The Seduction of Dylan Acosta

by Nia Forrester

  Mark dropped them off after dinner and declined Dylan’s suggestion that he come up. She frowned at him—he was taking this “out of respect for your mother” thing way too far, to her mind. While her mother waited at the curb, Dylan leaned in to kiss him goodnight and fought the urge to beg him to take her with him.

  On the way up to the apartment, Dylan and her mother did not speak and once in the apartment, there was the predictable bickering over who would take the sofa and who would take the bedroom. Dylan finally won the argument and got some comforters to prepare for the uncomfortable night ahead. If they were any other mother and daughter, it would have gone without saying that they would share the bed; it was certainly big enough.

  When they were both in their nightclothes, Dylan was surprised that her mother came to join her in the living room, sitting next to her on the sofa.

  “He seems like a wonderful man,” she said unprompted.

  “He is,” Dylan said.

  “And I suppose the money doesn’t hurt either.”

  Dylan looked at her. “What does that mean?”

  “You haven’t known each other for very long.”

  “And so you think I’m marrying him for his money?”

  “Are you?”

  Dylan shook her head. “I never realized just how little you thought of me.”

  “I think it’s a fair question. You’ve only known him four months.”

  “And it took less time than that for me to love him, believe it or not.”

  Her mother nodded. “He’s very affectionate with you.”

  “Yes! Something I never knew much about until now, incidentally.”

  At that, her mother’s head bowed almost imperceptibly.

  Dylan touched her hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t say that to be hurtful . . . okay, yes I did. But I’m sorry.”

  “If you love him, then I’m happy for you,” her mother said heaving a deep sigh. Then she looked directly at Dylan and smiled a sad smile. “I was only twenty when I married your father and just a little older than you are now when he died.”

  Dylan sat very still. Her mother never talked about her father.

  “When he died, he was still flawless in my eyes. We still had that perfect love, before harsh reality sets in. And then we had you, and we were the perfect family. And then well, after he died, I guess I just . . . broke.” She looked at Dylan. “And sometimes I wonder whether maybe I broke you too.”

  “No . . .”

  “I do know I would do some things differently if I had the chance.” She stood and touched the top of Dylan’s head. “I’m looking forward to meeting Mark’s family. Goodnight.”

  Dylan watched her mother as she headed for the bedroom. Dylan looked very much like her, except that her mother was leaner and had cut her hair very short and even now, unlike Dylan, she almost never smiled.

  Dylan lay in the dark for several hours, long after the lights under the bedroom door were turned off. She tried to relax but realized that her hands were balled into fists at her sides. There was so much more she wanted to talk with her mother about but knew they likely never would. Having her so close—mere feet between them—yet still so far away was as frustrating and unsettling as it had always been. Their conversation had been barely that. Strangers might have shared more.

  If she had had a different mother she would have told her that though she loved Mark and didn’t care about his money, she wasn’t sure getting married was the right thing. She would have admitted that there was still so much she wanted to do on her own and learn about herself first, but that loving Mark and having him love her back was like a mistake the universe had made, a gift it had given her that was worth far too much, but one that she could not possibly give back. If she had a different mother, she would have told her that even if the timing was wrong, and even if she was terrified and wasn’t sure she knew how to be what he might need, someone like Mark was certain never to happen to her again.

  It was almost one a.m. when Dylan gave up on those pointless thoughts and slid her feet into her sneakers; and without bothering to change, she crept out of the apartment and down to the street where she caught a cab.

  When she let herself into the condo, the only light was from the city skyline outside the wall of windows in the living room. Dylan slid off her shoes and went to the bedroom. She could barely make out Mark’s sleeping form on the bed and felt her way closer, pulling back the covers and getting in next to him. He mumbled something in his sleep and Dylan slid backwards until she was wedged against his side.

