For the Love of Raindrops

by Beth Michele

  “Hey, Dylan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you for… being there for me last night. For always being there for me.” She sighs into the phone almost as if in defeat. “I honestly don’t think I could’ve gotten through the night without you.”

  “Hey. It’s what I do.” She doesn’t say anything for a moment, but I know she’s smiling, and that makes me smile, too.

  “I know.”

  I SHOVE THE cell phone back into my purse and dig around for my keys. By the time I find them, my hands tremble so badly it takes me a few tries to open the door. As soon as I hear the familiar jingle, I close and lock it behind me then slump back against it, my body sliding to the floor. It’s not long before my shoulders are shaking and tears are falling like heavy raindrops down my skin.

  Here in the silence, everything I’ve tucked away comes pouring out, these feelings that have no business taking up room in my heart. Ridiculous, silly thoughts that could ruin everything. And now I’m scared to death of what that means for my life. So, I release this sea of emotion. Because if I don’t, I may end up drowning in it.

  Our lives are made up of moments. Moments that when weaved together tell a story. Most of mine, the ones that matter anyway, have been spent with Dylan. A distorted laugh tiptoes up my throat, taunting me. I could fool myself into believing these are just residual effects of last night, but that would be the biggest lie of all. Something inside me is changing, and has been for quite some time. Only I’ve been doing everything in my power to ignore it. Because ignorance is bliss, right?

  But sometimes, when Dylan looks at me with those big brown eyes, like he did in the rain that night, I see a flicker of something. Like maybe he feels the same way that I do, something more than just friendship.

  And that terrifies the hell out of me.

  The thing is, I’ve grown to need him and come to rely on him. I don’t want to need anyone. Because for me, need and loss go hand-in-hand. I learned that the hard way—when the two people I needed the most were ripped away from me. You grow up pretty fast when you lose your parents at the age of sixteen.

  My belly pulls tight with an incredible longing. I wish my mom were here right now, but I know what she would say if she were. She’d tell me to follow my heart, wherever that might lead. That I have to say what I want, put it out into the world, in order to have any chance of getting it. My father, well, he would give me three of his infamous love taps on the head and say, ‘I want whatever is going to bring that sunshiny smile to your face.’ Their words envelop me in warmth even now. Although, I’d give anything to feel their arms around me again.

  I swipe a hand across my cheek, wiping away the tears, and let my head fall back against the door with a sigh. There are people who say that nineteen is too young to know what you want. But those people would be wrong. I’ve always believed that your heart is the first to know. My brain may be a jumbled mess right now, but my heart is perfectly clear. Another sigh drops from my lips and I laugh out loud, but there’s nothing joyful about it.

  My mind strays to Jamie and guilt swirls in my stomach. He was what you’d call a smokescreen. I feel awful confessing to that, but it’s true. A failed attempt to push away emotion that was trying to break down the door to my heart. Somewhere in my subconscious, where the feelings were buried deep, I always knew that. But I also knew I had to move on. I’m not the least bit surprised that he dumped me. After all, he wasn’t getting what he wanted. I wouldn’t let him touch me and kisses were almost nonexistent. We did have some fun together. Just not the type of fun he was looking for, and he wasn’t man enough to admit it. I guess when it comes down to it, we were both using each other.

  My palms begin to sweat and I drag them down the front of my skirt. Being with Dylan last night pushed me over the edge. Now, all of the feelings I thought I had in check are spilling from every crevice of my body, a bit like a scarecrow whose stuffing keeps falling out.

  Aside from the nightmare, lying next to Dylan, him holding me in the way that only he can, was pure bliss. The last time I lay beside him we were in a tent, and he was just a boy. Things have changed dramatically since then, as evidenced by the way his t-shirt stretches across his taut muscles, and the bulge in his shorts this morning that was impossible to ignore.

  I watched him for a long time as he slept, his lips parted slightly, chest lifting and falling with peaceful breaths. My body curled into his and I closed my eyes, pretending for a short while that he was mine.

