Page 79 of Even in the Dark

On the outside, Jays looks like most of the other store-fronts in the historic part of town—quaint and whimsical with its detailed turquoise and yellow painted wood facade. Even the way the paned windows are partly obscured with comic book covers doesn’t detract much from its charm. As soon as you step inside, though, it feels different from any other place in Sandy Haven. Grittier, but in the best kind of way—nothing curated or coordinated or squeaky clean. Not one surface area on the windows, walls, or ceilings is bare, covered instead with either comic books, collectibles, stickers and posters both new and faded with age. A few string lights hang from the wooden rafters in one section and multicolored faded paper lanterns in another. It’s the kind of place anyone who didn’t have an interest in comics would never linger for more than a few seconds, but the kind of place that anyone with an interest in comics could easily linger for hours. Never in a million years did I think I would be one of those people.

Jay, the owner, looks up when I walk in and gives me a chin thrust greeting along with a smile that’s barely visible beneath his dark bushy beard. We chatted for a while last weekend and he was excited when he learned I was just getting into comics, like he was honored to welcome me into some sort of exclusive niche club. Not once did he throw me curious glances or press me with questions to find out what a girl like me was doing in a store like this. So maybe I’m not as much of an outlier as I thought. Maybe there are other fashion-conscious, straight-laced private school girls who peruse the stacks at Jays on a frequent basis? I can’t decide if the thought gives me a sense of relief or fills me with a more heightened sense of unease about this new side of myself.

My platform sneakers scuff along the uneven wood-planked floors as I make my way to the larger section at the rear of the store. I let my fingers trail along the newer comics displayed on the shelves as I pass by, my coral nails clashing with the mostly primary color-schemed covers. There’s just one other person standing at the far end of the larger section tucked off to the side. A tall guy with his back to me wearing a navy canvas jacket over a worn plaid shirt, with thick blond wisps of hair curling out from beneath a navy beanie. The type of guy who, unlike me, totally fits in here. A guy who looks like…

Dylan Braun.

He does a double-take when his eyes cut to mine, then they widen. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

I struggle to school my features and not show any kind of reaction, because I am butt-hurt right now. Dylan’shere?Was probably on his way here when I texted him half an hour ago, and didn’t bother to text me the few characters it would take to tell me “At Jays now. See you in a bit.” Or whatever even more abbreviated version of this he could likely conjure up in two-point-five seconds.

I nod at him, beating him to his usual lowest level form of communication.

“Hey.” He responds, his voice deep and smooth and lazy as a Sunday afternoon.

A long silence follows his one word greeting, thicker than the musty smell of paper and ink, and vanilla-infused steam escaping my coffee cup. I’m vaguely aware of the familiar beginning chords of “Throw Your Arms Around Me” playing on a speaker somewhere above us. Xave went through an Australian music phase last year and played all theHunters and Collectors’albums in succession one afternoon while a few of us lounged on giant inflatable flamingos in his indoor pool.

I glance down at the comic in Dylan’s hand, and he tries to obscure the cover against his thigh without looking like he’s trying to obscure the cover against his thigh. Not quickly enough, though. The title flashes before he flips it.

Nail Biter.

It looks gory and bloody and not at all like my kind of thing. Clearly, my dark side isn’t quite as dark as Dylan’s dark side. No surprise there, I guess. Still, you’d think he would have had his fill of darkness for an entire lifetime.

His tongue swipes at his full bottom lip, and his eyes hood farther. Hunter green. Tired and briny like seawater, expressive for once and uncharacteristically embarrassed.

“It’s about serial killers,” he says softly. “Nature versus nurture kinda thing. I just…” His voice trails off. He sighs. “Yeah.” Then he slaps it back on the shelf, face down. I’m not sure if that part was on purpose or not.

“Oh.” I nod again. No idea what else to say. Stunned that he revealed that much to me.

“Anyway…” A strand of hair falls from the top knot I twisted it in before putting on my hat, so I tuck it behind my ear. “I’ll leave you to it.” My eyes meet his one final time before Ibrush past, towards the long shelf along the back wall lined with boxes filed according to publisher and series name. My cheeks feel flushed and warm despite just coming in from the cold, and I’m pissed that I’m having such a physical reaction over a two-minute interaction. I skim through the comics filed under “S”, but I’m not really focused on any of the issues, too busy trying to convince myself there’s no need for me to feel hurt about Dylan ignoring my text, even though he planned on heading here. He’s clearly working through some stuff. Will be for years. It makes sense he doesn’t want anyone else along for the ride.

But Iamhurt. Iamconfused.

If he wants nothing to do with me, then why did he just offer up the most private piece of information he’s parted with? About the reason he picked up that comic book. Hinting at the kind of stuff he’s still dealing with. He’s never even referred to that stuff from before. From his life with a serial killer.

Seems like a comic book might not be the best reference for analyzing the psychology of a serial killer, if that’s what he’s looking for, but that’s really none of my business. I’m not Dylan’s shrink. I’m apparently not even his friend.

It doesn’t take long to find issue ten ofSleepwalkerand the first issue of theSagaseries, which is illustrated by a woman and has a bunch of female lead characters which, yeah, is totally badass. Then, I wander the aisles after that, my attention catching on the familiar characters from theMy Little PonyTV show I used to love watching as a kid. I pick up the top issue. No wayMy Little Ponyhas a cartoon series! The glossy pages whisper softly as I flip through, revealing glimpses of the familiar artwork and similar story style to the show, and I find myself getting sucked in. Not that I’d ever be caught dead buying this.

“Looks hardcore,” Dylan’s voice startles me, just a couple of feet to my right. Close enough I can smell the faint hint of whatI think must be whatever fabric softener he uses. He’s eyeing theMy Little Ponycomic, the corner of his lip—the side with the silver hoop—ticking up a notch.

I feel my face flush again. “Yeah, it’s pretty insane, the stuff that goes on in this series,” I deadpan. “Colorful ponies having sleepovers, and curling their hair, and spreading kindness.”

His lips curve higher, flecks of humor dancing in his green eyes. “Sounds intense.”

“It totally is.” I motion to the page I was just reading. “Applejack just realized she forgot to make the cake for Rainbow Dash’s surprise birthday party.”

“Shit,” he drawls, his tongue pushing into his cheek. “How are they ever gonna wrap up that loose end?”

This time, I can’t suppress the grin when I say, “Guess you’ll have to read it and find out.”

“Guess so.” His eyes flit to my lips for the briefest of seconds, and I’m not sure what to make of that.

I can’t read his cues the way I can with other guys. If he got weirded out by me flopping down to read at the foot of his bed, then there’s no way he’d be checking out my lips, right?

He looks away, shifting his stance and poking a long finger into his cast to scratch. His gaze dips to the comic he’s holding in his left hand—notNail Biter,I notice.Cerebus. He taps the bottom edge of the shelf with the toe of his shoe. “I, uh…” He clears his throat. “I never texted anyone before.”

At first, I’m not sure why he’s telling me this. My brain is processing how strange it is to hear of someone my age never having texted before, on top of trying to discern the reason he’s sharing this random tidbit with me. But it’s not that surprising, I guess, that he never had a cell phone. I just never thought about it.

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