33. Dylan

Chapter 33

Dylan

Roommate Group Text

Dylan : I know you’re both angry at me. And I don’t blame you.

Dylan : I stole the win from us.

Dylan : Guys? Are you there?

Coming together in the common cause of wanting to cheer Rosie up eased some of the tension between me and Dad. It didn’t dissolve it completely, but I’d take anything I could.

We’d decided to play Texas Holdem, using candy as our currency. Mom divvied up the candy while Dad shuffled the cards. I hadn’t played cards since high school, and Rosie had never played the game, so Dad gave us a quick explanation.

I kept making bad decisions in the game and losing my candy because I was keeping one eye on Rosie the entire night. She was so down for someone who was happy and bubbly for most of the time I’d known her. It was more than just sadness though. It was like she’d lost hope.

But healing from something like this took time—potentially lots of time. And I didn’t want to make her feel like she had to pretend to be happy to keep me comfortable.

It surprised no one—except Rosie—when Mom won the entire pot. Mom was a total card sharp, and growing up, it had been mine and Lily’s goal to beat her. Dad said what first made him fall in love with my mom was how slyly competitive she was. She’d come into a game sweet and unassuming and then smile the entire time she was wiping the floor with you.

It wasn’t until I met Rosie that I started to understand what exactly was so attractive about that quality.

“I’m going to bed,” Rosie said after she yawned for the tenth time. Mom had made her some lavender sleepy tea to help her calm down, and she looked like she could lie her head on this table and fall immediately asleep.

“I’ll walk you up.” I hopped out of my chair and took her hand firmly in mine.

Lizzy slowly lifted her eyelids when we came into the room, then went back into a sound sleep. She was snuggled into the heated blanket Mom had pulled out of storage for her and placed on the guest bed.

She was shaking with cold, Mom had explained while Rosie and I ate dinner, even though she’d burrowed under that thick blanket on the back of the couch. So I set her up in the guest room with a space heater and heated blanket.

“Poor thing,” Rosie cooed.

“Yes,” I said dryly. “She’s clearly suffering.”

Rosie nudged her shoulder into mine, but her eyes had a tiny glimmer of amusement in them, which was exactly what I’d been going for. She yawned again—the kind that cracked her jaw—and she threw her hand over her mouth as her cheeks pinked. I loved when she blushed like that. Way, way too much.

“Do you need anything?” I asked her.

She shook her head. “You guys have been amazing. Seriously, I don’t know what I would have done if—” She sniffled.

“Hey.” I stood in front of her and took her face in my hands. I brushed my thumb across her peach-soft cheek. Her tears hadn’t fallen yet, but her eyes were red and watery as she looked up at me. “It’s a privilege to help you, Rosie Forrester.”

Her inhale stuttered, but on the long exhale, it sounded steadier. I’d love nothing more than to pull her into my chest and lie beside her all night. To comfort her if she started crying again, to kiss away each tear and assure her we would figure this out.

It took all my self-discipline to gently kiss her forehead, breathe in her familiar scent, and then step away. “Go to sleep. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”

She grabbed my arm before I could leave the room. I turned and found her watching me, confusion spread across her face. “Dylan, I …” We watched each other, the silence between us taut. Then she dropped her hand slowly and took a step back. “Thank you.”

I swallowed thickly, nodded, and left the room before I could change my mind about holding her all night long. Now that I knew what that felt like, it was hard to go back.

I went downstairs to find that my mom had made up the hide-a-bed for me. Across the top of the paper-thin mattress was a brand-new looking navy and white quilt, the Peaks’ team colors. The shades of white created a mountain peak, while the various hues of blue were the sky.

Mom had always been talented at quilting, and I knew enough about the craft to recognize that a design like this would have taken her countless hours to complete.

“If you get cold, there’s an afghan on the chair you can grab too.” She waved her hand nervously. “But what am I saying? You never get cold.”

“This is really nice, Mom.” I indicated the blanket.

“Oh, that. Yeah. I liked working on it when I was missing you. So most of the time.” She laughed but then looked away.

I’d been so focused, so driven, so willing to interpret their actions in the worst light possible to justify never coming home.

Before I could lose my nerve, I stepped close to my mom and pulled her into a real hug.

She let out a small gasp, and then wrapped her arms around me so tight, a smaller man would have lost his ability to breathe.

“I love it, Mom.”

She patted me on the back a few times, and when I loosened my grip, she stepped back immediately. The hug version of not wanting to over-stay your welcome. Her eyes were suspiciously red. “It’s yours, then.”

“I couldn’t—”

“I’ll make another one.” She took another step back, and then with a wave, headed upstairs, leaving me alone in my childhood house, her promise unsettling me.

Would she be compelled to make another quilt to represent how much she missed me?

Or was I actually welcomed here after all?

