by S. A. Wolfe
“What? A nice guy who is helpful and asks me out?” I try to laugh, but tears pool at the corners of my eyes. I’m thankful it’s getting dark because, I assume, Carson can’t see them. He is relentless, however, and steps closer to me again, closing in on my safe distance. Carson rakes his hand through his hair, trying to think of a good explanation to give me.
“Dylan is a nice guy. You know I love my brother,” he stammers.
“That wasn’t love. He was angry at you about something and you kept pushing him. It was almost sadistic.” He takes my hand and I jerk it away. “Don’t touch me.”
“Dylan has some serious problems and you needed to see that,” he says.
“See what? Where is he? Did you—”
“I didn’t hurt him, Jess. We always yell a bit, but I let him go and he left.”
“Left where? He went home?”
“I don’t know, Jess. This is what he does. He gets angry, falls apart and leaves. Sometimes he’s gone for a while.”
“What do you mean ‘we always yell a bit’? Do you two fight like this a lot? Is this a regular thing; you being so violent?”
“I’m not a violent person,” he says.
“You threw your two hundred pound brother to the floor like it was nothing. Then you pinned him like a wild hog.”
“Dylan has always had these episodes and I’m the only one who can subdue him. I can only hope that it doesn’t get him into an impossible situation someday. I worry about a fight with a stranger, police, jail time or worse, someone uses a gun against him.”
Carson is talking about someone else. It can’t be the same guy I have a mild crush on; the guy who is playful and sweet, the one I fooled around with and snuggled with all night on my couch. Carson started the fight. He’s the bad guy in this.
“You can’t tell me that Dylan is the violent one,” I say, but then I think of Dylan’s red, tense face with a protruding vein at his temple as he charged Carson. Dylan threw his body into Carson with the intent of hurting him. The revelation must have been written on my face. I look up into Carson’s worried expression, my mouth gaping.
“Dylan suffers from severe depression,” Carson says slowly.
“Millions of people do. That doesn’t make them violent.”
“Dylan is different. This started after our mom died. It started happening about a year after you were here. He sunk into a very deep despair over our mother’s death. His depressive mood swings increased with our dad’s drinking and absences.”
“Okay, so Dylan suffers from depression. Half the world does and they can get help.”
“He’s gotten help. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. He had some bad episodes in college and I’d go help him. He’s been seeing doctors since he was in high school. He was doing pretty well on medication, but the spark kind of went out of him. I had to make sure he took his medicine. Whenever he felt good, he’d take himself off his meds and then he’d have an episode like what you saw tonight; where he can’t control his anger and he goes into a rage. He’s been in a few fights with guys, but mostly he storms out and disappears.”
“Where does he go? Where is he now?”
Carson shakes his head. “Now that he’s an adult, it’s not like I can barricade him in the house. He takes off in his car, sometimes for days.”
I turn away because the thought of crying in front of Carson is intolerable. My back is to him as he puts his hands gently on my shoulders.
“I was afraid he wouldn’t tell you and that worried me because I could see you two becoming more involved. He’s a very fragile person, Jess.”
“That’s why you said you didn’t want him to get hurt. You meant with me. He could fall into a depression again.”
“I’m sorry if I was a jerk about it, but Dylan was never serious about any woman until you came along. I can’t let people keep leaving him, he can’t handle it.” Carson’s voice is kind.
“And you think I’d leave him because you think the odds are against me staying here.”
Carson turns me around. “I know he thinks he’s in love with you, but so am–I can’t let him get hurt,” he says more forcefully.
“Okay, I get it. I think.” I push him aside and walk back the way I came.
“Jess, wait,” Carson shouts to my back, but I keep going.
Sixteen
Dylan returns three days later. I have no idea where he went and I don’t ask. I refuse his calls. I even leave Carson a message on his cell phone to hold up on the kitchen repairs and appliances so I can work in peace.
