I believe in him.
His friends don’t say anything, and when I turn to look at them over my shoulder, they’re leaving the kitchen. But Silas apparently isn’t done.
“Isaiah.” His friend turns. “I am sorry, but I will kick your ass if you can’t mind your own business.”
I sigh, and think, baby steps. His friend nods his head thoughtfully and exits the kitchen without a word. I relax and breathe easy for the first time since his roommates walked through the door.
Silas pushes some of my hair behind my ear, and I glance up.
The look in his eye flattens me, twists me up, and wrings me out. A girl could read all kinds of things into the look he’s giving me.
“Thank you,” he says. “You were right. That would have made things ten times worse.”
“That’s what friends do.”
That look disappears. And I’m both incredibly relieved and a little sorry to see it go.
“So . . . what’s the plan?” he asks me.
For possibly the first time in my life, I am completely without a plan. I’ve got no backup, no safety net below me in case I screw things up. And I can’t decide if it’s more exhilarating or terrifying.
He must get where my head is at because he clarifies: “Our deal. What do we do first?”
It’s hard to think with him this close to me, and I’m still a little too caught up in what we almost did as part of that deal.
“I answered your question. So now it’s my turn.”
He doesn’t look happy, but he shrugs, and I figure that’s as close as I’m going to get to a go-ahead.
“You asked me what I’m afraid of . . . now I want to hear your answer.” He opens his mouth, and I cut him off. “And I don’t mean getting kicked off the team. I want to know what’s behind that . . . what happens if you do get kicked off the team? Why is that the worst thing that could happen?”
The stare he pins me with is dark and clouded, and his jaw is clenched so tight it might as well be wired shut. And I take pity on him.
“You don’t have to tell me right now. But that’s part of this, Silas. If you’re not willing to eventually let me in, there’s no point in me sticking around. Think about it.”
“I don’t need to think about it. I’ll do what I have to, but . . .”
“But you need a little time. I get that. We’ll start small.”
“With what?”
I think for a moment and then ask, “What are you doing tomorrow?
The expression that pulls at his face is excruciating.
“Nothing. I’m suspended from practice for a week.”
“Good. Then I’ve got an idea. I’ll pick you up at eight forty-five in the morning. Wear something that you don’t mind getting messed up.”
I turn to leave, but I get precisely two steps away before he catches my hand and pulls me to a stop. His thumb rubs over my knuckles once, and then he lets me go.
“He’s right, you know. I will pull you down with me.”
I lift my chin and reply, “If I go down, it will be because I jumped, not because you made me fall.”
He shakes his head and laughs once under his breath.
“I don’t even know what that means.”
I want to tell him that that’s exactly what he’s been doing. Whatever it is that he’s worried about has him so messed up, so afraid that he’s going to fail that he’s sabotaging himself. Self-fulfilling prophecy. But I think he’s been preached at enough for the day, so I just smile and say, “See you tomorrow.”
Hopefully. Provided my father doesn’t lock me in my old bedroom and never let me out. I’m almost out of the kitchen when Silas calls out again.
“Dylan?”
I turn.
“He was wrong about the other thing, though.”
“What other thing?”
“If they hadn’t walked in . . . I wouldn’t have been done with you. Once never would have been enough.”
I leave.
I leave before I give in to the need to touch him again, to coax that look back to life. I leave before I fulfill my own prophecy and dive headfirst into something that could ruin me. Ruin us both.
It’s not until I’m climbing back into my car that I realize that I didn’t get my underwear back.
I drop my head against the steering wheel and groan. So much for keeping things simple. “You are in so much trouble, Dylan Brenner.”
And trouble’s name is Silas Moore.
“YOUR FATHER ISN’T here.”
That’s the first thing Mom says upon opening the door when I arrive for dinner that night. I let out a breath and allow my rigid posture to relax. I changed clothes before coming over because I couldn’t touch my shirt or skirt without remembering the way Silas had pushed my clothes aside. I’m at my most comfortable in flowy skirts, oversized shirts, and sandals. But in my parents’ world (and Henry’s world), I got used to slacks, pencil skirts, and fancy blouses. Mom sweeps her eyes down my form, and she doesn’t say anything, so I assume my black pants and cap sleeve top meet her expectations.
She doesn’t work, unless you count serving on various boards and charities, but even at home, she’s always dressed in business attire. I step inside the house. My heels click against the familiar shiny hardwood floor. Even after all these years, being in this house still feels a little like being in a hotel. Everything is a little too polished, a little too decorated, a little too clean to feel like home. Or at least the kind of home that I see in movies and read in books, a place where you’re at ease and feel comfortable and safe. I’ve never really had that kind of home, not even now that I live on my own.
My roommate, Antonella, is even more of a perfectionist than I am. I organize everything into boxes and shelves and drawers. She’s the same, only armed with a label maker and a tendency to color-code . . . well, everything. I was really lucky to meet her in my history class the year before last. We sort of gravitated toward each other because we were both quiet, serious, and studious. I’ve branched out a little from that . . . found things I like doing outside of school, but Nell is still all about class, class, and more class. She takes an ungodly number of them, and our roommate bonding only consists of doing homework in the same room.
I follow Mom into the kitchen with its sleek, modern lines, stainless steel, and professional equipment.
“Where is Dad?” I ask as she checks on the food she’s keeping warm in the oven.