  Mark turned and wrapped his arms tight about her waist, pulling toward him and nuzzling her neck, recognizing and drawing her close even in sleep. The feel of him, solid and sure, against her drove all doubt away and made foolish all of those things she thought she would want to tell her mother. Of course she was doing the right thing marrying Mark, of course she was. She would be his wife but she would still be Dylan. A ring and a wedding didn’t change that.

  The weatherman promised sunny and an unseasonably warm seventy-four degrees for their wedding day, but when Dylan awoke that morning it was cold and raining. Ava was next to her on the bed, and sleeping in the other room were Chelsea and Karen, two of her college girlfriends who had flown in to be bridesmaids. She was surprisingly calm, even when she saw the rain. She didn’t think about how her “big day” might be ruined or any of those clichés, she instead watched the raindrops hit the glass and smiled, because by nightfall, she would be Mark’s wife.

  No one had had stronger opinions about the wedding than Mrs. Acosta. She wanted it to be in a Catholic church with Father Arredondo officiating because he’d been Mark’s priest since he was a baby. And the reception had to be somewhere “family-oriented” which meant suitable for the guests to bring their babies and children. And Dylan had to wear a white dress, not an off-white or ecru dress.

  This last request was made while Dylan, Mark and Miri were sitting with her at the kitchen table eating breakfast and at the mention of white dresses Mark had winked at Dylan and taken his plate of food into the living room to watch television with his brothers. Dylan had stifled a smile and looked down into her own food, wondering whether it was possible that Mrs. Acosta had missed the constant sexual tension between them. It was fine to insist on a white dress just so long as she didn’t think it meant anything.

  Since there was so little time to plan, Dylan given in and hired a planner who found a restaurant called Paraíso that could cater all the food, including lots of Dominican favorites and fit all two hundred of their guests. The entire morning, as she was primped and polished by her friends, Dylan was in a happy haze, drinking the mimosas Karen kept making and staring out the window at the rain. By three o’clock, the rain had let up and by four, she and her girls were in the car heading uptown. At five, she was walking toward Mark in the perfect white dress that Mrs. Acosta, Miri and Ava had chosen for her, looking into his eyes and feeling the strength of his love for her. Everything that had come before was wedding jitters she decided. Looking into his eyes, she was surer of him than she had been of anything else in her life up until that moment.

  By five-twenty, she was Mrs. Mark Acosta.

  Paraíso had exactly the rustic and relaxed atmosphere that met all of Mrs. Acosta’s requirements— children ran between the tables as their parents ate dinner and instead of the stuffy speeches at weddings Dylan had been to in the past, the mike was open for anyone who wanted to, to give their best wishes to the bride and groom. Mark’s brothers each gave boozy speeches about how much they loved their brother but how grateful they were that Dylan had taken him off their hands.

  Various childhood friends followed, speaking almost entirely in Spanish, finally prompting Mark to take the mike himself and tell the guests “my wife does not speak Spanish yet, so please speak English so she can understand you.” It was the first time Dylan heard him say the words “my wife.” It had slipped off his tongue so naturally that it made her blush with pleasu
re.

  When all the speeches seemed to be done and the evening wore on, their guests became preoccupied with their dinner and the music so Mark pulled Dylan away and into the coat room where they made out like teenagers, secreting themselves among the crowd of damp coats.

  He didn’t like it. When Dylan opened the door to her suite, Mark literally stopped in his tracks, his mouth partially open as though the greeting he’d intended was stuck in his throat. Dylan put her arms about him and finally he responded, kissing her quickly on the lips and then holding her away from him to look her over. Still he said nothing, finally running his fingers through her newly straightened hair. It now fell well past her shoulder blades in soft, undulating waves with subtle auburn highlights. She had yet to get used to the sight of herself in the mirror having just done it that morning.

  Dylan’s shoulders sagged. “You hate it,” she said.

  That seemed to have an impact and Mark forced a smile. “No, it’s just different.” Then he looked down at the three-hundred dollar Chloe jeans and the Manolo Blahnik lace-up ankle boots Cindy Hernandez had convinced her were sexy. “You look different.”