  A hand goes to my head, massaging away the impending headache. I’m sane enough to know that is just a pipe dream. And I should never have asked him to promise he wouldn’t leave me. What was I thinking? That’s a promise he could never keep.

  A rap against the glass brings me back to reality.

  “Evie!” I blink a couple of times until I register the voice. Dylan. I mash my lips together to hide a smile as I push my body up off the ground. Of course it’s Dylan.

  I take my time unlocking the door, the butterflies in my belly now awake and doing their morning stretch. Dylan’s hands are on his hips, t-shirt soaked from the rain, hair a tousled mess. Those gold flecks in his deep brown eyes are bright and fiery like the sun. In other words, he looks adorable—and hot.

  The minute the door opens, he throws his arms around me. The scent of rain and soap clings to his skin and I breathe him in. “Jesus, Evie. Are you okay?”

  “Yes, except you’re squeezing the life out of me.” I giggle and he softens the embrace before backing up to meet my eyes.

  “What the hell were you doing on the ground?”

  “Umm… I fell?” I serve up the answer, trying to keep a straight face.

  His brown eyes narrow and that cute little crease appears between his brows. “Bullshit.”

  “Fine,” I huff, walking back to stow my purse behind the counter. “I was… thinking, meditating actually.”

  “Meditating?” He chuckles as he follows behind me. “Evie, I’ve known you your whole life and you’ve never been into meditation.”

  “Well, you know what they say,” I smile and make a popping sound with my lips, “there’s no time like the present.” That’s when I spot something in his hand. “What’s in the bag?”

  “Oh. I brought you some of those mini chocolate doughnuts that you like.” He hands me the bag with a dimpled smile. I wish I could bottle that smile so I could take it with me wherever I go. That way, I’d never have to go a day without seeing it.

  “Thank you! I’m so hungry. I didn’t eat anything after I ran.” I cram a doughnut into my mouth and hold one out to Dylan but he shakes his head. “What are you doing here anyway? I thought you had to be at the diner.”

  He stuffs his hands in his pockets, watching me carefully as I shovel more sugar into my mouth. If he notices I’ve been crying, he doesn’t say anything. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. After last night. You sounded weird on the phone.”

  “I’m fine. Really.” It’s a half-truth, but it’s the only one I can muster right now. I slap my hands together to rid them of the sweet debris, then walk up to him and kiss his cheek, the rough stubble a welcome tickle against my lips. “I’m good. Now go,” I encourage with a smile, giving him a nudge toward the door.

  “All right, all right. I’ll see you tomorrow. Call me if you need me,” he says, as I lift a hand to my forehead in salute. He grins, then the little jingle signals his departure.

  The moment the door closes, I let out the jagged breath I’d been holding. I watch him walk away, someone else’s future, and swallow down the ache that threatens to surface. The fear of love and loss that breathes down my neck. A reminder that it’s time to push the stuffing back in. Because if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that Dylan Reid can never be mine.

  “HELLO?” I HEAR Grandma’s crackling but welcome voice as she walks through the door. “Where are my boys?”

  “One of your boys is in here, Grandma,” I call out from the kitc
hen. She marches in, her bright pink purse and smile preceding her. Her graying hair is piled up into a bun, those familiar black spectacles refusing to hide the gentleness in her hazel eyes.

  Grandma Molly is a pistol. Sharp and quick-witted, yet one of the kindest women you’ll ever meet. Growing up, I often wondered if my mother was adopted. She couldn’t possibly be related to the woman standing before me.

  “I’m a man now, Grandma.”

  “I know you are, dear.” She drops her purse on the chair and comes over to grasp my shoulders, appraising me. “I can’t help it if I still remember you tugging on my pant leg when you were three, looking up at me and waiting for me to lift you into the air. I lived for those days. Now,” she grins, pointing to her cheek, “give your grandma a kiss,” and as I lean in she whispers, “Happy Belated Birthday.”

  Jordan saunters into the kitchen and shakes out his hair, wet from the shower. “Hey, Grandma.” He struts over and gives her a big hug. “I’m glad to see you.”

