And so now Miri was carrying the load trying not to make the trip completely unbearable by yammering away about everything under the sun. Dylan had a feeling that Miri had no more an intention of considering a college outside of New York than she had to fly to the moon. She simply wanted this time alone with both of them.
After dinner on Sunday, Mark had shown no inclination to leave for home so Dylan had—without comment—stayed at the Acostas as well. But while she slept in Mark’s old bedroom, he had taken the sofa downstairs in the living room. Rather than try to talk him out of it, she just pretended it wasn’t happening. A call to Ava had helped steel her spine.
He’s pissed at you, Ava said. So leave him be. Let him get through that. All you have to do is wait, and be there on the other side.
And it made sense. There was no reason to be apprehensive. After all, Mark was her husband, and she had no intention of leaving him. So patience was the key. If only it didn’t cause this god-awful ache in her chest when he looked right through her as though she wasn’t there, or carried on laughing conversations with his siblings that pointedly excluded her.
For three days that had gone on, and Dylan found other ways to keep herself busy. She went with Mrs. Acosta up to the Grand Concourse to do grocery shopping, picking up jeans, underwear and a couple of shirts for herself so she wouldn’t have to go all the way home. She learned how to make pollo guisado, planning for a time when she would cook it for Mark. And she helped her father-in-law prune his tomato plants in the backyard. On Tuesday she had the inevitable call with her mother, explaining that it was all a misunderstanding, and that it would be sorted out, hoping she sounded more convinced than she felt.
Mark, for his part seemed to have decided to veg out for the time being. He stayed in the basement apartment where Peter and Xiomara lived throughout most of the day and only occasionally left the house with Wilfredo, his former coach. Sometimes he talked on the phone with Corey, hushed conversations about what Dylan did not know. But no matter what, he avoided being where she was unless it was impossible, like during mealtimes. Still, sometimes, when she pretended not to be aware of him, Dylan caught him looking at her, though she could not read his expression.
Living in such close quarters with his large family wasn’t easy. Almost from dawn, there was noise and activity resounding throughout the house, and seldom was there a quiet place or a moment when Dylan was alone with her thoughts. She wondered whether Mark was doing it on purpose, staying here until she couldn’t stand it anymore and would have to leave, preferably without him. Well, if he thought that’s what she would do, he was going to be sorely disappointed. She was in it for the long haul, no matter how long that turned out to be.
“Could we stop in Philadelphia?” Miri asked now. “I want to go to the Museum of Art.”
“We’ll lose too much time if we stop at a museum, Miri,” Mark said.
“Well what’s the rush? We could spend the night there and hit the road again in the morning.”
Dylan waited for Mark’s response. She knew what Miri was up to and she appreciated it, though it was unlikely to work. A night in Philadelphia would amount to nothing more than yet another setting in which Mark would ignore her completely.
“I think it’s best if we just drive straight through, Miri,” she said, her voice tired.
At that Mark looked over his shoulder at her and Dylan met his gaze, trying to give away nothing with her expression. If he wanted to be silent, she could be silent. She let her head fall back against the seat and shut her eyes.
When she opened them again, it was dark and they were pulling up in front of a small, quaint, inn-style hotel. Miri turned to look at her, yawning as the car came to a halt. Without a word, Mark got out and went inside.
“We’re here,” Miri said over her yawn. “It looks like a pretty town.”
Dylan was too tired to care. Her exhaustion wasn’t just physical, it was emotional as well. It was draining, trying to maintain her distance with Mark only feet away, and she was beginning to doubt she had the wherewithal to keep it up. Maybe, she wondered in defeat, it would be better for them to be apart for a little while? Moments later, Mark was back with keys, and was relinquishing the car keys to a valet while Dylan and Miri grabbed their bags.
“The hotel restaurant is about to close,” he said as they walked through the lobby. “If we want to get some dinner, we should probably go now.”
“You two go,” Dylan said. “I think I’ll just go up to the room.”
“You don’t want to eat?” Miri asked, looking concerned.
“No. Maybe I’ll get something light from room service,” she said, and when Miri hesitated, she attempted a smile. “Really. I’m fine. I just need one of the keys.”
She held out a hand to Mark, not looking at him and he dropped a key in it.
Upstairs in the room, which was cute, quaint and decorated in Laura Ashley florals, Dylan undressed and filled the tub with warm water. When she stepped into it, she felt the tension begin to melt away. Strangely, being away from Mark right now felt better than being with him. The silence between them was oppressive. If she was going to wait him out, she would need many more moments like this—hot baths and quiet time to rejuvenate and steel her spine—because he definitely seemed determined to put her through the wringer.
Not that she expected to see him again until tomorrow. If she guessed right, he would probably take one room for himself and send Miri to spend the night in this one. And right now, that was perfectly fine with her. She couldn’t imagine how she would get a good night’s sleep if he was sleeping on the other bed, just a couple feet away and she couldn’t touch him, or even speak to him for fear of being rejected.
Dylan closed her eyes and sighed, letting her head fall back. Her hair came loose from the sloppy knot she’d made to keep it out of the water but she didn’t care. She was just so tired.
