Page 49 of The Best Parts of Him
“Do you want to get out of here?”
Ryland only heard how it sounded when it was out of his mouth—like he was picking Dabbs up at a bar.
Sitting on the living room couch, Dabbs looked up from his laptop, but if he caught the unintentional innuendo, he didn’t let on.
Dabbs looked good. Well-rested and bright-eyed, his beard trimmed and his hair styled as if he was going somewhere. Though he fatigued easily, he hadn’t taken a daytime nap in the past couple of days, and he was walking upright now and eating solid foods.
And, as he’d told Ryland this morning: “You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve been having regular bowel movements.”
Ryland had laughed until he couldn’t see straight.
“Where did you want to go?” Dabbs asked.
“Anywhere.” Ryland ran both hands back through his hair and yanked on the strands. “I’ve got major cabin fever, and I’ve been getting out a couple times a day. I can only imagine how you’re feeling.”
“Honestly?” Dabbs closed his laptop with a clack. “I could use a change of scenery.”
Ryland perked up. “Yeah? It’s a nice day—we could go for a drive, get some air. Should we bring the dogs?”
Dabbs glanced over to where they were napping in a sunny patch by the armchair. “I think they’re good. Give me five minutes to change out of my sweats.”
He took only half of that, returning in jeans and a thin sweater, and they were out the door thirty seconds later. And since Ryland’s local athletic therapist had told him this morning that he was making good progress and therefore didn’t need to wear the sling every day anymore, he gratefully left it behind.
Hell, he’d probably burn the damn thing in a commemorative fuck you when he had a free moment.
It was leaf-peeping season, so the tourists were plentiful, but as Ryland drove Dabbs’ SUV with the windows down and the wind blowing around them, he felt himself unwind. In the passenger seat, Dabbs sat with a slight smile on his face, his posture relaxed.
If Ryland hadn’t been driving, he wouldn’t have been able to take his eyes off him.
Ryland had . . . complicated feelings for Dabbs. His seven-year crush had morphed into full-on like, while at the same time, he couldn’t help being awed by him.
Dabbs was a survivor, plain and simple. Going from abused kid to team captain . . . did Dabbs realize how special that was? Did he realize that he was amazing? He’d taken the help offered to him—not everyone did—and he’d made something of himself for himself.
Ryland wished he could go back in time and reassure a young Dabbs that everything would turn out okay. That he was stronger than he knew.
Dabbs’ childhood certainly explained a lot about who he was. If Ryland had grown up with a father who picked apart everything he did, he’d protect his privacy too, if only as a way to control the gossip.
Control. That was the kicker. Because Ryland suspected Dabbs’ desire to keep his personal life as private as possible stemmed from a need to control what others said about him.
If he controlled the narrative, he wouldn’t be blindsided by gossipy know-it-alls like he’d been blindsided by his dad’s vitriol and by the gossip at school after his so-called friend had told their classmates about his dad. It was why he’d chosen a pen name for his books—if no one knew he was the author, they couldn’t ask intrusive questions or dig into his past or bring up hurtful memories.
Dabbs could claim he wanted the books to stand on their own all he wanted, but Ryland knew the truth—Dabbs was protecting himself by controlling his own identity as P.N. Leeds. And while there wasn’t anything wrong with that, it wouldn’t earn Dabbs the royalties he wanted for his charity, and without using his existing platform, his books wouldn’t reach as much of his audience as he hoped.
It was obvious that Dabbs didn’t have a problem with the spotlight—he never would’ve accepted team captaincy if he did. In his mind, his work life and his personal life were no doubt two separate things, but the reality was that in their line on work, privacy was often a commodity.
But the books weren’t work. They were a piece of Dabbs’ heart that he’d carved out of his chest and reshaped into written form. To publish them under his own name would expose that heart to the people who needed it most—the kids Dabbs wanted to help—but also to hatred and criticism and indifference.
Ryland knew he was strong enough to endure it. He just had to make Dabbs see it too. Had to convince him that his vulnerabilities made him stronger, and by sharing them, he’d connect more deeply with kids like the one he’d once been.
He touched his fingertips to the back of Dabbs’ hand, drawing his attention. “How are you feeling? You’ll let me know if we need to go back, right?”
Dabbs turned his head almost lazily toward him, as though he was too lethargic and content for sudden movements. “I’m great. This is exactly what I needed.” He touched his fingers to the back of Ryland’s hand where it rested on the gear shift. “Thanks, Rya.”
The nickname paired with the skin-on-skin contact caused a riot of sensations to explode in Ryland’s chest, and it was all he could do not to run them headfirst into the guardrail. “You’re welcome.”
He headed north without a destination in mind, eventually getting off the interstate to take the side roads just for a slower pace. The trees were a riot of deep red and burnt orange—typical autumn in Vermont, although at almost sixty-five degrees it felt more like a warm spring day than the middle of October. They passed more than one group of leaf-peepers stopped on the side of the road for photos.
A sign advertised pick-your-own pumpkins. Ryland followed the arrow and hung a left onto a two-lane side street with family homes with large yards on the left and a line of sun-dappled trees on the right.
