Page 115 of Even in the Dark

"It does," she agrees. Then her lips tick up another notch. "It sucks less now that Dylan Braun said on record that I'm not a loser."

I grin. "Didn't put it in writing or anything. So it's not, like… anofficialstatement."

She glances down at my phone, fingers flying across the screen before I have a chance to realize what she's doing. She looks up, eyes sparkling with laughter. "Now it's official," she says, relinquishing my phone when I reach for it. I glance down at the screen. The text she just sent to herself from my phone.

Dylan

I don't think you're a loser, Scarlett. I think you're actually a total winner. And awesome. And so, SO wise

I laugh, shaking my head. Then lean over my phone, and type quickly.

"What are you writing, asshole?" she asks, scrambling to get her own phone out of her pocket. Slides her finger across the screen just as a pinging sound announces the incoming text from me.

I watch as the humor in her eyes dissolves into something else. She blinks. Meets my gaze. I've never seen her like this. Never with this exact look on her face. Hopeful and happy and cautious andso fucking vulnerable.She holds up her phone. "Do you really mean that?"

Dylan

And also really beautiful

My breathing is normal again. Heartbeat isn't hammering and my ribcage doesn't feel like it's stretched to snapping. Still,I can't fucking talk.Can't find the actual words to answer her. I lick my lips. Nod. And hope to God she can tell—see it in my eyes that I mean every fucking word. And that I think she's those other things she typed, too. That I think she's all those things and more.

Chapter Forty-Two

Scarlett

Dylan and I have routines. I’ve never had routines with any of my boyfriends before. Never knew it was something I even liked. But Dylan is a routine guy, so it just sort of happened. And now I love it. On Wednesday evenings, he always stops in to my place when he gets back from his therapist appointment in the city. He’s always exhausted and usually moody and on edge when he shows up. If he does ever talk to me about something discussed during a meeting with his therapist (which is rarely), it’s never on a Wednesday. Wednesdays are strictly low key conversations. He has appointments on Mondays, too, but usually goes right home. His family watches TV together most Mondays, I think.

Thursdays, we often do stuff with Jackie and Silas, and Seb and Caroline. Usually Xave joins us, too. And sometimes other people.

On Fridays, we have our joint family dinners.

And Saturdays are the most sacred of all. Saturdays are when we go to Jays and pick up whatever new issues were released that week in the series we’re each reading. We have a whole ritual. We park just outside the historic town center, then walk the rest of the way, always holding hands. Always stopping in at Board and Brews to grab a hot drink and cinnamon roll first and to say hi to Maggie or Caroline or Silas if they’re working. Once we’re at Jays, we spend time browsing—usually separately. Then lounging on the beanbag chairs—always together—and read our new issues. Sometimes we head straight home afterwards, sometimes we linger and talk. Or catch up with Jay. Then head back in the late afternoon.

It’s snowing today and although Sandy Haven is known for being a summer town, I’ve always felt it’s at its best in the winter, with a dusting of snow on the winding streets of the historic center, wreaths and greenery draping shop windows, and warm string lights everywhere. The pairing of fluffy snow and quaint pastel buildings makes it feel like you’re in a real life Christmas village.

Dylan still gets a kick out of the snow. I catch him sometimes dipping his finger in it and licking it with the tip of his tongue. They’re announcing a snowstorm later today, so he’s going to go nuts over that, I’m sure. In that subdued, mellow, crooked grin kind of way that is Dylan’s version of ‘going nuts’ over something.

Jay just got a bunch of issues in from a spinoff series of a comic Dylan’s into, so he hangs out at the cash chatting about them with Jay when we first arrive, while I stroke Jay’s dog’s fluffy head. Knight—short for Bark Knight—is as much a part of Jay’s as the comics are. He’s a huge Saint Bernard who, for some weird reason, loves to sleep on the counter at the cash. And not curled up in the corner, but full-on laid out across the entire surface, so there’s no free space to put your issues on whenyou’re paying for them, and you end up having to mash them against your chest with one arm while you get your card out of your purse with the other. I thought it was the most bizarre thing the first time I went to pay for a stack of comics and there was this massive horse of a dog sleeping across the entire counter, a thin string of drool sliding from his slightly open jaw onto the sticker covered laminate, his furry folds practically spilling over the edges. Now I can’t imagine this place without Knight snoring away on his make-shift pedestal.

“Snow’s picking up,” Jay says, peering out the sliver of window by the cash that’s not plastered with vintage comic book posters.

“Cool,” Dylan leans over to look. His cheeks are still pink from walking here in the cold and they match his even pinker lips. A few thick snowflakes cling to his long lashes and the golden locks curling around his navy beanie. Can’t say I blame them for lingering.

We spend the next half hour browsing. Mostly checking out a bunch of new issues on the discount shelf. Then make our way to our favorite section, to the left of the cash, where the floor is covered in overlapping faded rugs, and dusty paper lanterns hang from the bare rafters. There’s an old fringed lamp sitting on a lopsided table beneath the window between two floor-to-ceiling shelves of comics, and it’s always on. It’s ugly as sin, but I think it’s what makes the corner so cozy.

We take off our jackets and hats and throw them onto one of the oversized brown beanbags, then settle in together on the other one, laying back, lounging, in the best kind of way.

Dylan leans over and picks up a comic from the stash of four or five he just picked up. Paid for—not stolen.

“Got you something,” he says and lays the comic right across my face.

I laugh and lift it, holding the cover up so I can look at it.

My eyes almost bug out of my head. “You got me a My Little Pony comic!”

“It’s some kind of Rainbow Dash special edition.” He settles in beside me, scoops his arm beneath my shoulders and pulls me in so I’m snuggled into the crook of his arm. “Got Jay to order it in for you.”

“You… Seriously? Dylan… that is just—That’s really, really sweet.” I squeeze an arm around his taut stomach. “Thank you.”

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