More Than Enough (More Than Series, Book 5) (11 page)

I shrug. “Then you were popular by association. Still valid.”

“Maybe,” he mumbles, his mind elsewhere. “How do you even remember this?”

I roll my eyes. “Please. You and those guys you hung out with. All the girls knew you.”

He tears his gaze away from my picture and slowly looks up at me. “What?” he says, a half smirk pulling his lips. “Did you crush on Jake or something?”

“No. Not Jake. Logan though….”

He pushes on my arm until I fall to my side, losing it in a fit of laughter. “What? Are you offended?” I joke.

“Offended? No.” He drops his gaze back to my picture. “Jealous? Maybe.”

Butterflies are stupid.

He taps on the book. “You were on the swim team?”

“Yeah. All four years.”

He starts flipping the pages again. “Is there a picture of you in your swim gear?” His hand stops mid-movement as he looks from the book and straight ahead. “Wait. This is a little skeezy.” He throws the book over his shoulder and picks up the one from senior year. “You were eighteen at some point in this one, right?”

I try to take it from him but he won’t let go. His finger skims across the page of H’s until he comes across my picture. Then he stops. I watch his face as his eyes narrow and he chews the corner of his lip, just for a moment before he faces me. His throat bobs with his swallow. “Future Mrs. Walters,” he murmurs. It’s neither a statement nor a question and I don’t know how to respond so I don’t. I just keep looking at him. And when his body tenses and his eyes drift shut, I know he’s found it. “You were prom queen?” he whispers.

“Yes.”

“Now I
really
feel like an asshole.”

“It’s fine.”

He’s silent a moment before tapping the book and saying, “And this Jeremy guy… he’s…”

“My boyfriend,” I whisper.

He drops the yearbook onto the floor and slowly stands up. Facing me, he rubs the back of his neck. “
Was
your boyfriend? Or
is
?”

“It’s irrelevant.”

He shakes his head. “How is it—”

“Because he’s dead, Dylan,” I cut in. I ignore the dropping of his jaw when I pick up the yearbook from the floor, along with the others on the bed and place them back in their spot on the shelf. “He died the summer after senior year, the day before we were meant to leave for college together.” I feel the lump rise to my throat, feel my heart drop to my stomach, killing the butterflies that were once so prominent. My eyes fill with tears—tears that I let slide across my cheek and over my jaw. Then I face him, giving him everything I am. Because what’s a little truth amongst the chaos we’ve created? “He’s dead, and that’s why it’s irrelevant.”

He licks his lips—his sad, dry eyes on my wet ones. “I’m sorry,” he says, taking a step forward, and I take a step back because I hate that look in his eyes—the one that warns me of what’s coming next.

So I beat him to it. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay.”

“Okay? Just
okay
?”

He shrugs and sits back down on the bed, his head lowered. Then, after a long moment of silence, he speaks. “I enlisted because I wanted more out of my life. I followed a girl I loved, who I thought loved me back, all the way to college because it’s what she wanted. I wanted her. And there was no either/or for us. Then things started to fall apart, things she was oblivious to—which I guess is a sign of what our relationship was like. I wasn’t happy. Not happy
enough
, anyway. I wanted to make a difference, serve a purpose, you know?” He looks up and my legs lead me—as if on their own—until I’m standing in front of him. “I ran away. I ran because I wanted to avoid the truth, and you—you’re doing the opposite. You’re facing it head on. Every day. And if drinking is how you do that, then I can’t tell you it’s wrong, or that you shouldn’t be doing it.” He tugs on my hand until I’m standing between his legs. “I got shot by a kid, Riley. A kid no more than twelve. And now he’s dead because of it. He’ll never go to high school, never dance with a girl he thinks he’s in love with, never follow his heart and learn from the mistakes of doing so.” Then he looks up, his eyes right on mine, and he says something that brings a sense of peace to my once fear-filled chaos. “You got to stand with a boy you love on a night you’ll never forget. You were his queen and he was your king and no one can take that away from you.”

I wipe my eyes, my tears flowing faster and freer than ever.

“But it is relevant. Because
is
and
was
is the difference between time standing still, and time moving forward.”

