Only in My Dreams (36 page)

“Sara,” he didn't know what to say. “I'm . . . not in love with you.” Saying it cut so deeply because he suspected it wasn't true. He thrust the thought away—he couldn't love her. Love was an emotion that just never worked out for him.

She put her hand over her mouth. Then she nodded, turned, and started down the porch steps.

His own heart was aching, but he really and truly thought this was for the best. For her. Better to disappoint her now than later.

As she drove away into the night, Dylan slumped back against his front door. If he was doing the right thing, why did it feel so wrong?

Chapter Twenty-Two

A
N HOUR LATER
, after taking a scalding hot shower that did nothing to warm his insides and drinking a beer that did even less, Dylan crashed on the couch. He put his feet up and stared at the ceiling, not even registering whatever show he'd landed on when he'd thrown the TV on. Some sitcom.

The sound of his doorbell jolted him upright. He turned off the TV and listened, wondering if he hadn't heard the noise as part of some wishful thinking.

No, he didn't want Sara to come back. He'd done the right thing.

The bell rang again. He considered ignoring it, but decided he wasn't that big of a dick.

With a slow, heavy gait he made his way to the entry hall. Then nearly tripped when he saw his parents—his dad
and
mom—through the window.

He opened the door. “Uh, this is weird.”

“Hello to you, too.” Mom didn't wait for an invitation, but pushed in past him. “Goodness, you still haven't done anything with that room?” She was looking at the front parlor, which was covered with godawful floral wallpaper and a hideous oak chair rail from the late '80s. Mom hadn't been here since shortly after he'd moved in, what, three years ago?

He didn't say anything, just led them toward the back of the house. He heard Dad shut the door behind him.

“This better?” he said as he moved into the kitchen. He took a small amount of pleasure from Mom's obvious shock.

She turned about, gaping. “It's gorgeous. Why doesn't the whole house look like this?”

“Little things called time and money.”

She glanced at him before continuing her visual inventory. “But you do all of this yourself.”

“The granite and appliances aren't free, Mom.”

She sniffed. “I suppose.”

He went to the fridge and pulled out another beer. “Can I get you guys anything?”

“A beer would be great.” Dad smiled, but his eyes were dark, like he was a bit apprehensive.

Dylan got a second beer, opened them, and handed one to Dad. “Mom?”

“No, nothing for me.” She slid her hand across the countertop. “I can't get over how fabulous this looks. Who designed it?”

“I did.”

Her jaw sagged. “Really?”

Dylan nearly laughed at her reaction, but he was too emotionally drained. “Yeah, really. So what brings you guys up here? Together. This is weird.” He knew he was repeating himself, but he couldn't help it. He hadn't seen them together since his wedding.

Mom and Dad glanced at each other. Dad took a drink of beer. “We wanted to talk with you. To apologize, mostly. Should we sit?” He half turned toward the great room.

“Suuuurrre.” Dylan preceded them and took a seat on the couch. Dad sat beside him and Mom took one of two chairs that were angled in front of the windows. They wanted to apologize? He looked at Dad. “Is this because of what happened last week? I texted you an apology.”

“I know, but it wasn't necessary. I'm,” he shot Mom a stern look, “
we're
the ones who need to apologize. And it's been a hell of a long time coming.”

Holy shit, he wasn't sure he was ready for this. Not tonight. His insides were already pummeled into bits after Sara. “Why now?”

“Why not now?” Dad shook his head ruefully. “I'm so sorry it took you losing your cool for me to open my eyes. I thought we did a decent job, that you were happy. You were so young when we split up, I never imagined our divorce affected you.”

“It didn't—at least not in the way it does for most kids, I guess.” Dylan shrugged. He had an odd sensation, as though this conversation wasn't really happening.

Mom scooted forward to the edge of her chair. “I know things haven't always been easy between you and Bill.”

“He doesn't like me, Mom. Never has.” Though how did an adult not a like a kid? Especially when they were married to that kid's mom?

She pursed her lips. “It isn't that. He just . . . he didn't want to try to be your father since you already had one.”

