I try to calm my breaths, try to soothe the ache in my chest. I glance at Dylan, looking for some form of remorse. There is none. The rage is back. “Get your fucking hands off her!” he yells, trying to get loose.

“Stop!” I shout at him, my hand up between us. “Just stop.” I look at Conway. “I’m fine.”

Someone hands him a towel; one he wraps around my shoulders. “I’ll walk you up to your room.” He turns me away from Dylan, from my love, my heart, from my hurt, and with Conway’s words meant only for me, he says, “We’re going to clear out and give Banks some time to settle down. He’s had it rough.”

I glance over my shoulder, my body shaking from the cold. Dylan’s watching me, his jaw set, his eyes on mine. There’s still no remorse. But there’s no longer rage. There’s nothing.

And I don’t know what I fear most.

* * *

I watch him from the hotel room window, alone, sitting in the same chair we’d been in hours ago. Besides reaching for the numerous beers, he doesn’t move. He keeps his head down, his eyes on the pool, taking sip after sip, drowning in heartbreak.

I take a breath, my gaze lowering as I try to think of the right thing to do. Conway said to give him time.

I gave him that.

I gave myself that, too.

And yet here I am, exactly where I’d been since he came home. Time doesn’t change anything. But love will. It has to.

Without another thought, I slip on my shoes and make my way out to him.

He looks up when he must hear the pool gate open and quickly looks back down. He doesn’t make eye contact. I know he won’t. Still, I take slow steps toward him, stopping in front of him, giving him the opportunity to acknowledge my existence. After a few seconds of nothing, I take a chance and sit on his lap like I’d been doing before everything went to shit.

The sun went down five hours ago, taking the light and warmth of the day with it. Now it’s cold and dark and the atmosphere is miserable. Even more miserable than the events of the day. It’s quiet, though, all but for Dylan’s heavy breaths.

I loosely wrap my arm around his shoulders and stare straight ahead, not wanting to make eye contact in case it sets him off.

I know that it’s wrong to live my life in fear—especially of him—but I also know that it won’t be forever. We just need to get through this. We have to get through this.

He doesn’t touch me.

He doesn’t hold me.

But after a while, he finally speaks. “Was it thick?”

I tense in his arms, confused by his words. “Was what thick?”

“His blood. Jeremy’s. When you held his head on your lap, was it thick?”

“Dylan…” I finally face him, but he’s staring right ahead. Right at nothing.

“Dave’s was thick, Riley. And I don’t know. I guess I’m just trying to work out exactly what I had on my hands.”

My breath catches in my throat as realization sets in.

He continues, “See, his head was on my lap, and it just…” He lets out a breath through his nose, his shoulders dropping, “…it felt thick. So I’m assuming it was just bits of his skull and… what? His brain? I mean… with Jeremy—”

“Stop it,” I whisper through clenched teeth. I’d tried so hard to forget and now he’s here… making me remember.

He swallows loudly, and leans back further in his chair. “I get it now, Riley. I get what it’s like to be you. To have blood on your hands—to have that guilt weighing on you constantly. I should’ve fucking seen what was going on with him and I didn’t. Or maybe I chose to ignore it. Just like you did on that cliff.”

“Stop,” I cry.

He doesn’t stop. “And the worst part is that I keep seeing it. Keep hearing it. I look into the mirror and I see him standing there, his head fucking blown off, begging me to see him. To hear him. To realize how much he was suffering. But it’s too late, right? Because he’s fucking dead now. What the hell am I supposed to do, Riley? Tell me.”

“I don’t—”

“You think I should drink? I mean, it helps. It blurs the visions a little so it makes it more dream-like. It tricks your mind into believing that’s all it is. A dream. Not a memory. Is that why you did it?”

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

Finally, his gaze meets mine. “Or do you think I should write stupid letters even though he’s six feet under? You think that’ll bring him back to life?”

I don’t respond. I can’t. Because when your heart’s breaking, being ripped out of you by the person who caused it to beat in the first place, there’s nothing left. Nothing to say. Nothing to do.

I start to get up but he holds me down. “Or maybe I should go home, get in my truck and drive it right through my dad’s house. Maybe your mom’s, too. Just because. Maybe that’ll help. You think I’ll get jail time?”

I wipe my eyes, my sobs uncontrolled. “Why are you being like this?”

“Because I’m hurting, Riley,” he mumbles, his gaze shifting, his hold tightening. “And I’m allowed to be angry. I’m allowed to be drunk. I’m allowed to hate the world and everything in it. That’s how you dealt with it, right?”

“I never pushed away the people who loved me,” I bite out.

He scoffs. “Maybe you should have. Then we wouldn’t be here. Now we have to go back to our fucked up lives and pretend like none of this matters. I’m not serving my goddamn purpose any more than you’re out there creating a legacy. We’re just two fucked up people with blood on our hands, faking our happiness.”

Forty-Five

Dylan

Getting Riley to fall in love with me was easy. Getting her to hate me is the hardest fucking thing I’ve ever done.

As I sat alone, beer in hand, watching the murky blue water of the hotel pool splash against the edges, I made my choice.

Something in me snapped that night and I’d hurt her. Again. Physically, emotionally, all of it. And there was no way I was going to let her allow me to continue to do it. So, I said things I didn’t mean. Things I knew would destroy her.

I wanted her to hate me so that it didn’t hurt so much when she left.

But she didn’t.

She kept her arms wrapped around me the entire night in that hotel room. She kept her smile in place as she said goodbye to the guys she’d met the night before… guys whose opinions of me had no doubt changed and she held my hand as I walked her to her car for the long ass drive back home.

On the outside, her love for me had never wavered, even after what I’d done. Inside though, she was hurting. She had to be. I needed her to be.

The week on base went by slowly. Too fucking slowly. My friends who I’d once taken a fucking bullet for no longer respected me. They left me alone.

Riley didn’t. She called often. Messaged even more. She asked if I was coming home or if she should come here. After five on the Friday, I finally called her. She answered the phone like she did every time. Her voice high pitched and happy to hear from me.

I guess it’s true what they say; ignorance is bliss.