asleep for the past week. The urge to run over to him is overwhelming. It starts as this tiny fire in my belly, then spreads to my limbs. Then it builds and builds until it’s all consuming and my legs itch to start sprinting. But I can’t. Not yet. Not until he actually wants me to. Because this plan can easily backfire, and not just for us but for my career too.

  I wait and wait, watching as he turns over page after page, folding them over perfectly with deft hands so that the winds won’t keep him from reading. From time to time, he stops and looks out over the water. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, but I’m hoping somewhere in his mind and his heart there is still room for me . . . for us.

  Then, an hour into sitting and pretty much stalking him, he turns around, looking to his left and his right. Which is my cue.

  Gathering all the strength I can, I say a little prayer under my breath, close my eyes, and open my car door. Before I second-guess myself, I start walking. He spots me easily and stands up, brushing the sand off his shorts and then adjusting his glasses.

  Once I reach the edge of where the pavement meets the sand, I take off my flip-flops and hold them in my hand so I can walk the rest of the way to him. It’s a cloudy day and the wind starts to pick up the closer I get to him and the shore. With my heart in my throat, I finally reach him.

  And when I look at him today, now, forever . . . I know that he’s the man of my dreams, my best friend and my soul mate. His eyes look back at me with vague curiosity, like he can’t believe I’m really here standing right in front of him. The smallest hint of relief washes across his features before going right back to the expressionless look that I’ve come to know all too well over the years.