All Broke Down

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.

“His flight had a slight delay, but he should be here soon.”

I nod, grateful for the tiny reprieve to continue thinking about how best to approach the conversation of my arrest with him.

“Is the table already set?” I ask. It would be good to have something to do.

“It is. I’ll admit, I’ve been a little bored with your father gone. I actually set the table nearly an hour ago just to pass the time.”

I laugh because even though she’s not my birth mom, she might as well be. We’re alike in so many ways.

“Do you want to practice your speech on me?” she asks.

I pull my lips up into a smile that feels too frail. “No thanks. I’ve thought through it so many times that it’s kind of playing on a constant loop in my head.”

“Then we’ll talk about something else.” I love her. So much. Sure, she’s not the homey, coddling mom that I dreamed of having as a kid. She never snuggled beside me in bed or played board games with me or let me eat cookies before dinner. But she’s kind. And I’ve never met a more levelheaded, understanding person in all my life. All I ever wanted was to be like her, but if this week is any indication, levelheaded is going to take some work.

“How’s Henry?”

She is stubborn, though. Something I could live without.

“We haven’t spoken.”

“Oh, honey. You realize this is just a phase, don’t you? It happens in every relationship, especially ones that begin as young as yours did. He’s a man and he’s young and stupid, and he thinks he needs to see what’s out in the world in case he’s missing something. But he’ll see soon that there’s no one out there better for him than you.”

I don’t answer. He might decide I’m what’s best for him, but one of the few things I do know right now is that Henry breaking up with me was the best thing that could have happened. It’s not that Henry was bad. He’s a really nice guy, and I could certainly do far worse, but . . . he’s just Henry. And I don’t want to live the rest of my life with someone who is just anything.

“You’re handling it really well, darling. I’m proud of you. It shows how mature you really are.”

She’s not referring to the arrest, of course. Because that’s the opposite of handling anything really well. She means emotionally . . . or the lack of emotion anyway.

I was here when Henry broke up with me. He’d asked to come over and we’d sat on the wooden porch swing outside while he explained that he didn’t feel the same way about me as he used to. When it was over, I went inside and told Mom, and I think she expected me to lose it. To break down and sob right there in the foyer. Instead, I’d gone into the dining room to set the table like I always did when I stopped by for dinner.