More Than Enough (More Than Series, Book 5) (6 page)

Over the next few days, we set a routine.

Me knocking. Her opening. Us in her room. Me in her bed. Her in her corner.

I sleep. She writes. I watch. She cries.

We never ask why.

Sometimes we’ll talk, which always ends in a bunch of humorous insults and the occasional throwing of a cushion. Two days ago, she kicked me out by saying her mom was coming home soon. I hadn’t even realized how long I’d spent there. She didn’t seem to mind.

Then, yesterday, there was no obnoxious music/invitation.

Yesterday fucking sucked.

Riley

Dylan knocks on
my door halfway through the first play of the song. He doesn’t bother with any pleasantries, just pushes on the door, steps around me and marches up to my room where he unplugs the speaker and then turns to me, his hands on his hips. “You left me hanging yesterday,” he says.

I try to remember what all happened the day before but the morning booze already in my system has my memory a little hazy. “My mom was home,” I tell him.

He nods and rubs the back of his head while his gaze wanders around my room. Finally, he sighs, his head jerking toward the bed. “Can I?”

I shrug. “You still having trouble sleeping?”

He makes his way over to the bed and sits on the edge to remove his shoes. “A little.” He climbs under the covers and pulls the blankets to his chin. “Why are you home during the day, anyway? You’re not in college or something?”

“No,” I answer, taking up my spot on the cushions.

“You don’t work?”

“No.” I pick up the notepad and start to write.

Why is he here?

“So you’re what? Taking some time off?”

Why do I like that he’s here?

I shrug in response.

He shifts in the bed until he’s facing me. “How drunk are you right now?”

Why do I like that he’s here?

I hate that he’s here.

“I like you better when you don’t talk.”

He stifles a laugh into the pillow and I narrow my eyes at him. I don’t know why he thinks it’s funny. It’s not. If he keeps talking, keeps asking questions, I’ll revoke the privileges of my bed which I’ve so kindly offered for the last week and he can get the hell out. I’m grumpy. Not because I’m drunk, but because he’s not the only one who’s been losing sleep. Guilt can do that—make you lose sleep, I mean.

“Hey, Riley.”

I roll my eyes at him, trying to make it as obvious as possible that I wasn’t kidding. I really do like him better when he shuts the hell up.

He laughs again, then quickly recovers. “Can you adjust the blinds? I’m already in bed and it’s so warm and cozy.”

I get up and do what he asks because the quicker he’s asleep, the sooner I can go back to drinking. When I’m done, I sit back down in my spot, grab the bottle and take a long, well-earned swig.

“Hey, Riley.”

“Jesus Christ! What?”

“God, you’re feisty.”

“I’m sorry.” My words come out in a clipped tone. “This isn’t part of the deal.”

“The deal?” he asks incredulously.

“Yeah. You. Here. Talking and asking questions. It’s not part of the deal.”

He’s silent a long time before he shifts again, putting his left hand behind his head now, his face toward the ceiling. With his voice low, he says, “I was just going to say, after I crash for a couple hours, I’d like to take you out to lunch or something. Just to say thank you, I guess.” He clears his throat. “I’ve never once seen you eat while I’m here. I thought it would be fun. Maybe get some cake to celebrate your birthday…”

I take my time trying to form an appropriate response. I take too long.

“So?” he asks.

“So… I can’t.”

He sighs. Long and loud and with obvious disappointment. Not at my answer, but at me. It should hurt. It should make me feel something, but it doesn’t. Maybe because I’ve done nothing but disappoint people for the past year and a half.

“I’m actually sleeping okay,” he admits out of nowhere. “My brother moved some shit around in my old room and put a mattress on the floor. I don’t come here to sleep, although it helps. I come here because you don’t ask questions and being at home… I guess I get scared that my dad or brother are going to ask me something I don’t want to answer and it becomes a bigger deal than it is. They were both Marines so it’s like… the thing that connects us all together. My brother and I don’t have much else in common. In fact, I don’t think we really know each other at all. So I’m here hiding out because I don’t want to risk it.”

I take another sip. Write another sentence.

I hate that he’s here.

