Wrong in All the Right Ways

by Tiffany Brownlee

  “Well, I had some help.” Grinning, he reaches down and pulls a medium-sized velvet box from his bag. “It’s just a little something to say thank you for helping me out this semester. Not once did you let me give up on myself, and for that, I am so thankful.”

  Now, I’m not really a jewelry kind of girl. I mean, I wear earrings and a couple necklaces here and there, but nothing more than that. Nevertheless, a gift is a gift. And what kind of girlfriend would I be if I turned it down?

  I grab the box, and open it to see a small gold necklace with my name on it. “It’s beautiful.”

  “I don’t know where I’d be if you didn’t have my back, Em. Thank you.”

  I lean across and kiss his lips. They are cold, but soft as usual. My mind can only focus on one phrase as his lips seem to devour me. I love you, Dylan. I feel the words crawl up my throat, but I swallow them back down. I don’t want those words to ruin us. Not when everything is so perfect right now. Later, I promise myself.

  As I pull away, I notice that the sun has broken the horizon. “I think we missed it.” I giggle.

  “Don’t worry. We have plenty more sunrises to watch before you leave for college. We’ll get it right one of these days.” He presses his lips to mine again, and this time I can feel him smiling. It must be infectious because before I know it, the corners of my mouth stretch into a crescent-shaped grin, too.

  * * *

  “I think they really liked the one of my mom and me,” Dylan says as he takes a seat on the stool that the museum has given him. The showcase is over, and now he’s finally getting a chance to breathe and take it all in before they announce the winner of the competition. The crowd of extremely well-dressed people has migrated from the showcase hall to the congressional room, leaving Dylan and me all alone now. And judging from the clock on the wall nearby, we should make our way inside soon; the winner is going to be announced in a little less than fifteen minutes. “If I ever become a famous painter, this is what my life is going to consist of. Showcases, I mean. And I could get used to this.”

  “Me too,” my dad says, walking up behind us. “I took a look around at your competition, and there’s no way that scholarship doesn’t belong to you. Your work ran circles around those other kids.”

  “Dad,” I cut in after seeing a look of aggravation appear on Dylan’s face, “can’t we just take this time to be proud of Dylan for getting this far? He’s worked really hard, and you should be proud of him whether he wins or loses.”

  “I am proud,” he says in a steady tone, but I can feel the hurt in his voice. “I just want you to win. That’s what Ellenburgs do. We win.”

  “Well, I’m not an Ellenburg. I’m a McAndrews.” I can’t help but smile as Dylan finally says what he’s been dying to say since he started this feud with my dad. “Stop pushing me to be like you. I’m never going to be like you, and quite frankly, I don’t want to be. I don’t care about the competitions and the stupid first-place trophies, Daniel. Can’t you just accept that?” A chill runs up my spine as I hear Dylan’s words echo through the now-empty hall.

  My dad looks offended, but he doesn’t say anything to refute Dylan’s accusations. Instead, he turns to me and says, “We’ve saved you a seat if you want to join us, Emma,” before shoving his hands into his pockets and walking away.

  “It’s about time,” I say, opening my arms to embrace Dylan once my dad is out of sight. When I wrap my arms around him, his body is throbbing and pulsating, almost as if his heart is going to beat right out of his chest. “Are you okay? Your heart is beating really fast.”

  “I’m fine,” he says, averting his gaze. “Never felt better, actually.”

  When our stares reconnect, a guilty grin emerges on his face, with his dimples following suit. “Dylan, tell me you didn’t do what I think you did.”

  “What?” He shrugs. “I couldn’t take a sleeping pill last night, or I would’ve slept through the sunrise. Actually, I haven’t been able to take them for a week. The nerves have been getting to me.”

  “So, what are you saying?” He rolls his eyes and puts his hands on the top of his head. Uh-oh. The thought of him taking another one of those heinous white pills makes me sick to my stomach. “I thought you flushed the study buddies.”

  “I did, but a while back, I traded some of my pills for more. And I know you’re mad, but without those sleeping pills in my system, I was dying. I had to start back up again.”

