More Than Enough
Page 12
“Mean anything,” she cuts in.
“—change anything,” I finish.
Slowly, she turns to me, using her arms to cover her most private parts—parts I was drowning in only minutes ago. “Dylan,” she cries. “It changes everything.”
Eight
Dylan
She asks me to leave. I do because it’s not one of those times where she’s joking around or pretending she hates me. The look she gives me mixed with the regret in her eyes is proof of that.
And as much as I don’t want to admit it, she was right. It changes everything.
Because now I’m in deep. Too fucking deep.
So I do the only thing I know when nothing in the entire world seems to make sense.
I drive.
And then I drive some more.
And when the sight of the sun dipping down on the horizon doesn’t give me the calm I was hoping for, I head home and face reality.
Eric’s standing in the garage as I pull into our driveway, my tools and my engine parts in his hands. “Do you even know what you’re doing?” I yell out, getting out of my truck and making my way to him. “Nope,” he says, popping the P. “This car stuff has always been you and Dad’s thing. Kind of pissed me off, to be honest.”
I stop in my tracks. “What’s with you?”
“Where have you been, Dylan?” he says, facing me.
“What are you talking about?”
He places his hands on his hips and widens his stance. Fuck, he looks like Dad. Acts like him, too. “You’ve been home over a week, and I’ve barely seen you.” His eyes narrow, as he cups my chin. He tilts my head from side to side while he steps closer, his eyes right on mine. “Dylan?”
“Uh…what?”
“Are you on The Drug?”
I swat his hand away. “Fuck off.”
“Dylan.” He stifles his laugh. “I’m being serious. Are you, or are you not, on The Drug?”
“Oh my God, Eric.” I push him aside and start replacing the tools back where they belong. “I’m not on The Drug… whatever the hell that means.”
“Good.” He leans back on the workbench and crosses his arms again. “I just feel like I should be looking out for my kid brother, you know?”
“I’m not a kid anymore, E. I can take care of myself.”
He points to my shoulder. “Clearly.”
I freeze. So does Eric when he realizes what he’s just said. “I didn’t mean that, man. I overstepped.”
“Yeah, you did.” I shut the lid on the toolbox and face him, matching his stance, waiting for him to leave.
He doesn’t. Instead, he says, “Did you… want to talk about it or something? About what happened?”
“Not really.”
“Okay.” He takes a breath. “Well, if you do—”
“I don’t. Ever.”
“Right.” He nods but doesn’t look away. “Your friends know your back?”
I shake my head and drop my shoulders.
“Why not?”
“Not ready,” I rush out, and when I realize this is the most we’ve had to say to each other in ten years, I ask, “What’s with the twenty questions? Dad ask you to talk to me or something?”
“What? A brother can’t talk to his brother to see if he’s okay?”
With a sigh, I reply, “I’m fine, Eric.”
“Cut the shit, okay? None of us are fine. You, me, Dad—we’ve all been there, but you’re the only one who’s come back with a scar to remind us of it. If ‘fine’ is the story you want to spread for everyone else, then good for you. But don’t use it on us. We’re your goddamn family, Dylan.”
I turn away because if I look at him any longer I’ll probably punch him. “You’re right. It happened to me. Not you. And if I say I’m fine, I’m fucking fine. Leave it alone.” I walk to my truck and pop the hood, then spend the next few minutes ignoring his presence, pretending to fix something that isn’t broken. Which, I guess, is exactly what he’s doing… trying to fix me. I’m not broken. Or at least I wasn’t. Not until I decided to take advantage of the drunk and damaged girl next door.
“You want to know why I came home?”
I roll my eyes even though he can’t see me. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me anyway.”
My truck sways when he leans against it. “For Dad.”
My hands freeze mid-movement. “He asked you to come home?”
“No. You know Dad, he’d never ask. But think about it… the man lost his wife, raised two boys on his own. Then I go and enlist, deploy, and eight years later you do the same and he has no one. We’re all he has—just us and the constant thoughts of where we are and what we’re doing and if we’re even fucking alive.”
I drop my gaze, my grip loosening around the wrench in my hand.
He adds, “So if I ask you if you’re okay or if you want to talk about shit, I’m not doing it to set you off or because I feel like I need to. I’m doing it because I fucking love you. And I love Dad. And if me coming home and giving up on early retirement means Dad will at least have one of his family members alive and standing next to him until the day he dies then that’s what I’ll do.”
I release my anger with a shaky breath and blink. Once. Twice. Then over and over until the dryness returns. Then I swallow loudly, pushing down the lump in my throat.
“Dylan?” he asks, his voice softer, and I’d give just about anything to be in Riley’s room again. Away from everything… away from what he’s making me feel and making me think and making me remember.
“Look at me, Dylan.”
I inhale deeply and prepare myself. Then lift my head from under the hood.
He asks, “Are you okay?”
With my eyes on his, I slowly shake my head. “Not yet,” I tell him, my voice strained.
He nods in understanding. “But you will be?”
I raise my chin. “Yes.”
“You want to go back?”
I don’t hesitate. Not for a second. “Yes.”
He motions to my shoulder. “When’s your next checkup?”
“Tomorrow.”
“VA?”
“Yes.”
“You want me to go with you?”
“No, Eric. I’m good.”
He takes a step back, his features relaxing a little. “So,” he says, hands in his pockets. “Who’s the girl?”
I shift my gaze. “What girl?”
“You’re such a shitty liar.”
“Am not.”
“Okay Mr. I wasn’t playing basketball in the house, Grandma’s spirit broke her own urn!”
A chuckle bubbles out of me. “Shut up. Totally happened.”
“Sure.” He starts to leave, but stops just beside me. “Call your friend… the one who was over a lot when we first moved here.”
“Why?”
“To thank him for dropping by and visiting with Dad whenever he was in town.”