If I hadn’t been up all night the entire night before, I probably wouldn’t have been able to sleep. But it felt like it was a mere blink from when I pressed my head to the pillow to when I heard my parents talking quietly in the kitchen as they prepared breakfast. I rolled over with a groan to grab my phone. It was only five-thirty. I’d forgotten how early they woke up.

I stretched and went into the bathroom. When I came back out, Mom had already put the bed up and folded the blankets. I looked longingly at the couch, where I would not be getting another hour or two of sleep.

“Dad’s got breakfast on the stove,” Mom said quietly. “It’s brown sugar and cinnamon steel oats. There’s cream and a bowl of cut fruit in the fridge.”

I yawned. Steel-oats were Dad’s specialty. My stomach growled, and I went into the kitchen to fill my bowl. Dad sat at the table, reading the news on his tablet. He’d always read the paper until his tea went cold, and then he’d head upstairs to get ready. It was comforting to see he still had the same habit—even if it was a high-tech version.

The silence between us was even more comfortable than last night. Was this the effect of spending more time together? Of working together to help Rosie? If there was one thing we could agree on, it was that we cared for Rosie Forrester.

“What are your plans today?” Dad asked.

“Whatever Rosie wants to do,” I said.

Dad nodded, like that was the right answer, and it felt much better than I expected to have his approval.

I relaxed into my chair and pulled up the news as well. The semi-finals were on tonight. Even though the Peaks were out of the running, I wanted to watch it. Rosie was supposed to work at the Icy Asps tonight too, which was a bonus.

The pang of loss hit me, followed by a surge of regret. My therapist was trying to help me understand that my grief had made me self-destructive, and if I’d been the only person hurt by my actions, it would be much easier to swallow. But I’d let down my entire team. They weren’t even answering my texts anymore.

Maybe I deserved to be officially kicked off the team, even if the thought of not playing for the Peaks again made me want to throw up my breakfast.

I posted a few pictures of myself wrapped in Mom’s quilt after Dad went upstairs to get ready. Selfies were still not my strong suit, but Rosie said my bad angles and inability to locate the camera were charming, so I went with it. I captioned it: Coming home again isn’t easy, but it’s had its perks. Isn’t my mom talented???

As heart notifications rolled in, I decided to make a quick, simple reel. I stood facing the open window, like Rosie taught me, to get the best light, and held the phone far enough away from my face to show it all, plus a bonus section of my arm holding the camera.

“Hey, everyone. My friend had a pretty devastating blow a couple of nights ago to her art studio and boutique. A storm blew in and caused some major structural damage, so she’s going to have to shut down for a few months while it all gets fixed. She lost one major piece of artwork that sadly can’t be recovered, but we did manage to retrieve the rest and get it to a safe place. She is a wildly talented artist, and an incredible person. I’m going to link her website and tag her store below. Check it out, and I promise you’ll fall in love. I know I did.”

I hesitated before posting it. Would Rosie be upset? No. This was exactly something Rosie would do. She’d use every resource at her disposal to help her people. I wanted to be more like her in that way.

She made me want to be a better person in so many areas.

If only figuring out what to do with that realization was as easy as knowing how to get a goal on the ice.

It was mid-morning before I heard Rosie moving around upstairs. I’d had time to go for a run, clean up after breakfast, do a rotation of one minute of push-ups followed by one minute of sit-ups for thirty minutes, then practiced some yoga poses my therapist suggested I try.

After a long shower and a second breakfast of scrambled eggs and diced veggies, I was starting to feel restless. Mom and Dad had gone to Lily’s house to break the news to her that I’d be staying with them for a while.

I wasn’t sad to be missing that meeting.

Repairing my relationship with Lily was going to take time, patience, and more hope than I had to spare right now.

Repairing my relationship with the team was also going to take all those things—but at least I knew where to start with them. I sat at the table and pulled out my phone. Time to use every resource at my disposal to make things better.

I started by ordering the brand-new navy and white Peaks hoodie for every person on the team, including a note that said: You guys did great. Sorry I let you down.

Then I sent another text to Bret and Gage. Since the Peaks’ loss, they’d stopped answering my texts. It hurt worse than I’d have expected it to, and I needed to fix it. I didn’t blame them for being angry at me for messing up the season, though.

Dylan: I need to apologize to you both. I’ve been selfish for a long time, but especially for the last few months, since Shiloh died. I was only thinking of myself and not the team. I messed up pretty big and I hope someday you’ll be able to forgive me.

I sent it off, listened to Rosie moving around the bedroom, and then headed into the bathroom. At some point I was going to have to tell her that this fake relationship had become real to me. But the timing needed to be better—maybe not right in the midst of her facing devastation over her store. I wanted to think about what was best for Rosie, not just what I wanted and hoped for.

A loud banging on the door startled me from my thoughts.

It pounded again aggressively, like someone would take down this whole door if they could. I stiffened my back and tensed my muscles as I approached it. Dad had gotten the occasionally angry person at the door because of some arrest he’d made. It sounded like he’d upset someone once again.

I braced myself just like I did before stepping on the ice and threw the door open.

