Page 68 of Even in the Dark

“Do you mind if I stay here to read it?” I ask, in a voice so uncertain I barely recognize it as mine. “Then, if you’re cool with it, I’ll borrow issue eight. Like I said, I have seven at home.”

He doesn’t say anything for long enough, I assume he isn’t going to respond. I prepare myself to make the walk of shame towards the partially open door. Accepting the silent cue to leave.

It’s the kind of reaction that should feel wrong to me, since it’s so different than the way I act around anyone else, but it feels oddly okay. Maybe because, with other people, I’m more concerned with my own feelings. With Dylan, it’shisfeelings I’m intent on navigating. Still, it hurts, knowing I just overstepped.

But then he answers, “Sure.” His tongue flicks at the hoop again.

I exhale a sigh of relief. “Cool.” Then belly flop onto the foot of his bed. “Time to see if I’m right.”

I glance over at Dylan as I open the issue to the first page—and his expression has suddenly morphed into… something totally opposite of the crooked grin. Shock, at first, but then worse than that—it's fear. And some other emotion I can’t quite place, but whatever it is, it’s strong. And definitely notcontent anymore.

The comic slides from my hands. “Is something wrong? Or did—”

“Nothing’s wrong. You need to leave.”

He’s on his feet now, like he’s trying to get as far away from me as possible.

I get up. “Okay…Yeah, sure.” My gaze darts back to him as I make my way towards the doorway. “But are you… Is everything okay?”

“Get out.”

“I’m sorry. If I did something.” I still don’t understand what the hell just happened. “Do you want me to—”

“I want you to get out of my room. And stay the hell out of my life.”

Okay.What?

I stand frozen for another second, probably with my jaw hanging open. When I notice his chest starting to rise and fall a little more quickly, I pull myself together. “Okay. Sorry,” I practically whisper, then slip through the doorway and rush down the stairs. I leave through the front door, too worried I might have to face Phil or Diane if I head down the hallway to the side door we usually use when we come over. God knows what I’d say to them. I don’t even know what happened up there that made Dylan's mood do such a sudden one-eighty.

It hits me though, as soon as I step out onto the front steps.

It’s because I lay on his bed.That's what triggered whatever emotional response it was I just witnessed.

Light suddenly floods out of the Brauns' side door, catching my attention and alerting me that someone just opened it. I hear Dylan’s voice call out to whoever’s inside. “Just heading outside to get some air for a few minutes!”

My breath hitches.Crap.

Crap. Crap Crap.

I fast walk the rest of the way to my own house, calling out a brief greeting to my parents when I enter. But there’s no answer. The door that leads down to the basement is open, though, which means they’re probably in the home theater. I hustle my way to the kitchen at the back of the house, but don’t bother turning the lights on. Instead, I stand at the patio doors, peering out to see if I’ll catch a glimpse of Dylan in his backyard.

I’m hoping I won’t. I’m hoping he’s sitting in one of the floodlit areas on one of his decks, doing exactly what he said—just getting some fresh air. Lounging in one of the Adirondack chairs or something like he was that first evening I met him.

But I spot him right away, striding across the lower patio, heading for the terraced lawn… and those damn stone steps. The ones that sink into the shadows and provide the perfect hiding spot for someone who wants to do something they don’t want anyone else to see them doing.

OnlyIdo.I see him.

I wait, reminding myself to stay calm. Because I am really, really stressed out right now. I have no idea what I’m going to do if Dylan went out there to do what I think he did.

But he’s got that cast on, right? Maybe that will stop him from being able to do…that.I really hope so. Because if he was mad at me for sitting on his bed, I can only imagine how thrilled he’ll be with me if I have to rat him out to his parents for doing the onething that seems to provide him any real kind of “escape” from his life right now.

He’s reaching into his pocket with his left hand.

Shit.

It’s definitely that same stupid,stupidknife.

If I had to choose, I’d prefer he go back up to his room and trash it all over again. Because then at least the harm he’d be doing would be loud and obvious… and his father’s issue to handle, instead of mine.Because I don’t know what to do.

---