Page 26 of Even in the Dark

“I’m sorry,” I force out. “For saying that. I shouldn’t have said that to you.” I manage to keep control of the vehicle this time when I look over at him.

He reaches for the door handle.

“Dylan, what—”

He pushes the door open.While I’m still driving.

“What the hell are you doing?” I shout, struggling to keep the steering wheel steady as I grab for his shirt. “Dylan!Shut the fucking door!”

He doesn’t shut the door. He’s climbing out of the freaking car.

“Dylan!”

He pulls away easily from my grip and I screech the car to a halt just as his foot makes contact with the pavement. Thank God no one is behind us.

“What the hell are you doing?” I scream, as he gets out of the car—ironically right beneath a massive Volt billboard ad with the words“Show off your killer attitude,”sprawled in bold white font beneath a wide-angle shot of him wearing low-slung jeans and nothing else, flipping off the camera. Which seems like a really weird marketing strategy, but what the hell do I know?

He shuts the car door—doesn’t even slam it—and throws his backpack over one shoulder, then starts walking, long, panther-prowling strides along the grassy side of the road.

I mutter a silent curse as I pull the car over a little more onto the shoulder, then put down the window. “Dylan!” I call. “I’m sorry, okay? Just—get back in the car.” When he doesn’t even turn around, I add, “Please… Just get back in.”

He ignores me.

“It’s a three-hour walk to school!” I call.

“Good thing I’m not wearing five-hundred-dollar vice-grip heels, then.”

This guy…He’s such a jerk.

“Those shoes cost over a grand. Also, I’m not sure they were your color.” I go for humor. Like that’s worked so well with him before.

Dylan doesn’t even falter. Just lazily lifts his arm, middle finger extended, as he keeps striding casually away. If I wasn’t freaking out so much right now, it would be funny—the way he is so perfectly mirroring that ad, just a few feet above him, without even realizing it.

Also, is giving the middle finger Dylan Braun’s only party trick? If so, he really needs to expand his repertoire.

I call out to him—okay, beg him—a couple more times, but there’s no changing his mind. He’s walking to school, and that’s that. Or maybe he’s not even going to school. Maybe he’ll use the opportunity to play hookie, too. I mean, even if he doesn’t, he won’t get there until much, much later this morning.

Shit.Shit shit shit.

And how is it that even though he’s the one loping along the side of the road, staring down at least two unexcused absences on his second day of school—and I’m the one cruising along in the Mercedes coupe—it still feels like he’s the one coming out on top?

Chapter Eleven

Scarlett

The sunset outside my window matches perfectly with the deep blue and pink palette of my bedroom. It also fits my mood: dark with hints of badass girl boss. I sink into the cushions piled along the wide window seat; knees bent as I lean over to screw the top off a new coral nail polish my mother brought back from a spa weekend with Diane a couple of weekends ago. I’m grateful for the alone time and the quiet… the opportunity to just “be” after a long, crappy day. Still no new texts from Carter, but it’s been on my mind all day. That and Seb being in hospital, and also the incident with Dylan this morning. He didn’t end up being even one minute late for his first class this morning. Which means somebody gave him a lift. Two days in and he’s already being offered rides by kids he doesn’t even know.

There’s a part of me that resents Dylan for how un-affected he manages to be from everything. How he seems to have a knack for shutting off his emotions and moving on so cooly fromsituations that would disarm anyone else. As if nothing really penetrates through to his core. Like he’s bulletproof.

Okay, full truth: I’m envious. Because that’s howIwant to be. It’s what I’ve worked to be like for years. And I thought I was pretty close to it. But the way my stomach feels like it’s up in my throat right now—how sick I’ve felt all day, ever since that text came in from Carter yesterday—I’m nowhere near Dylan’s level of aloof. Like, if I’m a green belt in being tough as nails, then Dylan Braun is a black belt. And how is that? When he’s the one who’s had the heavier blows to deal with, and I’ve had just the one?

I drag the wooden tray towards me that I keep here to use as a surface when I’m doing my nails, then inhale a slow breath, savoring the fresh scent of burnt vanilla wafting from my oil diffuser along the window ledge. My gaze shifts to the sunset again, then skims the silhouettes of the bare-branched maple trees and the swaying grasses by the Braun’s winterized pool.

And that’s when I spot him. Freaking Dylan, ambling down one of the side staircases off the Braun’s mile-long multi-tiered back deck wearing dark pants, a dark hoody, and an even darker expression.

He continues his steady trajectory across the lower deck, carrying something under one arm. But from the angle he’s positioned, I can’t make out what it is. He glances over his shoulder, like he can sense someone’s eyes on him, then flicks up his hood with his free hand as he turns back. He continues along the wide lower stone patio, all the way to the other end of the infinity pool.

There’s something really masculine about his movements. It’s part of what makes him so attractive: that lithe, confident swagger coupled with looks that verge on the pretty side of handsome. Always with that whole layered juxtaposition thing. This young boy fragility contrasted against hard-edgeddarkness. It’s fascinating to me because I don’t understand how it works. How someone can be two opposing things at once. Or rather, how someone can be that way and still make it work. Because, in my experience, the only way to chisel yourself into a hardened survivor is to be one way, one hundred percent of the time. Never wavering.

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