Gage stopped pounding on the door with the back of his fist and grinned.

“Why do you look like you want to fight us?” Bret said with mock offense. He held up his phone where he had my message pulled up. “Was this apology not sincere?”

I blinked in shock, still trying to process. “What—”

Gage stepped forward first and pulled me into a back-pounding hug, followed quickly by Bret.

“We saw your text and rushed over,” Bret said.

“I literally sent it fifteen minutes ago.”

“We had to really rush,” Gage said, that stupid grin still stretching his face.

“I can’t believe you guys are here.”

“Can we come in or …?” Bret asked.

I shook my head to clear it and motioned for Bret and Gage to follow me inside. “I’m still trying to process this. How did you find my parents’ house?”

Bret pounded my shoulder affectionately as he passed me and set his bag down. “Location sharing.”

I groaned. “I completely forgot you had that.”

“For emergencies,” he said. “And this seemed like an emergency.”

Gage set his bag down too. “The apology was just well-timed icing on the cake.”

Bret turned to Gage. “I like to believe he sensed we were close, and that’s what inspired him to send the message.”

“Soul mates.” Gage held out his fist for knuckles.

I knocked his hand away and laughed, feeling truly happy. I’d missed these guys more than I’d realized. “It takes like twenty-four hours of travel to get here.”

“Yeah,” Bret said. “And we’re starving.”

Gage elbowed him in the gut, but Bret continued to stare shamelessly at me. “Did you know that there are no open food places in this town?”

“There is in the evening, or when a cruise ship is docked,” I told him. “Which won’t be until this afternoon.”

“You know the cruise schedule?” Gage asked.

“Everyone in Winterhaven knows the cruise schedule.” I raided the fridge for the leftover stew and lasagna from last night, as well as the remaining biscuits. “Plates are to the right of the sink.”

Gage pulled down three plates and bowls, and we piled them up with food to heat up in the microwave. While we waited for it to warm up, I got out the bowl of fruit for us to snack on.

“Save some for Rosie,” I said as they each washed their hands then took a handful of grapes.

“Rosie, huh.” Gage waggled his eyebrows. “Is she here too?”

“We saw your reel,” Bret said around a mouthful of fruit. “I didn’t realize your relationship was so serious.”

“It’s not. Yet,” I said. But I definitely had plans to make it so. I was becoming more and more convinced that a life without Rosie Forrester wasn’t one I wanted to contemplate.

“Pretty bold to confess your love online,” Gage said.

I let out a short laugh. “No, I didn’t.”

Gage pulled the lasagna out of the microwave and replaced it with the stew. “Dude. In the one you posted this morning, you straight up said you loved her.”

“You may need more sleep.” I chuckled.

They both leveled me with a look, and my chuckle stopped cold. “I didn’t say I loved her.” I tried to believe it, but I heard the panic in my own voice.

Bret held up his phone, and the video of me. I listened to my horrible voice and watched the almost-double chin as I swallowed thickly and said, “I promise you’ll fall in love. I know I did.”

“I meant with her artwork,” I said, and held my hand out like a choir director does to help singers find the beat. “They’d fall in love with her artwork.”

“Hm, kay. And the ‘I’m completely obsessed’ facial expression?” Bret took a huge bite of the lasagna. “Oh, hot, hot.” He fanned his open mouth, filled with food. What would all the women who idolized him think of this image? “But this is so good,” he moaned as he took another huge bite and went through the same fanning process.

“You’re going to burn your tongue so bad you can’t taste your food the rest of the trip,” Gage admonished him, but it all happened in the background of my spinning mind.

I’d accidentally confessed my love for Rosie. On a reel that was well on its way to going viral. Should I delete it before she saw it?

I didn’t deny the feelings, but I hadn’t planned on telling her anything yet. There were steps. I had to prove I’d changed. I had to convince her to stop loving that jackhole, Max. I had to make sure her store was in a good place before I gave her more to think about.

I rewatched my video on silent, paying attention to my expressions. Bret was right. I looked besotted and obsessed. I slumped against the counter. “I look very obviously in love with Rosie Forrester.”

“Or her artwork. It’s possible people would believe that,” Gage said encouragingly as he took smaller bites of his lasagna.

“But not probable,” Bret said.

I scratched my head and swore.

“It’s only a problem if you’re not actually in love with her,” Gage said.

“Or if she’s not in love with you,” Bret said, a little too cheerily. “Is she?”

Before I could answer, I heard Rosie pad lightly down the stairs. “Dylan, you won’t believe this!” she called out. “My online store has sold more paintings this morning than I’ve ever sold. What in the world is going on?”

I looked at Gage and Bret, and they both straightened up as Rosie walked into the kitchen, her gaze down at her phone. She wore denim shorts and a black hoodie with Lizzy tucked into the pocket, except for a tiny portion of her head and ears.

“Rosie,” I said, and she looked up at me, then Bret, then Gage. “There are some people I want you to meet.”