  “Okay.” She reaches into her bag when Jordan lets her go, removing a tissue and pretending to dab her eyes. “I’m feeling nostalgic. Who wants a piggyback ride?” she offers, and we both howl with laughter.

  Jordan clears his throat, finally regaining his composure. “I’ll take a rain check. I have to get to the diner.” He gives her an apologetic smile but she scowls, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “I just got here and you’re leaving?”

  He opens the fridge and grabs an apple, rubbing it on his shirt. “Duty calls, but I promise I’ll be home tonight and we can catch up.”

  “I’m counting on it.” She shoots him a warm smile and he kisses her cheek. “I’ll see you both later.”

  “Later, dude,” I call back, Grandma’s eyes on me the entire time. “I guess it’s just you and me, Grandma. You hungry?” I open a cabinet and pull out an energy bar, peeling back the wrapper. “We don’t have a whole lot, but I can throw something together.”

  “Don’t tell me that. I don’t want to have to worry that you two aren’t eating well. I’ll hold off on looking in your fridge until later. But if I don’t see anything healthy in there, I’m making a trip to the local market. In fact, I’m going to make sure you’re stocked up before I go back home.”

  “That’s not necessary, Gran.” I toss the wrapper in the garbage and she takes me by the arm, leading me toward the front door.

  “I know it’s not. But that’s the great thing about being a grandma. You can do whatever the hell you want. And right now,” she pats my hand, “I want to catch up with my grandson.”

  We take a seat on the porch swing although I fear our weight might cause it to collapse. The chains that hold it up have seen better days, rusty and weather-worn. When we sit down, the loud creaking noise makes Grandma jump.

  “Oh my, I think this needs a little TLC.” She runs a hand down the chain then wipes the dirt on her pants.

  I shake the chain closest to me and it rattles. “I think it needs a lot more than that, Grandma.”

  “Hmph.” She pauses, her tone thoughtful. “So, tell me dear, how are things?”

  The question sounds innocent enough but considering who’s asking, I know that’s not the case.

  “Things are fine. The diner is fairly busy and we’re working hard. The weather’s been great as always—”

  “Dylan.” She cuts me off with a raise of her hand as she looks up at the peeling paint. “I don’t give a rat’s patootie about the weather. How are you?”

  “Umm,” I scrape my fingers down my jeans, “that’s kind of a loaded question.”

  “Well, then, dear, give me a loaded answer.” She winks, her hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. “And make it good.”

  “Honestly, I’m wiped out, Gran, and I—”

  She interrupts me again, but this time with concerned eyes and a weighted sigh. “I know. I’m worried about you and your brother. You both look exhausted. You’re young. You shouldn’t look like that. You should be out having fun, not working yourselves to the bone. Are you still playing baseball with that group of fellas from the neighborhood? And what about your drawing?”

  I shake my head but keep my focus on the bushes that are in serious need of a trim. “I don’t have time to play baseball anymore, but I’m still drawing when I can fit it in. In fact, I should be at the diner right now.”

  “Dylan.” She waits until I make eye contact before continuing. “What about your dreams?”

  “What dreams?” I know full well what she’s talking about, but I’ve tucked them away in a corner of my brain, so much so that I don’t even know they exist anymore.

  “Well, do you still want to go to art school?” The melancholy smile she gets in response is all the answer she needs. “I thought so. You’re putting everything you have into that diner and that’s not your dream. That was your parents’ dream. You know,” she turns her whole body to face me, and I know I can’t escape this conversation, “when you let go of your dreams, Dylan, you fade away.”

  I shift my head to the side, trying to take a peek inside of her dreams, now. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

  “No, not me.” She hesitates, as if unsure as to whether or not she should reveal what might be coming next.

  “Then who?”

  “Your mother.” I hear what I think is regret in her voice, and I remain quiet, hoping she’ll go on. She circles her finger over a patch of fabric on her knee. “She always wanted to be a dancer. I remember her prancing around the house even at a young age.” A laugh bubbles up in her throat, but there’s a sad quality to it. “I remember her singing and twirling. She was so happy.”