It’s now been two weeks and I’ve done nothing other than work in the library every morning, taking calls from my team at 5 Alpha and focusing on current as well as new software programs. Every afternoon I take a walk to Barron’s Creek and beyond. Bert won’t go with me, so I hike for a couple of hours every day by myself, going further into the woods and climbing the nearby hills. Then, every evening, I eat an apple and some ramen soup I picked up in bulk at Target, and I paint in the studio until it’s time to sleep.
Imogene and Lauren come over every other day when their diner shifts permit and we watch movies on my computer and gab about everything except Carson and Dylan. Lois and Eleanor come by several times to help me clean out Aunt Ginnie’s closets. I keep the good jewelry and some vintage clothing, but I donate a lot of other items.
After we finish up, they like to have cold beverages and sit on the porch while our pores steam open in the humidity, but I don’t mind. They are good company, telling me everything about Hera; the local gossip, Aunt Ginnie’s life and their funny stories from their yoga classes. Apparently, I’m a big part of the local gossip, however, Lois and Eleanor gloss over that part, especially since I have a sign posted on the front door, “No Blackards Allowed.” Yes, it’s juvenile, but effective. If the sign wasn’t there, Carson and Dylan would let themselves in my home whenever they please, using a repair job or something else as an excuse to work in the house.
Carson has only called once and left an apology on my cell phone. I saved the message so I can listen to his nice voice whenever I want. Dylan calls and periodically leaves notes or flowers by the front door. He’s sweet and I want to see him. I want to see them both, but I don’t know what I should be doing.
One day, Carson shows up with the two bearded fellows from the shop and they clean the dead tree and branches from the yard. I watch them from the library window, sawing the tree into smaller pieces and then loading the debris onto two separate trucks. Carson glances up at both of the windows where he knows I spend most of my time, the library and the studio. I keep my head buried between the monitors so he can’t see me, but it soothes me, nonetheless, to have him near me.
“Sweet mustard seeds,” Lois says one afternoon as we lounge on the porch. “How long can this go on? You can’t avoid those two boys forever.”
“I bet I could make it last forever,” I say. “I have incredible endurance. You should see me reading through hours and hours of code. I’m like a stone statue. I could do it forever.”
“Why would you want to?” Eleanor asks. “Honey, life is too short to carry the hatchet around all day.” I look at her funny. “I meant to say ‘life is too short not to bury the hatchet,’” she explains.
“They really are fine young men. You need to work this out,” Lois says.
“It’s easier to avoid them. I don’t want to be tangled up in their messes.”
“Jessica, life is messy. People are messy. They make messy mistakes and guess what, you cannot live happily without people,” Eleanor says.
“I have people. I have you two, I have Lauren and Imogene, and Archie has been a big help with the accounting and taxes, and I have my friends at 5 Alpha. I have people in my life.”
“Oh, sweet butter biscuits; I know you have friends, but you need love,” Lois says.
“Please, I dated Dylan for five minutes. It wasn’t love. It was just a little crush and now it’s gone.” Both women look at me in
an odd way, bunching up their wrinkled faces. “It’s true. Dylan has issues and he kept a big secret from me. I’m doing him a favor and it really was at the request of Carson. I’m doing what Carson wanted all along. He didn’t think Dylan could handle dating me. Me, of all people. Apparently, I’m dangerous.”
Lois and Eleanor share a moment, a knowing look with one another. I pretend not to care and sip my iced tea.
“So, everyone knows I’m going to have my party,” Lois says. “Tomorrow night. And all my friends are invited. That includes you, Jess. I never got your RSVP.
“Sorry about that. Are Carson and Dylan going to be there?”
“Of course. You can’t have a party without the handsome Blackard crew,” Lois says.
“You’ll have to figure out how to get along with them, live in peace and all that jazz,” Eleanor says.
“And if you don’t come to my party, I will be offended,” Lois adds.
“Nice,” I reply.
“Ginnie wants you to come to my party.” Lois gives me a scolding look.
“Oh really, now you talk to the dead?” I raise my eyebrows at Lois.