  “When?”

  “Does it really matter?” He’s right. It doesn’t matter. What does is the fact that he’s been lying to me.

  I don’t have the words to describe how disappointed and angry I am, but I hope that my pursed lips and balled-up fists are enough to get the point across. He’s a smart guy. I don’t understand why he can’t see how dangerous those things are. Just a year ago, some girl in my history class who used them religiously had to be hauled off campus in an ambulance.

  Before I know it, my feet are carrying me to the entrance of the hall, leaving Dylan standing there in his gray suit and tie all alone. I feel so betrayed that I can’t even focus on the first half of the award ceremony. All I can think about is how upset I am that Dylan took another one of those pills behind my back. He probably wouldn’t have even told me if I hadn’t asked him about it directly, and that’s the worst part.

  From the third row, I try to focus on the woman onstage to ease the fury boiling inside of me. “As a past recipient of this scholarship, I am elated to be a presenter of it today,” the woman says. The persistent thought of Dylan, who’s sitting with the other finalists onstage, tries to plow through my mind, but I don’t let it. “… and I am pleased to announce that this year’s beneficiary of the San Diego County Exceptional Young Artists Award is…” I observe her as she pulls the tab off of a tiny white envelope—like we’re at the Grammys or the Oscars—to reveal the name of the winner. “Dylan McAndrews.”

  The crowd bursts into deafening applause as Dylan stumbles up to the woman to accept his award and the big check for ten thousand dollars, which was raised entirely by the art museum. A wave of jealousy washes over me as he stands before all of the flashing cameras, holding his big check. I was the first-place child in the family; the trophies in the garage—or the ones that used to be in the garage before Dad cleared everything out to put Dylan’s studio there—prove it. The feeling of being replaced hasn’t surfaced for a while, but watching him hold his plaque and check brings all of that back, hitting me like a punch in the stomach.

  I join in on the applause so I don’t seem like a bitter sibling in front of my parents. My mom and Matthew, of course, are clapping their hands off, but when I look over at my dad, he’s rising from his seat, his cell phone wedged between his right ear and his hand. I catch the end of something he says, and I swear I hear the word adoption leave his mouth, but I could be wrong. I look from him to the stage, where Dylan is standing, and it’s almost as if I can see the exhilaration leave his body as his gaze follows my dad out the door.

  My dad returns a few minutes later—just before the woman in red dismisses us—with a goofy grin on his face. I watch as he leans over to whisper something into my mother’s ear, which cues the waterworks. My first thought is that my aunt Gertie—who my mom is sort of close to, but my dad hates—has died, which would explain his grin and her tears.

  But that’s not what he whispers into my ear when he leans in. Instead he says, “That was Ezra. Dylan’s dad signed the paper, and his case is making its way through the system. We can adopt Dylan as soon as they give us the okay to do so.” I feel myself smile from the inside out, knowing that as soon as he becomes an honorary Ellenburg, we can drop the charades and be open about our relationship. I mean, what are my parents going to do? Unadopt him? They can’t do that … can they? I’ll have to do more research before we make any moves.

  As my father’s words bounce around in my mind, I forget to be angry about the pills, and focus on us and the future of our relationship. I
imagine Dylan and me strolling along in the park, holding hands and kissing openly, simply because we can. Simply because it’s in our unwritten rights as an official couple. We won’t have to hide anymore; we could do anything that any other couple can do. Finally.

  Amid the hundreds of people packed inside the hall, my family and I make our way to the side door, where we parked in order to evade the heavy foot traffic at the main entrance. When we arrive, a seemingly hotheaded Dylan is already there, leaning up against the driver’s door of our SUV, clenching and unclenching his teeth, with his arms crossed in front of his chest. From his body language alone, I know another argument is coming, but I can only hope that we can get the good news out before the fallout begins.

  “Great news, Dylan. I just got off the phone with Ezra, and he said—”

  “I did this for you, you know?” Dylan says, cutting my dad off in the middle of his sentence. “Do you have any idea how many hours of painting I put into this show? Thinking up ideas, mixing the colors, painting and repainting canvases, washing brushes?”

