Page 44 of Even in the Dark

He leans over and rests his hand on my bicep, and our eyes meet. “It’s new for her, too,” he says. “But she hates what happened to you, and she wants to be there for you.” Then he rolls his eyes. “And I know she seems disapproving sometimes. But that’s mostly just about the long hair and lip piercing and all that meaningless jazz—it’s not about you.” He smiles. “I promise you, Dylan. You are wanted and you are not alone.”

Not sure what to make of everything he just said. It’s a lot. Too much to pick apart on the spot.

He might be a good guy, though. Could be he’s the real deal.

Course, I thought Eli Sampson was the real deal. Can’t forget I’m not the best judge of character. Can’t forget I’m a head-case who was committed to a psych ward for three months, and still sees a shrink twice a week. I can trust my own judgment even less than I can trust whatever words come out of my father’s mouth.

Chapter Sixteen

Scarlett

My parents and the Brauns are doing that thing where they talk in hushed whispers. The four of them are huddled over by the Brauns' patio doors overlooking the backyard, doing a terrible job of pretending they’re discussing the weather or the tides or something, when obviously they’re talking about Dylan. I pretend like I’m not interested, but the truth is, I’m dying to know what they’re saying. All I can make out are a couple of words here and there, though. Something about “so much anger” and “a hole” and later in the conversation, “threw her phone.” Which makes no sense and only makes me more curious.

I’m pretty sure it isn’t anything related to school. The rest of Dylan’s week went down pretty much like the first couple of days. Nothing that actually escalated into a full-on fight, at least. Still, I feel like it’s just a matter of time. It’s going to happen. Maybe not an actual brawl, but Dylan knocking someone’s lightsout. I have a feeling once he un-leashes that restraint, he’ll be a force to be reckoned with.

“Scarr, honey, would you mind going up to let Dylan and the girls know dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes?” Diane calls over to me, like anyone really needs fifteen minutes’ heads up for stuffed pork and scalloped potatoes. Clearly, they want me out of earshot.

It’s not until I get upstairs that I realize I don’t even know which bedroom is Dylan’s. The Brauns have a few spare rooms, so it could be any one of them. The first two are conjoined by a sitting area, so it makes sense it isn’t either of those. When I peek into the next one,though, it looks like a bland approximation of a teenage boy’s bedroom: the walls a deep blue with a complimentary rug covering most of the wood floor. Queen-size bed, large dresser and desk… and a few generic framed photos on the wall. Nothing to even hint at the personality of its occupant, aside from the barely used skateboard propped neatly against the desk. No posters or trophies or photos or anything. Not even one piece of dirty laundry strewn across the floor. Just a laptop on the desk that looks like it’s never been used and a black backpack by the chair. Also, no sign of Dylan.

The adjoining bathroom door is halfway open, though, and I can hear music filtering through.

“Dylan?” I call. “You there?”

No answer.

I take a few steps until I’m standing in front of the wide built-in shelves. They’re sparsely filled, mainly with a few stacks of coffee table books. Titles Diane no doubt picked out, with captions like “50 Ultimate Sports Cars”, “The Art of Keith Haring” and “Fun Facts That Can’t Be True But Are”. I’m sure Dylan has just been devouring every one of these literary treasures.

Then my eyes snag on two lopsided stacks of slightly disheveled comic books on one of the lower shelves. Given that they’re the only tattered items in the room, I know they must belong to Dylan. Something he brought here from his life… before.

I flip briefly through the top one:Descender.

I’ve never seen a comic book in real life. Honestly, I kind of assumed physical comic books were a relic of the past. Maybe they are; Dylan isn’t exactly your typical modern-day seventeen-year-old guy. More like a guy whose interests froze somewhere around fifth grade, with the skateboarding and braided bracelets and superhero comics.

I glance up and spot him in the bathroom. He’s standing in front of the wall-length mirror above the vanity, wearing nothing but faded jeans and a thin leather string around his neck attached to the blue number six Kenz gave him. It hangs against his broad chest, a bright, whimsical contrast to his ripped physique. My eyes do a cursory scan down the length of his body, pausing on the gauze wrapped around his left forearm, then snapping back to the mirror when they land on the pile of fluffy ash-blond waves pooled by his tanned feet.

He’s cutting his hair.

No—he’shacking offhis hair, gripping the scissors awkwardly in his bandaged hand, and dragging the blades roughly across his golden surfer locks.

“What the hell are you doing?” I push the door fully open, and Dylan’s gaze jumps to mine in the mirror, the deep green even more piercing under the bright glare of the vanity lights. The planes of his cheeks seem more angular, too, and his jawline somehow even more pronounced.

He turns and peers over my shoulder towards the bedroom, like he’s checking to see if there’s anyone else behind me. Thenhis accusing eyes meet mine again. “What are you doing in my room?”

I glance down pointedly at the tufts of hair brushing against the frayed hem of his jeans,then back up at his freakish hairdo. “More importantly—what are you doing to your hair?”

He assesses me for a moment, long enough that I anticipate the poking of his tongue against the lip ring a second before he does it. And those lips… God. They're so pouty and perfect and hard not to look at. But I avert my gaze when his brow furrows. His eyes bounce between mine, then he turns back to the mirror. Raises the scissors to his hair again.

“Dylan, wait!” I take a step into the bathroom. “Seriously. What are you doing?”

“Cutting my hair.”

“Gee thanks, Captain Obvious.” I take another step towards him, leaning in to get a better look at the side where he’s chopped off the most hair. It’s still a decent length, but just…bad.Like, some bits shorter and some longer, and the ends cut at different angles. “Why are you doing it yourself, I mean?” I make a face as my eyes land on a particularly uneven section. “Pretty sure Phil can swing the forty bucks for a trip to the barber.”

“What’s the difference?”

“The difference is: a barber knows what he’s doing. And you, clearly, do not.”

His eyes narrow, annoyed, and slightly tired.

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