“She also thinks it would be very nice if you brought a homemade key lime pie,” Lois tells me.
“I don’t bake.”
“Gin’s secret recipe is in the recipe box on the counter. It’s not so secret,” Lois says.
Eleanor chuckles.
“I can’t follow recipes, really, I’m awful at it.”
“Then I suppose you’ll have to call Dylan. He’s an excellent cook and baker,” Lois says. “Or Carson. He’d be willing to help you.”
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen.”
Lois looks deadly serious at me. “It was Gin’s last wish!”
Eleanor bursts out laughing.
Seventeen
After ignoring him for two weeks, I miss Dylan, or maybe I miss the opportunity I could have with Dylan. Now that I know his big not-so-secret secret, I’m less scared. I’ve spent enough time daydreaming over my computer monitors, thinking about Dylan, his brother bullying him and his sweet disposition. I can envision myself being with Dylan despite his issues. We all have issues and maybe I could be the one to help him. Perhaps my presence will be a good thing for Dylan and I could fall in love with him.
He has left flowers at my door step almost every other day and countless messages on my phone, however, now I can’t locate him. I give in and call Carson to explain about Lois’s invite and the pie request as well as the fact that I need to patch things up with Dylan, at least to the extent that we’re on speaking terms.
Carson arrives at my front door within the hour. He has bags of baking supplies, fresh limes and whatever else I rattled off from the recipe card.
“You ready to do this?” Carson holds up the “No Blackards Allowed” paper he yanked down from my front door and then crumples it in his fist. I can tell he showered before coming over. His hair is damp and pushed back as if he keeps running his hands through the wet locks. He’s wearing a clean white T-shirt that hugs his muscles and broad shoulders as it shows off his tan forearms and face. He smells like soap. I want to step into his embrace and fold myself into his strong body, but it isn’t offered.
“Let’s give it a go,” I answer.
We work side by side in the kitchen for a few hours, speaking only about the recipe along with the fixtures and items in the house that still need to be repaired. We don’t mention Dylan, yet he’s there, hanging between us. By the end of the evening, we’ve made two pies that look like they are the first attempts of a fourth grade home economics class.
“Not bad,” Carson says.
“Not great, either. Think they’re edible?”
“Who cares? I’m here because you called. It’s nice to see you.”
“It’s nice to see you, too. I handled that evening… I handled Dylan poorly. I shouldn’t have run off.”
“No. I handled it poorly. It was out of line for me to put that kind of responsibility on you.”
“Is that what you were trying to do? Hand off Dylan to me so you wouldn’t have to watch over him anymore?” I ask. “I think I wanted you to believe that I’m someone who is capable of being… worthy of being with Dylan.”
Carson tosses the oven mitts on the counter and comes closer to me with concern in his sharp blue eyes. “Jesus, no. I never thought you weren’t worthy of being with Dylan. You’re too good for him. I was worried that he was too needy and it would be too much of a burden for you. And I—”
“What?” I ask, studying his expression.
He thinks for a minute before responding with a well-crafted, safe answer.
“You’re very young, Jess. Dylan does not have his depression under control. It’s not something you should feel obligated to endure or try to fix. Dylan isn’t trying hard enough to help himself, so it’s not fair that he subjects other people—you—to this.”
“That’s not very nice. Dylan deserves help with his illness, and it was horrible for me to not take his calls over the last two weeks.”
“You misunderstand me. Dylan has received a great deal of medical help and help from our friends. He’s the one who keeps rejecting it or taking himself off medication. When things are good, Dylan sabotages the treatment. I don’t want to see you get sucked into Dylan’s emotional rollercoaster.”
“You can’t make those decisions for me. What if I want to be involved? What if I like him so much, I want to help?”
“You like him that much?” Carson mumbles and runs his hand slowly through his hair. It falls in lanky spikes around his face. I can tell he is worried as he casts his eyes down before taking both of my hands in his. “Dylan’s feelings for you are real, even if he might blow them out of proportion. It’s part of his nature to be overly dramatic, high on life, before he crashes. It’s a horrible thing to watch, it’s even worse to be a… don’t take this the wrong way… a pawn in his game of life.”