  “Hmm,” my dad says, slightly shaking his head in bewilderment. “I was not aware. But, like I was saying—”

  “I stayed up late, spent my lunchtime in the art room, and called in sick at work sometimes just to push out paintings worthy of winning this stupid competition that I didn’t even want to be a part of in the first place.”

  “I’m not sure what’s wrong, son.”

  “‘Son’?” Wrong word. “You are not my father. The last person to call me that nearly wiped me clean off the face of the earth. But you should be well versed on the story. I don’t have to go into details, do I?”

  Pulling the keys from his pocket, my dad shifts from one foot to the other. He’s not used to anyone—adult or child—talking to him like this. “We’ll talk when you’re less worked up. At home. Lauren, get Matthew in the car.”

  My mom immediately jumps on his command while I just stand there, looking from Dylan to my family members and tugging down on my Emma necklace. I’m not sure which car I’m supposed to ride in: should I be a good daughter and ride with my parents, or should I be a good girlfriend and ride with Dylan? I hate that I have to choose between him and my family.

  “Coming, Emma?” Dylan asks, stuffing the plaque and check into the trunk of his car. Good girlfriend, I decide. I don’t want him driving by himself, anyway. He’s sleep deprived, thanks to those pills, and nobody in that state should drive alone. Or drive at all, really, but he’s not going to let me behind the wheel of his car.

  You’d think I’d be used to riding in silence with Dylan, but the quiet picks away at me until I have to say something to fill the gap. “I know I’m the last person anyone would ever think to defend him, but when he took that call in the middle of the awards ceremony … that was for you.”

  His silence begins to slice into me again, and so I continue speaking in an effort to get it to stop. “It was Ezra. Apparently, the parental rights termination papers are being processed by the fostering agency, and it won’t be much longer until we can adopt you. Isn’t that great?”

  I hear the plaque slide around in his truck as we pull into the driveway. My parents must have taken the scenic route, because they’re not home yet when we arrive. He turns the car off, indicating that I should get out, but I remain in my seat. We’re going to discuss this now; not later.

  “Dylan? Did you hear what I just said?”

  “I heard you.”

  “Well, aren’t you happy that you’ll officially be part of the family? I mean, that’s what you wanted, right? That’s what we wanted.”

  “I don’t want to have anything to do with that man.” He reinserts his key into the ignition, but doesn’t turn it. “I’m not sure I want him as my adoptive dad.”

  I search for the light in his eyes, but he won’t look in my direction. “Well, I mean, he comes with the territory. He’s my dad.”

  “Look, Emma,” he says, finally facing me. The thin, red lines in his eyes tell me that he’s functioning on even less sleep than I thought. “I don’t want to fight with you. I’d rather talk about this in the morning, if you don’t mind.”

  “Actually, I do mind. Why are you acting this way? I’ve done nothing but support you and be there for you, and…” I trail off as I see him yawn, pull a transparent orange bottle from his glove compartment, and place a single white pill—I’m not sure if it’s a study buddy or a sleeping pill—between his lips. “Are you serious right now?”

  “I can’t do this, Emma. Get out of my car.” I hear the click of the car door unlock as his pointer finger presses a button on the side of his door. My parents bought this car. It’s not yours, I want to say, but there are more important things for me to fight against right now.

  “No! I’m not gonna let you drive like this. You could get in an accident and hurt someone or, even worse, severely injure yourself. I’m not going anywhere.” Not listening, he leans over to put the bottle of pills back into his glove compartment. I reach for the container, and after wrestling for a little, pull it from his fingers.

  “Fine. Keep it. I can always get more. Easy.”

  I want to cry, but I refuse to let the tears fall. “Dylan, why are you being like this to—”

  Before I can get my last word out, Dylan is unbuckling my seat belt for me and reaching across to open my door. I expect him to push me out, but he doesn’t. He knows better than to lay a finger on me. Instead he leans in so that his face is only two inches away from mine; he’s so close that I can smell the cologne on his neck. “Get out. Leave. Me. Alone.”