I like that he’s here.

He continues, “None of my friends know I’m home. I haven’t told them. So, I guess you’re the only person I have right now—which is dumb—because up until a week ago, I didn’t even really know you. So I’m sorry if I’m asking the wrong questions. Pushing the wrong buttons. Because I completely get why you’re pissed—”

“I’m not pissed,” I cut in, my voice barely a whisper. His words hit me hard—right in the feels—I
totally
get it. “I’m not used to having anyone around,” I continue. “And it’s been a while since I’ve had to talk to anyone besides my mom so—”

“Does your mom know you drink?” he interrupts.

I scoff and bring the bottle to my lips. “Who do you think supplies me with it?”

“You do realize how fucked up that is, right?”

“Says the guy sleeping in his neighbor’s bed because he can’t deal with reality.”

“We’re such a fucking mess,” he says, and I can hear the humor in his voice.

“That’s because you’re pushing the wrong buttons,” I joke.

“It’s like the worst form of slow dance.”

“A horrible act of foreplay,” I add. Then choke on my own breath.

He laughs. “Foreplay, Hudson? Really? Are you planning on this leading to sex? Because it’s been a while and I’m down for whatever.”

“Shut up.” I throw a cushion at him. I was going to throw the bottle of wine but I like it too much.

“Quit throwing shit at me.”

“Quit making me want to.”

“So what do we do now? Make out?”

“Shut up!” I tell him, but I’m laughing.

I add another note to my stream of thoughts.

He makes me laugh.

He chuckles with me, low and deep.

“Dylan?”

“Yeah, Riley?”

“The lunch thing…”

“Mm?”

“I’m not really up for leaving the house…” I admit.

“I can bring us something back?”

“And the cake…”

“How many candles?”

Butterflies.

For the next
ten minutes, he tosses and turns in bed while I try to concentrate on anything but him. Then he huffs out a breath and says, “I skipped breakfast. I could eat now. You?”

“Okay.”

He rushes to his feet and opens the blinds fully. “You got a preference?” he asks, turning to me with a smile on his face—a smile that matches mine.

“Bacon.”

“Just bacon?”

I laugh. “Anything with bacon.”

“And the cake?” he asks, grabbing his phone, keys and wallet from my nightstand.

“Anything. Just don’t forget the candles.”

He nods. “Yes, Ma’am.”

I stay in my spot and watch him slip on his shoes, trying to hide my excitement.

His eyes stay on mine as he starts to leave. Stopping at my doorway, he says, “Riley?”

My grin gets wider.

“Please don’t pass out while I’m gone.” He eyes the bottle in my hand.

I shake my head. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

With a chuckle, he mumbles, “Wow. You must really like bacon.”

And then he’s gone.

“It’s not the bacon,” I whisper to myself, my smile wiped as I write:

He’s giving me a wish.

I like wishes, Jeremy.

That’s all it is.

Please don’t be mad.

Dylan

I
rush to
three different places before I find the one I need. Then I speed back home, park in my garage and carefully bring the bags with me. I place them against the wall of her house, hidden from her view and then I knock on her door.

My eyes widen when she answers. She’d changed while I was gone. Maybe even showered going by the dampness of her hair. Her eyes are still a little faded but besides that, she looks completely different. She’s wearing a plain white dress—a dress that shows off the curves she’d been hiding behind the oversized T-shirts she normally wears.

“That was quick,” she says, the same time I say, “You look nice.”

We both laugh, but the kind of nervous laugh I hadn’t felt since I was fifteen and Heidi started talking to me.

I clear my throat and pull my eyes away from her. “I need you to hide out in your room.”

Her eyes narrow. “Why?”

“Surprise.” I try to smile but my lack of breath makes it a struggle.

She purses her lips. “I don’t like surprises.”

I shrug. “Suck it up. It’s only your birthday once a year.”

She smiles at that, before walking backward and into her room, closing the door behind her.

When I know she can’t see me, I take a calming breath. And then another. And another, wondering the entire time why it is she has my heart racing and my palms sweating when we can’t even hold a decent conversation.

“Can I come out now?” she yells.