That hurts. I try to pull my hands from his, but he grips them tighter. “I’m sorry,” he says. “That came out wrong. Dylan doesn’t intentionally use people, but he becomes attached in an unhealthy way and they become like accessories for him. I know that I sound mean, but I’m trying to explain that Dylan doesn’t realize what he’s doing. He doesn’t see what we see. He’s an emotional tornado that grabs everything that isn’t tied down and pulls them into the eye of the Dylan storm and tosses them around like a rag doll. I’d hate myself if he did that to you.”
“I thought you were worried about me hurting Dylan. You thought I was a lousy influence,” I say, letting him hold my hands longer.
“I was hoping to discourage a relationship between you two, to avoid this very scenario.”
“Sixty-five million,” I whisper to myself.
“Are you scared?” Carson asks. “You whisper larger figures when you’re anxious about something.”
“How do you know that? I don’t think I’ve even made the connection between my emotional state and my whispering,” I say, perplexed.
“Like I told you before, you did that when you were a kid, usually when you were worried about something. Then I noticed it again when you first arrived here a month ago, you did it all the time. It’s not hard to connect the dots.”
“Sometimes you amaze me, Carson Blackard.” I begin to smile.
He seems pleased when I say that.
“This is not the Carson I met in Archie’s office on my first day. You barged by me like I was nobody.”
“Oh, I knew who you were. Believe me, the minute I saw you outside Archie’s office, everything I knew about Jessica Channing was bombarding my brain. I didn’t know how it would affect me to see you in person again after so many years. I was—”
“Were we like a family that one summer?” I query excitedly. My mind is racing with explanations. I don’t let Carson respond. “Is that why Dylan latched on to me? When you saw me, did it feel like a long lost sister was returning home?” I sound very hope
ful, like someone who always wanted siblings.
Carson grips my hands tighter and pulls me into his chest then looks down at me with exasperation. “Not once have I thought of you as my sister. Do not confuse me with someone you think is like a brother.” Ouch. He’s tough.
We’re so close our eyes are inches apart. I can see a thin white scar by his ear which is hidden by a lock of hair. My gaze drops from his magnificent eyes to his seductive lips. Carson doesn’t have the adorable cuteness of Dylan; he’s a bundle of steely masculinity with little interest or talent in being a playful flirt like Dylan. Yet I am naïve and presumptuous, entertaining such ideas that Carson could ever take an interest in me. He is merely putting me in my place, prompting me to stay on track with his goal of helping and protecting his brother. He must have taken my reaction as discomfort because he loosens his grip and then lets go of me altogether.
“Your aunt talked about you plenty. I knew what you looked like in junior high, high school, and I saw enough photos of you from college to know exactly who you were when I walked into Archie’s office. Whatever your aunt had in private photos, she had more in public documents. Things that Archie would find on the Internet; school achievements, awards, anything and everything.”
“How did she get all these photos of me? Did my mother send them?”
“Hell, no. Gin’s relationship with your parents was so fucked up. Sorry. Gin hired a private detective to keep tabs on you.”
“Seriously?”
“You lived in New York City, isn’t that the perfect place to have someone followed without them ever knowing?”
“True, tourists with cameras are everywhere. A man or woman carrying a full-size SLR camera wouldn’t turn a head. They could be a tourist, a journalist, a TV crew, a crime scene photographer. Hmm. Weird.”
“We should get going soon.” Carson begins clearing the counters and putting dirty dishes in the sink.
His fluctuating moods keep my mind preoccupied while we clean the kitchen. One minute he’s very attentive, sometimes thoughtful like his brother and then the next minute he’s scolding me like I’m a misbehaving child. It occurs to me that he is torn between accepting me as an adult now and maintaining some kind of guardianship over Dylan and his illness without driving his brother away. That seems to be the crux of it all.
