Dave: Oh. Seriously, it’s cool. You guys do your thing. I didn’t mean to interrupt.

Dylan: We can continue any time. I don’t mind.

Dave: Thx so much. Honestly. I kind of just want to see his ugly face, you know?

Dylan: lol. I’d miss him too.

“What are you writing?” Dylan asks.

“Nothing.”

Dave: Okay. Added you.

Dylan: I’ll get him to call now.

I open the app and accept the add request, then hand the phone to Dylan. “Just press the green video camera icon to call him. I’m going to raid your fridge. You want anything?”

Shaking his head, he says, “Thanks, babe.” Then kisses me quickly, but I can already tell his mind is elsewhere. I button up my shirt as I exit his room, leaving him to talk to his buddy.

There isn’t much in his fridge. Milk, butter, bologna, and a block of cheese. Shutting the fridge, I look around the kitchen. It’s as bare as the fridge is. The table in the middle isn’t even a real table; it’s one of those foldout poker ones. I open the cabinets, searching for the glasses and when I find one, I turn on the tap and fill it with water. I take it with me to the garage and sit it on the workbench where the engine he’s told me all about sits in pieces. Grabbing a smaller piece, I ignore the shaking of my hands, matching the shakiness of my breath. And for the countless time since we got back in his truck, I try to ignore the day’s overwhelming emotions.

Surely, it can’t be that easy to go from one extreme to another. To wake up knowing that the secrets of your past could be the undoing of your future to this—being insanely attached and falling in love with a boy I barely know—a boy who’s declared time and time again that he feels the same way. He’s shown me his heart; I’ve shown him mine. And the best, or maybe the worst part is that I haven’t felt an ounce of guilt.

Grief, yes.

Longing, definitely.

But guilt? No.

I don’t know how to explain it—what it’s like to be in unfamiliar arms, kiss in an unfamiliar way, laugh with an unfamiliar sound… but I haven’t felt this connected since the moments before I climbed that cliff. And I don’t mean connected to someone, but connected to the world.

I wipe the tears, the emotions flooding me as the excitement builds. The thrill of waking up every morning with more to look forward to than the next sip of alcohol. I want to drive in his truck, I want to see the world again, and I want him next to me, keeping me safe and sane and knowing that when things get too hard, too rough, and the guilt becomes too much to bare—not just the guilt of my feelings for him but the guilt of my past and the pain I’d caused others, he’ll do exactly what he said he’d do: he’ll be the glue that holds me together.

He calls my name from somewhere in the house, and I tell him where I am. He shows up a moment later, his eyes going from me to the engine. “What are you doing, babe?” he asks.

I love that he calls me babe. “Just tinkering with your engine, Lance Corporal Banks.”

“Oh my God,” he murmurs, his grin wider than I’ve ever seen. He steps forward, looking in my eyes, and then he runs the back of his finger across my cheek. “You got grease on your face, Riley. So fucking hot.”

I roll my eyes and keep him at a distance. “How’s everything with your buddy?”

Shrugging, he releases a long drawn out sigh. “He’s in a war. It’s as bad as you’d imagine it would be.”

“I don’t imagine it as anything. You don’t really talk much about it.”

He takes the part from my hand and holds it in his, palm up as he looks down on it. “You know when you’re having a nightmare and you know it’s just a dream so you try to wake up but your body fights it, so it keeps going and going until something finally happens which forces you up, and you wake up in a pool of sweat but your mind is still there, stuck in the nightmare?”

“I know it well,” I whisper.

“War is like that, Riley. Only the things that wake you up are the cause of the nightmares.”

“So why do it?” I ask.

“Because sometimes you need to have nightmares to appreciate the dreams.”

I don’t know how to respond, so I don’t. I just stare at him, watching his features soften as he stares back, his smile growing with each passing second. Then he bends down, plants a chaste kiss on my cheek and places my phone in my hand. “Your mom’s going to be home soon. I should get you back.”

“Already?” I complain, checking the time.

“Time flies when you’re having fun.”

Twenty-Three

Dylan

Riley: You know what I miss?

Dylan: Me?

Riley: Please. I only saw you an hour ago.

Dylan: I still choose the answer to be ME.

Riley: I miss playing basketball.

Dylan: You play?

Riley: I dabble.

Dylan: Dribble?

Riley: Dabble. It’s a figure of speech, Dylan.

Dylan: I know. It was a joke.

Riley: Your typing’s gotten better. And faster.

Dylan: I’m on the computer.

Riley: I figured.

Dylan: But swimming was your thing, right? You don’t miss swimming?

Riley: I haven’t been in the water since… you know.

Dylan: Oh.

Riley: Besides the bath, I mean.

Dylan: You kill me with your visuals, Hudson.

Riley: Unintentional.

Dylan: Sure.

Riley: I do miss you though.

Dylan: Needy much?

Riley: lol. Shut up.

Dylan: I miss you too. My room smells like you now.

Dylan: I could come over. We can drive to the elementary school and shoot hoops.

Riley: I wish.

Dylan: You’re twenty, Riley. Surely your mom can’t tell you what to do.

Riley: It’s not that she tells me what to do. I don’t know. Guilt + respect, I guess.

Dylan: I call bullshit. I say it’s fear.

Riley: It’s not.

Dylan: It makes no sense.

Riley: Doesn’t have to make sense to you.

Riley: Besides, it’ll be dark soon. We can do it tomorrow when she’s at work.

Dylan: Put your sneakers on. I’ll be over in five.

Riley: Don’t you dare!

I don’t bother replying. Instead, I go over to her house. I knock on her door and fake a smile when her mother answers. “Good evening, Ms. Hudson. I’d like to see Riley. Actually, I’d like to take Riley out of the house. Not just now, but a lot of times in the future so you should probably get used to me knocking on your door and requesting her presence to join me. And I’m sorry if this will cause problems for you, but—”

“What are you doing, Dylan?” Riley says.

I look past her mother to see her standing just outside her door. Then I ignore her question and speak to the woman in front of me. “But I like your daughter. A lot. And if I don’t get to see her now, then I don’t know what I’ll do. Honestly, I’ll probably revert to being a teenager and toilet papering your house.” I shrug. “Sorry.”

“Dylan!” Riley snaps.

Her mom doesn’t speak, so I keep going. “I guess I’m not really here to ask for permission. I’m just here to pick up your daughter.” I glance up at Riley. “Let’s go.”