  My bottom lip trembles when I hear the last three words come out of his mouth, our safe words. I have to respect his words and do as he requests. Even if he’s taking away my option to fight for him … and for us.

  I take one last look into his eyes, willing him to hear my silent thoughts, just for this one moment. I love you, Dylan. Please, don’t make me go.

  But he doesn’t tell me to stay; everything, from the tight scowl stretched across his face to the deep wrinkles in his brows, indicates that he really does want me to leave him alone. And so I do. His bright red brake lights are the last I see of him before I start across the grassy backyard to the pool house.

  chapter 21

  WHEN I GET to the front door of the pool house, I try to call his phone four times—even though he just left me a little over a minute ago—but I’m sent straight to voice mail each time. So either he has blocked me, or he’s turned his phone off altogether. With my stomach churning, I shake off the rejection and pull out my key to unlock the door. I’ll just have to wait for him to come around on his own.

  The first thing I do is pull the bottle of pills from my pocket and head into the bathroom to flush them. In my frenzy, I have to fight a little more than normal to remove the cap, but it finally pops off and the contents tumble into the toilet bowl. As they sink to the bottom of the basin, I realize that it’s not just one set of pills but rather a mix of different-sized white pills. The tiny study buddy ones and the thick Ambiens. My stomach flip-flops like I’m on a roller coaster. This can’t be good.

  I take a shower and shortly after, I doze off. It isn’t until I hear the alarm on my phone sound—the one we set for our stargazing date—that I realize I’ve fallen asleep. My eyes snap open with only one thing on my mind: Dylan. Pulling on some thick pajamas pants and wrapping my robe around my body, I step out onto the lawn. I know our last conversation wasn’t the best that we’ve had, but I still expect Dylan to show up tonight. He’s not the one who holds grudges; I am.

  After several minutes of sitting in the dark, I open my phone to call him again. When I scroll to his name, I see that I’ve missed a call from him. It was about an hour ago, and because he never goes to sleep early, I expect him to answer when I call back. Straight to voice mail again. With the wind blowing strongly in anticipation of the upcoming—and very rare—storm, I have to slip inside the glass doors of the main house to keep f
rom flying away. I guess I’ll go check for him in his room, I think as I make my way to the staircase. His room is dark when I enter it. Maybe the study buddies have worn off, and he’s finally getting some sleep.

  “Dylan?” No answer. I don’t want to flip on his light—in case he’s asleep—so I have to feel my way to his bed. I pat all around the dark comforter, searching for his body, but he’s not there. When I flip the light on, I find that his bed is still made. My blood chills and I race to the window to check the driveway. The black Camaro that is usually parked below his window is missing. He isn’t home yet?

  I’m making my way back to my room to try his cell again when I get the feeling that I should check our safe haven just in case. The light is on in his art studio, so I let myself in, as usual. I don’t know why this wasn’t the first place I checked, but that doesn’t matter now. The wind is so strong outside that it takes all of my strength to close the door against it. When I finally turn around, the warmth of his studio melts away.

  His studio is the same as we had left it. His paintings are still arranged in the circle around his easels, just like they were when we were picking the best ones to take to the showcase. Everything is right here, where it should be. Everything, that is, except him. As I inhale the scent of paint in the room, my heart sinks a little lower. He’s not here.

  Upon leaving the studio, I hear my father’s voice boom as he makes his way across the lawn. “Emma,” he says in a firm voice, “stay here with Mom and Matthew. I’ve got to go. There’s been…” I don’t need him to finish the sentence; I can do it myself. There’s been an accident. Dylan.

  I must be in total and complete shock—though I shouldn’t be; something inside me saw this coming a couple hours ago when I watched him place that pill on his tongue—because when my dad says that Dylan crashed his car, it’s as if my brain turns off all voluntary actions in my body. I can’t move my lips to speak, I can’t move my legs to walk, and I’m pretty sure that if my beating heart were under my control, that would have stopped, too.