How the hell long have I been standing here?
“No!” I grab the bags and bring them inside and toward where I assume is her kitchen. “I’ll tell you when you can! Just don’t come out and don’t peek.”

“Dylan!” she yells, and I picture her nose scrunched in annoyance like I’d seen so many times before. She’s fucking cute when she gets like that. Cuter than she is when she’s passed out drunk or throwing shit at me.

“I’ll be two minutes!”

I empty the contents of the bag, set it all out on her kitchen counter, light the candles and rush over to her room before they begin to melt. “Okay,” I say, opening the door.

She’s standing in front of her dresser with her hands on her boobs. She drops her arms to her side and turns to me, her face fifty different shades of red. “Heard of knocking?” she snaps, raising her hands.

I cower beneath my arms.

“What the hell are you doing, Banks?”

I chance a peek at her and when I see her walking toward me, her hands free of anything she could possibly throw, I relax my arms and tell her, “I thought you were going to throw something at me.
Again
.”

She rolls her eyes and gives me that same annoyed look I’ve just deemed cute. Cute doesn’t do it justice.
Hot
. Definitely hot.

“I told you I’d be quick.”

“You said you were going to call out, not barge into my room!”

“I didn’t know you were going to be fondling yourself,” I tell her, waiting until she’s walked past me before covering her eyes. She stops in her tracks causing me to bump into the back of her. “It’s a surprise, remember? Just go with it, Riley.”

“Fine.” She starts to walk forward, her hands out in front of her.

I bend down, my lips to her ear. “I’m not going to crash you into a wall, Hudson. Relax.”

She brings her arms in and grasps my wrists. “I’m also a little tipsy,” she reminds me. Then she mumbles something about not being able to smell anything, but I don’t really know what she’s saying because all my other senses have been drowned out by her touch on my arm. Her back on my chest. Her breath on my cheek as she turns to me. “Are we there?” she whispers, her lips an inch away from mine. I realize we’ve stopped moving, though I don’t know when. I blink twice, forcing my eyes away from her lips—her wet, slightly parted lips and her mint/wine breath brushing against mine. “Dylan?”

Fuck, I want to kiss her
. “Huh?”

“Can I open my eyes?”

“Shit.”

“What?” she says, her grip getting tighter. “Did you do something? Is the house burning down? What?”

I shake my head to clear my thoughts and start moving again. I try not to focus on the heat of her body against mine when I stop in front of the counter, the glow of the candles setting off patterns of flickering light against the walls of the dark room. “Ready?” I ask.

Her grip tightens again. “No.”

I lower my hands. “Happy birthday.”

Her intake of breath matches mine when I realize she hasn’t let go of my wrists. Now I’m standing behind her, my arms around her waist.

She releases a chuckle, or at least I think that’s what it is, but when she turns to me, still in my arms and her eyes instantly on mine, I can see her tears. “You got me bacon cupcakes?”

I nod. “Bacon and maple.”

“They each have a candle,” she whispers, but she’s not looking at the cupcakes, she’s looking at me.

“All twenty of them.”

She takes a huge breath, causing her chest to rise, and then fall as she lets out a tiny laugh. “You gave me twenty wishes.”

I spend the
next half hour watching her blow out each individual candle. She asked that I blow them all out first, and then she’d do them individually. I didn’t ask why. If I’ve learned one thing from today, it’s to not ask questions.

She takes her time, her gaze lifting before each blow, as if she’s really thinking hard about her wishes. I guess they mean something to her—these wishes she makes. And it’s good, I decide, because it means she has something to look forward to which before today, I would have never guessed.

Her reaction after each wish is different. Sometimes she smiles. Sometimes she frowns. Sometimes she moves right on to the next, and others, she just stares as the smoke rises from the freshly put out candle. But on her last one she looks at me standing right next to her. Right into my eyes. I swallow loudly, my nerves on show, hoping she doesn’t see the real me. That behind the bullshit front I show her and the small details of my current existence I’ve admitted to her, I hope to God she doesn’t see that maybe I’m just as fucked up as she is. That while she uses alcohol to hide the mayhem inside her, I’m using
her
.