  Dylan leaned into him. “I thought you’d be surprised. That you’d like it.”

  “I am surprised,” Mark said, shutting the door behind him.

  “But you don’t like it.”

  “It’s just that I missed my girl and then I get here and . . . you’re some other girl.”

  Dylan exhaled.

  “Is it permanent?” he ran his fingers through her hair again.

  “Until it grows out. It’s longer now,” she offered.

  “It was long before, it just wasn’t . . . straight.” He said the word as though it tasted unpleasant on his tongue.

  “I thought you’d like it,” she said again.

  Mark said nothing, just smiled apologetically. For the first time, Dylan looked him over. He looked leaner and stronger from the challenging daily workouts and healthier meals, his hair had grown more. Dylan leaned into him and this time his hug was heartfelt.

  Later, when Dylan was lying next to him, her hair fanned out on the pillow, Mark reached over and stroked it.

  “Now you look like all the rest of them,” he said.

  Dylan sat up, stung. “That wasn’t the point.”

  “It wasn’t?”

  “No. I wanted to look nice. And to have my hair not like a bird’s nest for a change.” “I thought you looked nice before. I liked your hair exactly the way it was.”

  “Okay, can we get past the hair already?” Dylan reached for the shirt Mark had shed earlier and pulled it over her head.

  “What’re you doing? Get back here.”

  “We’re going to dinner with Cindy and Ray Hernandez.”

  Mark groaned. “I’ve spent more than enough time with Ray Hernandez over the last few weeks. And from the looks of that outfit you had on when I got in, you’ve been spending more than enough time with Cindy.”

  Dylan said nothing. He was in a bad mood, and probably for reasons that had nothing to do with the fact that her hair was straightened. Tomorrow he would have his first in a three-game series and the pressure had to be tremendous. She twisted her hair and pulled it up into a loose knot; it would take some getting used to the fact that it was so easily handled. The truth was she wasn’t entirely certain she liked it straight either.

  “So I’ll call Cindy and cancel,” she said finally.

  “Thank you.”

  They were in Montreal, Dylan and Ava having flown in just hours ago. When they’d arrived at JFK early that morning practically the entire flight was occupied with Mets families, flying to Canada for the first preseason game. And surprise, surprise they were all staying at the same hotel, recommended by the front office. Scarcely an hour after check-in, Cindy had called and asked whether she could stop by and within minutes was knocking at the door. She looked down in horror at Dylan’s Adidas tracksuit and tennis shoes, her eyes running over her hair, which was haphazardly pulled back into a French braid.

  I wanted to be comfortable for the plane ride, Dylan explained.

  Okay, that’s fine. But you cannot let Mark see you like that.

  He’s seen me like this before, Dylan pointed out, stepping aside to let Cindy in.

  Yes but he’s been away for weeks. You need to greet him the way he deserves to be greeted. Not looking like you just wandered in from putting out the trash.

  Dylan glanced over to where Ava was in the sitting room, reading the book she’d brought along. She didn’t even seem to register Cindy’s presence, but Dylan knew better. By her stillness, it was clear she was taking in every word.

  I actually know a really good stylist here, Cindy said. She’ll pull you together in no time. And a hair guy who is incredible. When is Mark getting here?

  I don’t know. Later in the afternoon he said.

  Well then we have time. Let’s go. Cindy already had an arm looped through hers and was pulling her toward the door. Then, as an afterthought she looked over her shoulder. Want to come, Eva?

  Ava. And sure, why not? Ava had tossed aside her book and followed them out.

  “Is it okay for you to be here?” Dylan asked Mark now, looking at him still comfortably naked and reclining in bed.

  Cindy had taken the dinner cancelation in stride, leading Dylan to believe that Ray had probably voiced some of the same objections as Mark. And it was fine. She’d only agreed to dinner to thank Cindy for taking her out this afternoon. As it was turning out, perhaps thanking her was not what Dylan should be doing.