Riley

I
can feel
his eyes on me. Not that he’s trying to hide it, though I really wish he would. I look up from my blank page and glare at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says, sitting on the edge of my bed with his elbows on his knees. Days have passed since I’ve told him about Jeremy and he hasn’t brought it up since. He shifts in his spot. “Do you always drink the same stuff?”

I pick up the bottle sitting next to me and take a sip, cringing slightly when the foul taste of it hits my tongue. “It’s the cheapest stuff they have that’ll give me a buzz,” I tell him.

“A buzz? You’re more than buzzed.”

“Not yet.”

He shrugs. “It’s early.”

I pick up a cushion and threaten to throw it. “You can leave if you plan on judging me some more.”

He laughs and sits down next to me. “Give me some.”

“No.” I hold the bottle to my chest.

“Dependent much?”

I roll the back of my head against the wall and turn to him. “The door’s right there.”

“You’re so cranky when you’re on your lady business.” He starts to get up but I stop him.

“Where are you going?”

“Liquor store.”

“Why?”

“To buy my own shit.”

“Don’t,” I tell him, the plea in my voice evident.

“Don’t what?”

“Drink.”

He chuckles from deep in his throat. “Seriously?”

“It’s not good for you,” I tell him, my gaze dropping as soon as the words leave my mouth and I realize how pathetic I sound.

“That’s a little rich coming from you.”

“I know,” I say through a sigh. “I just don’t want you to drop down to my level.”

“You’re so cute when you’re pouty and needy.”

“Shut up.” I scribble across the page and tilt it so Dylan can’t see.

He’s just kidding, Jeremy.

Then I close the notebook and face him.

“Hi,” he says.

I laugh. “Hi.”

“You’re real pretty, Riley.”

I hide my smile. “Shut up, Dylan.”

He rolls his eyes and scoots closer to me, his arm against mine. “Tell me something, Riley.”

“Like what?”

He runs his hand over the top of his head, his short hair shifting beneath his touch. “Anything you feel comfortable telling me. Like…”

I hold my breath, waiting for him to continue.

“…Where’s your dad?”

I can
totally
answer that. “My mom and him split when I was super young. Like, three or something. I don’t really know much about him and I guess he doesn’t care to know much about me.”

“Yeah?” he asks after a moment. “You think maybe your mom has something to do with that?”

“What do you mean?”

“I think I hate your mom.”

I don’t respond.

“I’m sorry if that’s out of line but what kind of mom supplies their underage daughter with enough alcohol to keep her in a permanent stage of semi-awareness and thinks it’s okay.”

“It is out of line,” I tell him. “There’s a lot of shit you don’t know about, Dylan, and she does it because she cares. Because she doesn’t know any other way to show me that and because it’s what we both want so—”

“If you want to believe that bullshit lie she feeds you then you’re weaker than I thought.”

“Fuck you.” He’s so fucking good at pushing the wrong buttons. “And where the hell’s your mom, by the way?”

“Dead.”

I drop my head in my hands. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he tells me, rubbing my back. “She died during childbirth… with me, obviously.”

“Jesus Christ, Dylan…”

He laughs, which is such a strange reaction given the conversation. “We suck at talking.”

“I know.”

“Want to make out instead?”

I pause a beat, either from shock or… no. Just shock. “No.”

“It was a joke, Riley. Relax.”

Relieved, I try to come up with something lighter to talk about. “I was looking through the yearbooks after you left last night.”

“Yeah?” He shifts next to me until he’s lying across the floor, his head on my lap. “Find anything interesting?” He looks up, the blue of his eyes brighter than I’d seen them.

I lose my breath, along with my train of thought. And as much as I’d like to blame it on the alcohol, my mind is clear when my hand reaches out, my fingers brushing his hair. “Kind of.”

His eyes drift shut, his hands resting on his stomach as he releases one long, drawn out breath. “What did you find?” he murmurs.

I pull my hand away.

“Don’t stop,” he pleads, his eyes open and on mine. “It’s nice. You touching me like that.”

I continue to stroke his hair, even though it’s wrong, and I glance at the notebook quickly before pushing down the guilt. I grab the bottle and drink as if my life depended on it. “You and Jeremy,” I begin, my stomach turning at the mention of their names together. I fight through it, just enough to say, “You guys played a few games together.”

