Her gaze moves from me to her mom. “I can’t,” she says.

“Just go,” her mom says. “We’ll discuss it when you get home.”

I thought Riley would smile, but she doesn’t. She looks hesitant, but more than that, she looks pissed. At me. “I don’t have to go,” she tells her mom, like she’s a grounded teenager.

Her mom looks me over from head to toe. “You’re a marine, right?”

I square my shoulders. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“And you’re home for what? R&R?”

“No, Ma’am. Medical.”

She nods. “Afghanistan?”

I lift my chin. She’s trying to be intimidating. It’s not going to work. Not on me. And not when it comes to Riley. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“So medical leave… that means you’re going back, right?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“So what is it exactly you’re doing with my daughter, Mr. Banks? Are you just looking for a good time with her before you redeploy? And then what? You leave her behind as just another notch on your belt?”

Now I’m pissed. “That’s not at all—”

“You can show up at my door and act as tough as you want,” she cuts in. “But regardless of what she’s told you, I love my daughter and I do what’s best for her. And what’s best for her is definitely not you. Because you’re not staying, you’re going back. Back to a warzone where it’s your job to put your life on the line every single second you’re there. She’s already lost someone she loved. Someone we all loved. And look at her. This is how she dealt with it… how she’s still dealing with it. If you really like her like you say you do, you’ll leave her alone. So she doesn’t have to go through life worrying how she’s going to handle the next death that comes her way.”

I don’t know how long I stand there, my hands in my pockets looking at the woman who I thought I hated, wondering exactly when it was in her speech that my hate turned to admiration, but it’s a long ass time.

And time + perspective can change people.

Instantly.

Because she’s right.

Through the chaos Riley and I created within the four walls of her bedroom, and the overwhelming feelings I let overshadow our reality… I never thought about it like that.

Not once.

But then I look over at Riley, her eyes right on mine, full of hope and promise and a complete contrast to how she was a month ago, and I take a breath. And then another. And I wonder what events in all our lives, her mother included, were The Turning Points? The points where we all determined that the fear of our pasts and the uncertainty of our futures were greater than our need for happiness.

Here.

Now.

While time and everything around us stood unmoving… who’s to say we couldn’t have it all?

I look at her mother again, right into her eyes, clear and gray just like Riley’s. “I’ll come back tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that. I’ll keep coming back until you allow me to see her. I won’t be sneaking around behind your back. I won’t be calling or texting her without your approval. She matters a lot to me. More than a lot. So I’m here. Now. And I don’t plan on that changing until you both realize that Riley’s happiness is just as important as everyone else’s.”

I turn and walk away, leaving them standing there. I don’t hear the door close. Not until I’m on the sidewalk and half way home. Once I’m back in my room, I get a message on my phone.

Riley: Why the hell would you do that?

Dylan: Retaliation. Fight or die, Hudson.

Then I grab a notebook, a pen and another empty jar.

Twenty-Four

Dylan

I wake up early the next morning prepared for battle. I shower, dress, and make my way out to Riley’s house, where I lean on her mom’s car, jar in hand, and I wait. I’m only there a few minutes before she appears from the door, stopping in her tracks when she sees me. “Mr. Banks,” she says in greeting.

“Ma’am.”

I push off the car and stand tall, waiting for her to get to me. When she does, I offer her the jar. “For you,” I tell her.

She eyes it curiously for a moment. “What’s this?” she asks.

“A gift.”

“Like Riley’s jars?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Her eyebrows narrow in confusion. “I’m late for work,” she mumbles, using the keyless entry to unlock her car.

I open the door for her and wait until she’s seated before saying, “Have a phenomenal day, Ma’am.”

I give her an over exaggerated grin, along with a pathetic wave as she reverses out of the driveway. Then I turn to her front door—where I know Riley will be standing, watching with the same narrowed eyes, same look of confusion.

And as hard as it is, I keep my promise to her mother: I walk away.

Twenty minutes later, Riley calls. Not texts, but actually calls.

“Mom just called me,” she says.

I hold the phone tighter against my ear, my anticipation building. “And?”

“She asked if you wanted to come over for dinner tonight? What the hell, Dylan?”

Riley answers the door with the same look of confusion that I left her with. But it doesn’t last long before she smiles—this all-consuming, heart-stealing smile that has me doing the same. She throws her arms around my neck, forcing me to bend down and she squeezes tight, so tight it begins to hurt. But she doesn’t need to know that. “Sorry,” she whispers, releasing me. She points at the flowers in my hand. “For me?” she asks.

I cringe slightly. Crap. I should’ve gotten two. “For your mom, actually.”

She shrugs. “It’s cool. You already got me flowers on my birthday.”

“I picked you dead flowers,” I remind her.

“But it’s the thought that counts.” She pulls me by my shirt and practically drags me down the hall and into the kitchen where her mom’s busy on the stove. Whatever she’s cooking smells amazing, better than the frozen dinners we have at home. I tell her that, and when she hears me, she spins around with a smile that’s almost identical to Riley’s. She wipes her hands on a cloth and makes her way to us.

She hugs like Riley too. “Good evening, Mr. Banks.”

“Dylan’s fine, Ma’am.”

Riley says, “Is someone going to tell me what happened?”

“I’m getting to know your boyfriend,” her mom says, releasing me.

We sit down for a meal at an actual dining table, with an actual freshly cooked meal, and salad, and iced tea. My enjoyment is obvious by the constant moans of pleasure. Something they seem to think is hilarious. I don’t even realize until I’ve polished off my plate that they haven’t even touched theirs. I lean back in my chair, my hands on my lap and look down at them, trying to suppress my laughter. “Sorry. I’m a growing boy.”

Ms. Hudson, who has told me to call her Holly, says, “I hate to break it to you but there’s no possible way you’re growing anymore. How tall are you now, Dylan?”