“—change anything,” I finish.
Slowly, she turns to me, using her arms to cover her most private parts—parts I was drowning in only minutes ago. “Dylan,” she cries. “It changes everything.”
Eight
Dylan
She asks me to leave. I do because it’s not one of those times where she’s joking around or pretending she hates me. The look she gives me mixed with the regret in her eyes is proof of that.
And as much as I don’t want to admit it, she was right. It changes everything.
Because now I’m in deep. Too fucking deep.
So I do the only thing I know when nothing in the entire world seems to make sense.
I drive.
And then I drive some more.
And when the sight of the sun dipping down on the horizon doesn’t give me the calm I was hoping for, I head home and face reality.
Eric’s standing in the garage as I pull into our driveway, my tools and my engine parts in his hands. “Do you even know what you’re doing?” I yell out, getting out of my truck and making my way to him. “Nope,” he says, popping the P. “This car stuff has always been you and Dad’s thing. Kind of pissed me off, to be honest.”
I stop in my tracks. “What’s with you?”
“Where have you been, Dylan?” he says, facing me.
“What are you talking about?”
He places his hands on his hips and widens his stance. Fuck, he looks like Dad. Acts like him, too. “You’ve been home over a week, and I’ve barely seen you.” His eyes narrow, as he cups my chin. He tilts my head from side to side while he steps closer, his eyes right on mine. “Dylan?”
“Uh…what?”
“Are you on The Drug?”
I swat his hand away. “Fuck off.”
“Dylan.” He stifles his laugh. “I’m being serious. Are you, or are you not, on The Drug?”
“Oh my God, Eric.” I push him aside and start replacing the tools back where they belong. “I’m not on The Drug… whatever the hell that means.”
“Good.” He leans back on the workbench and crosses his arms again. “I just feel like I should be looking out for my kid brother, you know?”
“I’m not a kid anymore, E. I can take care of myself.”
He points to my shoulder. “Clearly.”
I freeze. So does Eric when he realizes what he’s just said. “I didn’t mean that, man. I overstepped.”
“Yeah, you did.” I shut the lid on the toolbox and face him, matching his stance, waiting for him to leave.
He doesn’t. Instead, he says, “Did you… want to talk about it or something? About what happened?”
“Not really.”
“Okay.” He takes a breath. “Well, if you do—”
“I don’t. Ever.”
“Right.” He nods but doesn’t look away. “Your friends know your back?”
I shake my head and drop my shoulders.
“Why not?”
“Not ready,” I rush out, and when I realize this is the most we’ve had to say to each other in ten years, I ask, “What’s with the twenty questions? Dad ask you to talk to me or something?”
“What? A brother can’t talk to his brother to see if he’s okay?”
With a sigh, I reply, “I’m fine, Eric.”
“Cut the shit, okay? None of us are fine. You, me, Dad—we’ve all been there, but you’re the only one who’s come back with a scar to remind us of it. If ‘fine’ is the story you want to spread for everyone else, then good for you. But don’t use it on us. We’re your goddamn family, Dylan.”
I turn away because if I look at him any longer I’ll probably punch him. “You’re right. It happened to me. Not you. And if I say I’m fine, I’m fucking fine. Leave it alone.” I walk to my truck and pop the hood, then spend the next few minutes ignoring his presence, pretending to fix something that isn’t broken. Which, I guess, is exactly what he’s doing… trying to fix me. I’m not broken. Or at least I wasn’t. Not until I decided to take advantage of the drunk and damaged girl next door.
“You want to know why I came home?”
I roll my eyes even though he can’t see me. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me anyway.”
My truck sways when he leans against it. “For Dad.”
My hands freeze mid-movement. “He asked you to come home?”
“No. You know Dad, he’d never ask. But think about it… the man lost his wife, raised two boys on his own. Then I go and enlist, deploy, and eight years later you do the same and he has no one. We’re all he has—just us and the constant thoughts of where we are and what we’re doing and if we’re even fucking alive.”
I drop my gaze, my grip loosening around the wrench in my hand.
He adds, “So if I ask you if you’re okay or if you want to talk about shit, I’m not doing it to set you off or because I feel like I need to. I’m doing it because I fucking love you. And I love Dad. And if me coming home and giving up on early retirement means Dad will at least have one of his family members alive and standing next to him until the day he dies then that’s what I’ll do.”
I release my anger with a shaky breath and blink. Once. Twice. Then over and over until the dryness returns. Then I swallow loudly, pushing down the lump in my throat.
“Dylan?” he asks, his voice softer, and I’d give just about anything to be in Riley’s room again. Away from everything… away from what he’s making me feel and making me think and making me remember.
“Look at me, Dylan.”
I inhale deeply and prepare myself. Then lift my head from under the hood.
He asks, “Are you okay?”
With my eyes on his, I slowly shake my head. “Not yet,” I tell him, my voice strained.
He nods in understanding. “But you will be?”
I raise my chin. “Yes.”
“You want to go back?”
I don’t hesitate. Not for a second. “Yes.”
He motions to my shoulder. “When’s your next checkup?”
“Tomorrow.”
“VA?”
“Yes.”
“You want me to go with you?”
“No, Eric. I’m good.”
He takes a step back, his features relaxing a little. “So,” he says, hands in his pockets. “Who’s the girl?”
I shift my gaze. “What girl?”
“You’re such a shitty liar.”
“Am not.”
“Okay Mr. I wasn’t playing basketball in the house, Grandma’s spirit broke her own urn!”
A chuckle bubbles out of me. “Shut up. Totally happened.”
“Sure.” He starts to leave, but stops just beside me. “Call your friend… the one who was over a lot when we first moved here.”
“Why?”
“To thank him for dropping by and visiting with Dad whenever he was in town.”