She opened her eyes again at the sound of the water running out of the tub, and the chill as it descended. What remained of her bath had gone tepid. Now it was being let out and she had no idea how until she heard movement in the darkened bedroom. Miri was back from dinner and had probably found herself asleep in the almost-cold water.
“Thanks,” she called. “I guess I was more tired than I thought.”
Dylan stepped out of the tub and grabbed one of the fluffy hotel towels, wringing her hair out over the sink and letting it fall. Right now she couldn’t care less what it might look like in the morning; all she wanted was a warm bed. But when she walked out into the bedroom, the sight of Mark, sprawled across one of the beds, wearing only his boxer briefs was enough to bring her to instant wakefulness.
She missed a step but quickly recovered and casually headed for her overnight bag. Happy as she was that he hadn’t shunned the idea of sleeping in the same room, Dylan still didn’t feel particularly like begging him to talk to her, so she decided not to. She would change for bed and get a good night’s sleep because in the morning, Miri was going to wear them out with the campus tour and her generally indefatigable nature.
“I got you something to eat,” Mark said, the unexpected sound of his voice causing her to startle.
“Oh.” Dylan looked up and he indicated a white Styrofoam container on the table in the sitting area. “Thanks.”
She went over to investigate and found that he’d gotten her a burger. And with it, sweet potato fries, her favorite comfort food. In spite of herself, Dylan smiled. Mark had a way of doing things like this, reminding her that he paid attention to everything about her. Every once in awhile when she worried that they hardly knew each other, he would do something like this, reminding her that they were not total strangers after all.
Without bothering to change into her nightclothes, she sat at the table in her towel and began eating enthusiastically. As she ate, Mark got up and she was so into the delicious burger—which was thankfully still hot—that she didn’t pay attention to what he was doing until he placed a glas
s in front of her filled with ice, and next to it a Coke.
Before he could move away, she put a hand over his and he paused, letting it stay there for a moment. It was his right hand, the one that was bruised from his fight with Ray. Dylan lightly caressed the bruises and scratches on his knuckles until Mark pulled away and went back to his place on the bed, reaching for the remote and turning on the television.
Dylan finished her dinner and feeling her hunger comfortably satiated, went to brush her teeth, taking longer than necessary at the task, wondering whether she was brave enough to just go back out there and join Mark in his bed, or whether she should spare herself the rejection and take the other one. Then Mark was behind her, and reaching over her shoulder to grab the toothpaste, brushing his teeth as well, and she was painfully aware of him, and of wanting him to touch her.
Having him that close, his arm brushing her shoulder as he reached over her, seeing him reflected in the mirror, his chest bare, was enough to make her hold her breath. How could she even have considered Ray Hernandez attractive? Mark was what she wanted; and she had him, so why had she been so foolish to risk him for the fleeting thrill of another man’s admiration?
When he was done and wanted to rinse, Mark rested a hand briefly on her shoulder so he could lean over the sink and finish up, then he returned to the bedroom. It was only once he was gone that she released the breath she had apparently been holding.
“Dylan.”
The sound of his voice saying her name—and the way he said it—ignited a reaction like someone taking a match to gasoline.
“Dylan. Come here.”
If she was feeling a little surer of herself and of them she would have dropped the towel and gone to him naked. But she instead tightened the towel and went out to the bedroom. As she approached, he sat on the edge of the bed, his legs apart. Dylan went to stand between them. Mark pulled her to him, pressing his face against her chest. The room was dark, except for the flickering of the television. While she’d been finishing up in the bathroom, he’d turned out all the lights. Usually, he wanted the lights on when they made love. He liked looking at her, and having her look at him. Dylan hoped his choosing darkness tonight meant nothing, but it pained her to consider that he might want her, but not want to look at her.
She stood still, afraid to move in case he snapped out of his unexpected need to hold her, and pushed her away again. She hesitated even to put her hands up to hold him back and break the spell. This was the first moment in days that she hadn’t been just barely managing her fear that Mark might be thinking about leaving her.
Taking a deep breath, she raised her hands and loosened the towel just enough so that if Mark wanted it off, all he would have to do was move his head and it would fall. Dylan waited for it; hoping he would. He did nothing for what seemed a long time, and just as she was beginning to tremble from anticipation he lifted his head and pulled the towel aside, letting it drop to the floor.
Softly releasing a breath, Dylan looked down at him. She could just make out his face as the light from the television screen flickered across it.
“Before, I only had to hate the idea of him touching you,” Mark said, his voice hoarse. “Now I have pictures of him doing it. And of you looking at him like . . .”
Somehow, put like that, it hit her in a way it hadn’t before. If those pictures had been of Mark and Patricia, and Mark was looking at Patricia the way she’d been looking at Ray, she wasn’t sure she would have been quite as understanding as he was being. The word ‘hysterical’ sprang to mind to describe her likely response. And there was very little Mark would have been able to say to convince her that he didn’t want a woman if he’d been looking at her in that manner. She would almost certainly have had to get away from him, at least for awhile.
