Page 15 of Even in the Dark

He doesn’t answer, of course. Just raises his ducked head enough to assess me coolly with eyes that are unfairly stunning. That didn’t change, unfortunately, in the hour and a half since I last saw him.

“Scarlett!” mom gasps. “Don’t be so rude!” To him, she says, “You can sit wherever you like, Dylan. I have a few bags of rice chips if you’re hungry. Or rosemary and pine nut muffins… Or fruit flavored soda water, if you’d like one.”

What is it with everyone trying to push stuff on this guy? Trying to appease him or buy his affection or something. Do they not realize a couple of muffins, or skateboard, or a damn car, even—will not make up for the fact that the last fourteen years of his life have been horrible? They can’t undo that. Nothing they say or do will ever make that okay.

Also, what the hell is a rosemary pine nut muffin? Because it definitely doesn’t sound like the way to win over a seventeen-year-old guy. Or anyone, actually. Except maybe a flock of pigeons.

I wish he’d tell them that. Not about the muffins (although, I’d be open to his opinion on those, too). But about the way they all act around him. I want to see him raise his voice and yell at everyone to stop placating him and treating him like a fragile five-year-old or a guest of honor just passing through. I want a glimpse of the raging, out-of-control boy from all those news articles.

He saw me with my guard down. Maybe I want the same opportunity.

“Would you like me to run in and grab you one of those fruit soda waters?” mom pushes eagerly.

“I’m good,” he says, his voice so soft it’s barely audible. He leans over to scruffle Cromwell behind the ears and his features soften just the tiniest bit. He looks… different. Less closed off, maybe.

“Well, we’re just inside if you need anything,” mom tells him.

He looks up and nods. The layer of ice slides back into place, hardening his expression and returning that frosty tint to his gaze.

“Oh, by the way.” Mom glances between us.

I brace myself, because no sentence my mother utters that begins with “Oh, by the way,” is ever a good thing. Sure enough, she hits us with a low-grade bombshell.

“I was just talking to Phil about Dylan starting school next week,” she beams. “And since Dylan doesn’t have his license yet, I told him you’d be happy to drive him to school and back every day, Scarlett.”

Dylan’s eyes flicker to mine, those long lashes blinking just once as his tongue worries that stupid lip ring. And still, I can’t get a read on what he’s thinking.

When neither of us responds, mom adds, “It’ll be a great way for you to get to know each other, right?”

Right. Because that’s exactly what we were both looking for: a daily forced proximity situation where we’re expected to “get to know each other”. Thank you for that, Phil and Mel.

But all I say is, “Sure thing.”

Then Sadie’s voice calls out from somewhere inside.

“I’m going to go tuck her in,” mom says. She wishes us goodnight, then turns and heads back inside. Cromwell scampers up the steps, too. Only he stops to get a good sniff of my shoes on the way. Cromwell’s got fancy taste; he canprobably smell the ridiculously steep price-tag with his keen little sniffer.

I turn to Dylan, so tempted to bite out a cutting comment that would let me regain the upper hand. Not that I feel like I’ve had the upper hand with him since I met him a few hours ago. But I promised myself I’d be nice. That I wouldn’t stretch the limits of my morals to the point of being mean to a guy who’s been through hell and back, just because I don’t trust him. Or like him. So, instead I settle for: “Just so you’re aware, I leave for school every day half an hour earlier than it takes to get there.”

He responds in that bored-out-of-his-skull monotone voice, “Just so you’re aware, your dog just took a piss all over your vice angle shoes.”

My eyes narrow in confusion, and then I whirl around just in time to see Cromwell lowering his leg, then trot inside the house. There’s a yellow stream of urine dripping down the sides of my thousand-dollar Valentino shoes, pooling along the edge of the doormat and trickling down the steps.

When I turn back around, Dylan has gone back inside.

Chapter Six

Scarlett

It’s been a weekend. First, that dinner with the Brauns on Thursday night. Then the championship football game and the party Friday, where Seb finally hit the wall. Essentially, his lies finally caught up to him, just like I warned him they would. But he needed a best friend, not an “I told you so”. So, I held his shattered soul together most of the weekend and did my best at damage control while he was at his worst. And now I’m wiped. And not thrilled that I have to start my day driving Dylan Braun to school. I feel like I need to be firing on all cylinders to deal with his brand of messed-up, and I’m barely firing at all.

I wait for him in my Mercedes coupe (red, of course) at the end of his driveway. The top of the car is up since the early November weather is too cool to be cruising along the ocean with it down. Which is too bad, because I’m all about the top down, tunes blaring, breeze in my hair.

I peer out the windshield at the Brauns' sprawling cedar-shingled house, just as the front door opens. Dylan emerges, all long limbs, tapered waste, and broad shoulders.

His blond hair is pulled up in a messy bun again and he’s wearing an outfit that can only be described as “rocker meets surfer dude”. Similar to his sister, he seems to have a way of throwing together a bunch of random clothing items that shouldn’t work together at all, but end up looking ridiculously cool. I bet he spent five minutes total throwing that ’fit together. I spent thirty minutes getting ready this morning, and that was rushing.

Beside him, Phil is leaning in, speaking intently. Dylan looks straight ahead, standard-issue bored expression in place. I’m halfway tempted to roll the window down so I can hear what they’re saying. I don’t, though.

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