“I'd asked him not to,” Dad said quietly. “I didn't think he'd be quite so literal. I screwed up, son. I should've encouraged him to love you and cherish you as much as I did.” His voice started to break, and he inhaled sharply. “As much as I
do
.”

Dylan's breath rattled around in his chest like it was trapped. He didn't know what to say.

“And I wasn't exactly supportive of Angie,” Mom said. “Or of you, Sam.” She looked at Dylan's dad. “We should've done more to make this multifamily thing work for Dylan, and I know you tried.”

Dylan stood up, the energy coursing through him forcing him to move. He picked up his beer and took a long drink. Then he moved back toward the kitchen.

Dad turned on the couch to look at him. “Dylan, you seem uncertain.”

“This is just . . . I can't get my head around the two of you here together.”

Mom got up and followed him. “It's long overdue. When your dad called to tell me what you said . . . ”

Dylan stood in the kitchen behind the giant island he'd built, using it as a defense against them. “He called you?”

She nodded. “I'm glad he did. No, I'm sorry he had to. I know I'm . . . controlling. I just want you to be happy. I think I knew, deep down, that you weren't. That it was more than Jessica. You never should've married her.” She stood on the other side of the counter and rested her palms atop the granite.

This was too much. Mom had practically pushed him to marry Jessica. “Why were you in favor of it then?”

“I thought it would be good for you. I thought it was what you needed.” Dylan couldn't argue with her since he'd thought the same thing.

Dad came and joined them, setting his beer down and looking at Dylan with an intensity that honestly made him a little uncomfortable. “I thought so too. I thought a family of your own would coax you to open up, to
feel
. You're a pretty closed off guy.”

“And why do you think that is?” He sounded angry. Hell, he
felt
angry. “Look, this is a great effort. I guess I appreciate it, but it's kind of late. I'm thirty-one years old. I am who I am. I don't like to show how I feel and I sure as hell don't like to talk about it.”

Dad held up his hand. “I get it, and no one's asking you to change, least of all us. We just want to do things differently. And we hope, in time, that you'll want to open up and join in with our families—
your
families.”

Now they wanted to find a way to make him feel included? “I don't know if that will work. Like I said, I am who I am, and things are the way they are.”

“Things are only the way we let them be,” Dad said, starting to sound a little stern. “I'm going to do my damnedest to make sure you know how important you are to me. I've already told Angie that Monica Christensen can't come over anymore. She was horrible to you during the divorce. If she wants to apologize, I'll reconsider, but for now, she's not welcome at Rancho Westcott.”

Dylan nearly cracked a smile. “Thanks, but that's not necessary.”

Dad slapped his hand on the counter. “For Christ's sake, stop discounting yourself, Dylan. It
is
necessary. You've always done that, made your needs and wants so small as to be overlooked, probably because you just wanted to fit in.” Dad wiped his hand over his face. “When I think back . . . ” His voice cracked again, and this time Dylan saw the sheen of tears in his eyes. “If banning Monica from my house is the least I can do, I'll do it from the mountaintops.”

Everything Dad said resonated with him, made something inside of him break free and take flight. He braced his hands on the counter and stared at the pattern in the granite. When he looked up, Dad was wiping his eyes and Mom was biting her lip.

She blinked rapidly. “Tell us we haven't ruined you.”

Earlier he'd thought of himself as broken. But maybe he was fixable. They certainly thought so. And it seemed like they wanted to invest whatever necessary to make him right. “You haven't.” He was surprised to hear the gravel in his voice.

Mom came around and hugged him. He put his arms around her, trying but failing to remember the last time they'd done this. When she pulled back, it was Dad's turn. He thumped Dylan on the back a few times. “I'm sorry, son. I hope you'll be able to forgive us someday.”

Dylan stepped back. “I already do. I know you tried. And I know I haven't made it easy. I'll try to be better about . . . sharing.” The thought nearly gave him hives.

Dad gave a single nod, then went and plucked up his beer for a long quaff. “Good beer.”

Dylan shook his head. “I still can't believe you guys came up here together.”