“Tell me what you want me to do,” she said
Mark pulled back and looked up at her. “Just . . . come back to me,” he said after a moment.
What did that mean? She was here. She wasn’t going anywhere and she never would. But she was distracted because Mark had pulled her down to the bed and covered her body with his and she was so relieved that he still wanted her she could think of nothing else but showing him just how much she still wanted him.
17
Dylan increased her pace as they approached the hill and tried to concentrate on where she placed her feet. Trail running in Westchester was not like trail running in Central Park that was for sure. She only did it because of Mark. Now that he was home, he awoke with the sun and left for a run every single morning before lifting weights for another hour in their home gym, and finally eating a breakfast of six egg whites and a glass of orange juice around nine. Dylan joined him for the run but most often, they parted once again when he went to the gym while she made breakfast.
Since their visit to Charlottesville with Miri, they hadn’t had any problems in the sex department, but other than that, he remained quiet and withdrawn around her most of the time. It was confusing to have been kissed, held and practically devoured under the cover of darkness and in their bed, and then awaken to a silent and uncommunicative man. Honestly it might have been better when was he was ignoring her.
Running with him at dawn, sometimes working out afterward and eating breakfast was about as far as he would let her in.
Apart from the sex, of course.
They never talked as they ran, the trail was too challenging for that, and Mark remained focused on keeping in shape. He’d only missed four games of his suspension period, but with each one his mood worsened. Craig King was playing well and redeeming himself, so now Mark might be the one sitting in the dug-out, even when the suspension was over with. And there were other reasons for his mood as well.
While they were in Charlottesville, Dylan had hoped everything would die down but it hadn’t. In fact, more pictures had surfaced, this time of Dylan and Ray talking in a nightclub, Ray leaning in to say something to her. She was listening keenly, seemingly engrossed in their conversation.
There was nothing intimate about the picture on the surface of it, but taken with the others, it seemed to tell a story of her spending considerably more time with Ray than she’d admitted to. And looking at that shot in isolation, it didn’t matter that Cindy was there as well, conveniently edited out of the frame. When Ava emailed her the link to the new nightclub photos, Dylan locked herself in the bathroom for a private panic attack then emerged to break the news to her husband and sister-in-law.
Mark borrowed Miri’s iPad and looked at the pictures online and Dylan had the distinct impression that he wanted to smash the thing against the wall. But instead he hadn’t uttered a word, tossed the tablet onto the bed and gone out walking on his own. He was gone for about an hour and when he returned had put her back in the deep freeze once again.
It might be better if you tell him everything at once, Miri had suggested gently. I don’t think it helps when there’s little pieces trickling out every day.
I have told him everything, Dylan said, hurt by the implication. But now they’re using perfectly innocent pictures and taking them out of context.
The preferred context—and the story that the New York dailies were now selling—was that Ray and Dylan had been having an affair ever since they met, and had been taking advantage of Ray’s injury to spend time together.
But what was interesting was that in the midst of all the inaccuracies, they had one key fact absolutely correct—Ray and Dylan had met for the first time at Pedro Lima’s house. Ava was right; someone was definitely talking to the press, and possibly even outright fabricating things.
The trail they were taking this morning was on the eastern perimeter of their property. They would follow the edge of the woods that bordered it and run south, looping around until the house came into view once again. This far back, the land hadn’t been completely cleared, so they may as well have been somewhere in the wilderness. Dylan could feel herself beginning to grow tired, her lungs burning as she struggled t
o keep up the pace. Behind her, she could hear the sound of Mark’s even breathing, his sneakers making contact with the brush and earth in an even rhythm.
Lately, he had taken to getting out of bed after they’d made love, going elsewhere in the house, spending time alone instead of holding her the way he used to. One night she’d followed him, creeping downstairs and going to his den where she heard the television. He was watching the baseball game, leaning forward, all his attention focused on what was happening on the field.
As she stood there, he twitched and reacted as each player swung the bat, slid into base or jumped to make a catch. A wave of guilt overcame her and without thinking, she sighed. Mark stiffened almost imperceptibly and she knew that she’d been detected; but he didn’t turn to look at her so she’d quietly gone back upstairs and climbed alone back into their bed.
Dylan closed her eyes against the memory and that one moment of inattention was enough to cause her to miss a step. Before she knew it, she was rolling down a small embankment, her bare legs scraping against twigs and rocks as she went. When she finally came to a stop, she was on her back and felt a burning, throbbing pain in her right knee followed by the sensation of a warm liquid running down the side of her leg.
“Fuck! Dylan!” Mark was next to her in an instant.
He looked down at her leg and she followed his stare. She had a pretty nasty gash on her shin that was already bleeding pretty profusely, and her knee was skinned. Brushing leaves and tiny pebbles off her shirt she blinked.
“That’s going to leave a mark,” she joked.
“It’s not funny!” Mark snapped. “You could have . . .” He reached under her thighs and put one arm at her back, effortlessly lifting her.
The Seduction of Dylan Acosta Page 27