  She doesn’t say anything else for a few minutes and I wonder if this is too difficult for her to talk about, so I don’t press her any further. “She auditioned and got into Julliard in New York.”

  I do a double take. Dancing seems so freeing to me, and my mother was anything but free. “Wow. So what happened?”

  “Life happened, Dylan.” She doesn’t look at me when she says it, and the hardened resolve in her words tells me she’s done talking about this. “Anyway,” she clears the emotion from her throat, her voice becoming softer again, “tell me about Evie.”

  I’m still in shock over this new revelation about my mother. I wonder what else I didn’t know about her. There are more questions I’d like to ask, but obviously, this is a topic for another day.

  “There’s not much to tell, Gran.” I push off the swing and walk to the porch railing, leaning over it and gazing up at the sky.

  “Hmph, I see. So, another dream you’re willing to let wither away.”

  I’ll admit, her words get to me. Even though I know what she’s trying to do, I still play right into her hand. Spinning around, I lift my arms in the air in defeat. “First Braden, and now you.”

  “Braden?”

  “Yes.” My tone reeks of frustration. “He was getting on me about Evie, too.”

  “I always knew he was a smart boy,” her thin lips curl at the corners, “a bit wild for my liking, but definitely smart.” I laugh a little at that, before my hysterics give way to a familiar ache.

  I arch my back against the railing, wrapping my hands around the white spindles. “I don’t know, Gran, she’s….” I look up, trying to pull words from the air, but all I see is color. Yellows and oranges, fiery reds. “She’s light, and beauty… and grace. She’s smart and funny, and I work at a diner and smell like French fries. I don’t have anything to offer her.” I admit my deepest fear as it coils around my chest, strangling me. She makes a tsking sound, haphazardly waving her hand in the air.

  “Nonsense.” Her long finger taps against her cheek, telling me there’s a story coming. “Did I ever tell you how your grandfather and I met?” Without waiting for an answer, she continues as though she can’t wait to share her story. The smile adorning her face indicates it’s probably one she’s told a thousand times, but never tires of talking about it.


  “Well,” she sits forward, folding her hands on her lap, “we were just a year or so younger than you are right now. I had gone out with some friends of mine and he had done the same. One of my friends knew him and she introduced us.

  “Anyway,” she goes on with a twinkle in her eyes, “later on that night they had open mic and he had gotten up to sing. Gosh, he was so charismatic and I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. After he was done singing,” she laughs, and her bright gaze coupled with her smile makes her look twenty years younger, “he slid over to me on his knees and said, ‘I’m going to marry you someday, Molly Baker.’ I didn’t even know the guy so I said, ‘in your dreams,’ to which he replied, ‘you will be, every night from now on.’

  “Long story short, he asked me on a date at the end of the night, and we went out the very next day, and that was it for me.” She lets out a nostalgic laugh, and I smile, thinking about my grandfather. That is totally something he would do. He was crazy in the best way. “He was training to be a carpenter. He owned a crappy car and didn’t have a lot of money, but he had the kindest heart and the best sense of humor. And that, my dear, were the only things that mattered.”

  She moves off the swing and it groans in protest before she steps in front of me, cupping my arm in her palm. I glance up to find gentle eyes surveying me.

  “So, what do you have to offer Evie? You have your heart, Dylan. And that’s more than a girl like Evie could ever want.”

  A lump of emotion eases its way up and I swallow it down. My mother might not have been there for me, but my grandmother always has been. “Thanks, Grandma.”

  “Trust me on this. I’m a woman. Plus, I’ve got a lot of years on you.” Wrinkled fingers reach out to ruffle my hair. “Now, what do you say we go inside and I’ll make you some of my famous lemonade? Knowing Jordan and his lemon-water fetish, you must at least have lemons.”

  “And you would be correct. Let’s plow, Grandma.” I extend my arm and she readily accepts it, offering me a warm smile along the way.