  “Where else would I be?”

  “I don’t know,” she shrugged. “With the game tomorrow, I just wondered.”

  “I don’t want to talk about the game. I don’t want to think about the game.”

  Dylan crawled back into bed and sat crosslegged atop the sheets, reaching out to stroke his head. She didn’t actually know what Mark was like during the season, she realized. She didn’t know whether he was even-tempered or tense, whether he was confident or insecure before he played. His baseball career up until now had been nothing more than a big idea, a concept. But now, here it was— he was about to play and seemed like a different person. Even now, as she ran her hand gently over this scalp, he had an intense look on his face almost like a scowl and she had the distinct feeling he wanted to pull away from her.

  “Do you prefer to be alone before a game?” she asked.

  Mark looked at her. “That’s what I used to do,” he admitted. “Go off somewhere to clear my head.”

  Dylan nodded. “It’s okay,” she said. “If that’s what you have to do. I understand.”

  He reached up and gently tugged on a lock of her hair. “You sure you’re okay with that?”

  “Of course. Whatever you have to do to play your best.”

  He put a hand at the back of her neck and pulled her in for a kiss. “Thank you. I know it’s a stupid thing but the only voice I try to have in my head during a game is my own. Y’know?”

  No, she didn’t know. His voice had been in her head for weeks, sometimes even crowding out her own. She imagined what he would say about each and every dollar she spent. So no, she didn’t know. She was looking for a house for them. Without him. And she didn’t know what made sense in terms of price, or how he would want it decorated or any of the stuff regular couples could talk about.

  Last night she‘d barely gotten a wink of sleep anticipating seeing him and hearing his voice while he held her and told her everything was fine and that she was doing a great job holding down the home-front, the best job she could. He would say he loved her, that he missed her and that all these changes in their life left one thing unchanged—the way they felt about each other.

  But instead, just about an hour and a half after he’d gotten there, Mark was dressing to leave. Dylan pursed her lips to prevent herself from begging him not to go. She lifted his shirt over her head and handed it to him so he could put it back on.

  “It
’ll be different afterward,” he promised. “I just have to get through this . . .” He raised the tail of his shirt to his face and inhaled it, smiling. “Smells like you.”

  Dylan returned his smile with a thin one of her own. It felt degrading all of a sudden—to be sitting there naked while he dressed and left her alone in a hotel room. He hadn’t breathed a word about wanting to be alone when he was inside her, she thought resentfully. Then she pushed the thought away. This was Mark; her sweet Mark, who always put her first. This time, for the first time, she would have to let him be selfish.

  Dylan walked him to the door where he kissed her and was gone. She wanted to cry, thinking about the expectations she had built up her in mind about this reunion. Instead he had come and gone like a ghost.

  Ava was still in her own room and sounded surprised to hear from her but came over as soon as Dylan asked.

  “What happened?” she demanded, even before she crossed the threshold.

  “Well,” Dylan handed her a glass of the wine she had just opened. “It seems my husband has an appetite for sex but no actual companionship just before a game.”

  Ava smothered a laugh. “So, what? He just hit it and left?”

  Dylan nodded. “Pretty much.”

  Ava gulped her wine and was about to sit on the rumpled bed before thinking better of it and choosing the sofa. “Well, everyone knows baseball players have all these weird rituals before games. I guess this is his.”

  “Well then the obvious question is: who did he used to have sex with before games?”

  “Hookers?” Ava suggested, and then seeing the look on Dylan’s face, grew serious. “Look, who cares? You’re his wife. Whoever it was clearly did not capture his interest the way you do.”

  “I know that. But to fly all the way here . . .”

  “Oh! What did he say about the makeover?”

  “That’s the other thing. He hated it.”

  Ava raised a hand to her mouth. “Ouch.”