Page 16 of Even in the Dark

They make their way down the front steps to the circular driveway, a few stray fallen orange and yellow maple leaves crunching under their feet. Dylan’s hands are shoved in his pockets. He toes the cobblestones with his worn sneaker as Phil rests a hand on his shoulder before stopping at the end of the drive. He says something and Dylan nods as he continues toward my car, eyes forward.

The passenger door opens just as I’m applying a coat of lip gloss. Dylan ducks, pausing as our eyes meet.

I almost forgot about the draw of those eyes. Beautiful, but also haunted. It’s like everything about him is a mix of contradictions. The fact that he’s tall—over six feet. But then looks younger than I expected; his skin tanned and baby-face smooth. Yet there’s also something about him that seems way older than his seventeen years, too. Possibly his general demeanor. Like nothing or no-one could ever take him by surprise or come close to penetrating the icy shell he seems to have shielded himself with.

I don’t even like the guy and I am halfway blinded by his stupidly beautiful features. Girls are going to go nuts over him. Like, they will full-on lose it. He has no idea how much action he is going to get if he wants it. That is, if he’s willing to let anyone get within ten feet of him.

He gives me an almost wary once-over. Not a reaction I’ve ever had from a guy before. Especially wearing this sweater. I look amazing in this sweater.

“Don’t worry, I don’t bite,” I joke, capping the tube of lip gloss and tossing it back in the cupholder.

His eyes narrow a fraction, like he’s legitimately considering not getting in.

And what the hell is this guy’s deal with me? It’s the kind of reaction that makes me want to chip away at his seams, crack him open and see what spills out.

He eventually slides in without a word, dropping his backpack at his feet, then sits back and stares out the windshield, face blank again. Phil keeps standing there in the driveway with his hands in the pockets of his freshly pressed chinos, eyes on Dylan. He watches us pull out with one of those expressions again that is gutting. There is happiness… But also something else. Worry. Guilt. Possibly both. He stands there until he becomes just a dot in the rear-view mirror as I continue down Ocean Drive towards the end of our prestigious peninsula subdivision.

“Did he take one of those photos of you on the doorstep this morning, holding up a First Day of Grade Twelve sign?” I go for light-hearted. Because someone needs to lighten the mood here. It’s like car-pooling with the grim reaper.

“Huh?” Dylan looks at me like I just asked if he sleeps in the nude. And then I remember: kidnapped at three. Barely attended school. He has no idea about the suburban pre-requisite yearly elementary-school Facebook photo, wearing your first-day outfit, forced smile and crisp new backpack.

“Never mind.” I pull to a stop at an intersection and use the opportunity to sneak a glance at him again. Head against the headrest, turned to stare blankly out the window, he looks like he’s heading home at the end of an exhausting twelve-hour Friday night shift instead of less than an hour into a Monday morning. He looks like maybe he didn’t sleep a wink last night. Meaning he is stressed despite the “couldn’t care less” expression he insists on wearing all the time.

I throw him a glance. “Ready for your first day?”

“Sure.” He runs a hand through his hair, which is tied back again in that bandana thing, so the motion causes a bunch of wavy blond strands to come loose, falling randomly around his face. Not that he’s bothered by it. He doesn’t re-tie it or even tuck the stray locks behind his ears or anything. I hate that I’m holding back from doing it for him. Let him be a slob if that’s the first impression he’s settled on. It’s his social funeral.

Who am I kidding? Girls are going to eat up the whole “I’m ridiculously sexy and I literally don’t give a crap” thing he’s got going on.

“Sooo….” I try to think of something to talk about that won’t seem too intrusive. “Do you have your schedule already?”

“Yup.”

“Oh, yeah? Who do you have for math?”

He doesn’t answer. It’s what he does any time he isn’t sure how to respond to a question, I realize. Or just doesn’t want to answer, or if it makes him uncomfortable. He just ignores the question altogether. It’s a simple but pretty ingenious strategy, honestly. Also, really annoying.

“I know you heard me,” I say, conscious of not sounding bitchy; since it comes so naturally to me these days.

He sighs. “I don’t have anyone for math,” he says, his tone slightly irritated. Like it’s a huge bother to answer even a basic class schedule inquiry. His head is still angled towards thepassenger window, so I just see a small vertical sliver of his face when I dart a look in his direction. And maybe that’s the safest way to take him in—in smaller sections like this. So I’m not slammed with the full force of all his perfect features at once.

“I know you have someone for math,” I tell him. “Everyone has to enroll in a math class… Even hotshot billboard models.”

I meant it to sound teasing, but it comes off snarky. Being nice is so much harder than I remember. He punishes me by withholding his response. Again. And I steal another glance. He’s still looking out the window. He runs his hand through his hair. More strands fall loose. This is going to quickly become a pet-peeve of mine, I can tell.

“Yeah, well, not me.” He tugs his hand through his hair.Again. This time, almost all his blond waves tumble around his chiseled face, and the bandana thing loosens. He wraps it around his hand and brings both arms up to tie his hair back in a gesture that’s smooth and obviously second nature to him, as he adds, “I’ve got a personal tutor for math… And English and Science.”

Ohhhh.I clamp my mouth shut. Now I get it.

And it isn’t news to me that Dylan has hardly been to school over the years, but I never considered how far behind that would put him academically, jumping straight into senior year. So, not only is he dealing with the whole “finding out his entire life’s been a lie”, and the new family, new town, new school, and a past that’s been sliced wide open, spread out and sifted through, then scavenged by the entire country— he’s also dealing with the kickback of an elementary school level education, at best.

I feel bad now for pushing.

I never feel bad for pushing.

“Makes sense,” is all I say, though. “Still, that blows.”

No response this time. He did just offer up two full sentences a second ago, though, so he’s probably still recovering from that. I drum my manicured fingers against the steering wheel. We’restopped at the traffic lights at the intersection of Ocean Drive and Driftwood Way, right by the town center of Sandy Haven. The left side of the street ahead of us is lined with quaint pastel storefronts, restaurants and cafes fronted by wide patios all the way down, overlooking the boardwalk across the street and the wide sandy beach and ocean beyond that. In the summer, the patios are jammed with parasol tables and thousands of tourists and summer residents. Now they’re dotted instead with bales of hay and clusters of pumpkins or corn husks and stuff. Farther down, closer to Hooks, the town has set up a small maze out of bales of hay that little kids can drive through on little ride-on cars. And in a few weeks, they’ll set up a Christmas market and ice sculptures and a throne made of ice where Santa sits for photos on weekends.

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