“We don't hate each other. In fact, I honestly can't remember if I ever did.” The look she sent his dad was nearly his undoing. There was kindness and even a hint of . . . love.

Dylan took a drink of beer to stave off the unwelcome rush of emotion, then struggled to swallow it past the lump in his throat.

“Now, tell me what's going on with that girl from the restaurant,” Mom said. “That was Sara Archer, wasn't it?”

“What girl?” Dad looked at him quizzically. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No.” But God, if he let himself accept the emotions battering at him from all sides, he could. He'd been the worst sort of prick. He hadn't been thinking of her, he'd been protecting himself from having to open up and, you know,
feel
. But this . . . family conference with his parents had opened up some sort of floodgate and suddenly he knew exactly how he felt about her. He'd never felt as alive, as capable, as happy as he did when he was with her. She gave him a sense of that elusive thing he'd wanted so badly but could never seem to find—family. And he couldn't wait to tell her. “I hate to throw you guys out, but I need to go somewhere.”

Mom looked at the clock hanging to the side of the doorway to the hall. “Now? It's after nine o'clock.”

He laughed. “You guys
just
came up here; clearly it's not that late.”

“We waited until we were sure you were home from work and had eaten dinner.”

Dinner? He'd completely forgotten that. Not that he wanted any. He was only hungry for one thing, and it wasn't food. He grabbed his keys from the hook on the wall. “I gotta go. Stay, leave, whatever.” He went into the hallway and then turned to look at them. “Thank you.”

Dad toasted him with his beer. “Good luck with whatever you're doing. And let us know how it goes?” The hidden message was clear: don't keep this stuff to yourself.

Dylan smiled. “I will. I promise.”

S
ARA SAT AT
the little table in Dad's office situated in front of the windows that overlooked the drive. Her iPad was propped in front of her as she tried to read the latest Elisabeth Naughton romantic suspense. She was local and one of Sara's favorites, but it was hard to concentrate when the man you were in love with dumped you.

She leaned forward and closed her eyes. Maybe she should've gone to France with Mom.

No, do what's best for you, Sara. Like Alex said:
Put yourself first.

She gave up on the book, and left the office, nearly colliding with Kyle in the main hall.

He caught her elbows. “Hey, Sara-cat. I know it's late, but I'm starved. I was about to cook something. You interested?”

Her stomach growled in response. She'd totally forgotten to eat dinner. “Sounds good.”

They went into the kitchen just as Dad came in from the mudroom.

Kyle opened the fridge. “I'm cooking dinner, Dad. You hungry?”

Dad blinked at him and glanced at Sara who nodded her head in encouragement—they'd reached a truce for the sake of working together at Archer, but Sara knew they had things to resolve, hopefully soon. “Sure, thanks. I think I'll grab a beer. It's new—I just hooked it up this morning.”

Sara followed him to the other counter. “Really? I didn't realize you'd brewed anything.” If it was already drinkable, he had to have made it weeks ago.

He shrugged. “Just this. It's a grapefruit base—you might like it.” He grabbed two pint glasses from the cabinet behind the island that held the keg and wine fridge.

“Hey, don't I get one?” Kyle asked from across the kitchen.

Dad got a third glass and filled them.

“It's so good to see you brewing again,” Sara said, eager to focus on something besides her encounter with Dylan earlier.

Kyle joined them and all three lifted their glasses. “Cheers!”

Sara sat on one of the stools and sipped the brew. It wasn't bad. Not too hoppy, which she hated, with a smooth, sweet finish. “This is pretty good.”

Dad cracked a half-smile. “Finally a beer my kitten will drink. I dub thee, ‘Kitten Ale.' ”

“Why are you all drinking without me?” Tori came into the kitchen too and sat on Sara's other side. She tapped her hand on the counter. “Hit me, Dad.”

He turned and got another glass, pulled the tap, and pushed the beer over to Tori. “This is Kitten Ale. Grapefruit.”

Tori sampled the brew and nodded. “I don't usually like fruity beer, but this is really good. Nicely done, Dad.”