“Really?” he tilts his head up, as if getting more comfortable, but his eyes don’t leave mine. “
Walters,
right?”

I nod.

“I remember him. He was a good ball player. He filled in for varsity a few times. Holy shit…” He rolls his head to the side and faces my stomach, grabbing my hand to make sure I don’t stop stroking his hair. “I totally remember him now. He was a good kid.”

“Don’t do that,” I mumble.

“Do what?” he asks, his eyebrows raised.

“It’s just annoying for me to have to listen to people who didn’t really know him talk as if they do and drop lines like, ‘
he was a good kid
’ and ‘
he was gone way too soon
’ and ‘
he was really going places.
’”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” I cut in. “It’s nothing personal against you. It’s just annoying, you know? Like you didn’t know him, would’ve probably never thought about him again if it weren’t for me and now you remember him but your memories are generic and mine aren’t and it’s just frustrating. That’s all.”

He rolls onto his back again. “That’s completely valid, Riley.”

“Thank you.”

“Why are you thanking me?”

“Because you understand my frustration. My mom says—”

“Do me a favor. Don’t talk to me about your mom anymore.”

I press my lips tight.

He sighs and places his hands on his chest. “What else did you see?”

“Just your caption. I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s confusing.”

“What was it again?”

“‘
A man of many words.’
It just doesn’t make sense.”

He smiles. Not out of humor, but the kind of childish innocent smile his mother would’ve loved had she been around to see it. It’s a side of him I hadn’t seen before now and something I’m completely fascinated with. Something I’m drawn to. Like the flashes of color in his eyes after every blink. The way his nostrils flare with each exhale. The way his lip curves slightly higher on the right than the left. I want to ask him what he’s thinking—what it is about this moment that has him smiling the way he is. But I don’t. I stay silent. So silent I can hear every single one of his breaths. He adjusts his head on my lap so he’s more comfortable, then he looks up at me, his lips curving higher, shifting the tiny strands of hair along his jaw. I run the back of my finger across them, feeling the heat of his cheek against my skin. He bites down on his bottom lip and my hand moves, as if on its own, until I’m millimeters away from his mouth and when his eyes drift shut and he inhales deeply, I blink and come back to reality—a reality I wish didn’t exist.

“Go back to my hair,” he whispers, his eyes still closed.

I do what he asks, feeling his neck muscles relax against my leg as soon as my fingers weave through his hair.

“So good,” he murmurs. “I could fall asleep like this.”

I let myself smile because I know he can’t see it. “You can’t use sleep as an excuse to avoid my question.”

His body shakes with his silent chuckle. Then he licks his lips and I curse myself for pulling my hand away instead of touching them like I really wanted to do. As if reluctant, he slowly opens his eyes—eyes that instantly meet mine. They stay on me as he sits up and leans his back against the wall. “Try it,” he says.

Something’s happening to my heart… like the butterflies in my stomach. Constant, hectic movements that have me struggling for breath. “Try what?”

He pats his lap; that same perfect innocent smile taking over his handsome face.

I lie on my back, hesitating a second, before settling my head on his lap. He removes my hair from its knot and places the band on my stomach. His fingers are rough, just like I remember, but they’re warm and gentle. He runs the tips of his fingers from my eyebrows and up to my hairline and when they comb through my hair for the first time, my eyes drift shut, but not before I see his smile form into a frown. I don’t open my eyes because I don’t want to see his face anymore. I don’t want to see the sadness. I want to go back to a few minutes ago when his smile released my butterflies.

I focus on his touch, the sounds of our breaths, the feeling of weightlessness. Then he places one hand on my stomach, the other continuing with my hair. “I’m not really much for talking,” he says, and for a moment I’m confused, then I remember what I’d said earlier. I’d already given up on his response, like so many of the unanswered questions I’d asked before. “Unless it’s with you for some reason.”

Finally, I open my eyes and look up at him. He’s smiling again, his fingers now working a rhythm.

“Sometimes I feel like it’s just easier to keep my mouth shut. Saves a lot of arguments.”