Awkwardly Ever After (7 page)

I
'm not sure what I expected to happen.

If my life were a romantic comedy, I probably would call out Dylan's name and watch him pause. Then there would be a slow-motion running scene where my long hair would ripple beautifully behind me. I would draw up to him, attractively out of breath and yet remarkably sweat-free, and he would singe me with a kiss.

“I knew you would come after me,” he'd murmur right before I plastered my mouth against his again.

“Always.”

Roll credits.

Too bad real life didn't work out that way.

“Hey! Wait up, Dylan!” Even as the words left my mouth I knew that I would have a better chance trying to convince Izzie to wear three-inch stiletto heels to school than I'd have slowing him down.

At least he didn't pick up the pace. He kept his stride long, but he wasn't running and as long as I could keep my feet smacking the pavement in a rhythm that rivaled a full-out sprint, I was only seconds away from drawing up to his side. There wasn't anything glamorous about the way I was sweating.

Dylan didn't so much as glance my way, though.

“Now isn't really a great time, Melanie,” Dylan said calmly, as if he were running a few minutes late for a dentist's appointment.

I didn't say anything—partly because I was still struggling to keep up with him and partly because what was there for me to say?
Hey, buddy, sorry your dad is such a jerk. If it helps, my dad spends most of his days staring at the bottom of a beer bottle.

Yeah,
pass.

“Uh . . . where are we going?” I asked finally when I had regained my breath.

He shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“I guess not.” We descended into silence for another block . . . then two . . . then three.

We passed the elementary school and the blacktop where only a few weeks ago I had been cracking up with Dylan as Mackenzie did a celebratory dance after finally making a shot in rollerblading basketball.

I wondered if he was remembering that or something else entirely. Some distant moment from his childhood back when his dad was actually a part of his life. I tried to picture him as a toddler wobbling around the adjacent soccer field, a wide grin splitting his face, and found myself wondering how long it had been since he'd felt that carefree.

“So I take it you don't want to talk?” I said eventually. One of us needed to break the silence at some point, and it didn't look like it would be him.

“Not particularly.”

“Mind if I talk anyway?”

He shrugged, but he didn't make eye contact. “Nothing stopping you.”

I took a deep breath. “Okay, well, I'm pretty sure I owe you an apology.”

“Oh yeah?” There was a slight hitch in Dylan's step, but he didn't allow it to happen a second time.

“Well, there are a few things, actually.”

“Start wherever you'd like. Alphabetically. Numerically. Categorically. It's all the same to me.”

Great. He wasn't giving an inch and now I had talked myself into one hell of a situation. I had planned to say that I was just trying to be a good friend—to help him deal with his dad and then split—but I hadn't realized that any apology would inevitably lead to the truth: that I liked him back.

And I still wasn't sure what to make of my feelings.

“I shouldn't have treated you that way back at the house.”

He considered that for a moment and then turned to look at me—really look at me—for the first time since Mackenzie had agreed to talk to their dad. “Care to be more specific?”

I kicked at a pinecone and sent it careening forward as my guilt kicked into high gear. “You know . . . when I was making popcorn?”

He slowed, slightly, but I had a feeling that one wrong word and I'd be left in the dust. “That was . . . what? Fifteen minutes ago? Yeah, Melanie. I remember our conversation just fine.”

“It was an intense fifteen minutes. You saw your dad again for the first time in years and—”

“Get to the point,” Dylan interrupted.

“I'm just sorry about some of the things I said.”

Dylan pulled up short. It was funny that I'd been hoping I could make him stop for the past six or seven blocks, and yet now that he was truly stationary and staring me down, I would have gladly accepted any interruption. I would have welcomed a phone call—a text, heck, even a tweet—if that would provide an excuse for me not to face Dylan head-on. The frustration and pain that gleamed in his deep brown eyes made my stomach lurch and twist.

“I'm really not in the mood for one of your head games right now, Melanie. I mean, I'm
never
in the mood for them. But now is a particularly bad time. You say you're more interested in being with Spencer? Fine. Go find him. I'm not stopping you.”

“That's not—”

“Not what?” Dylan cut me off again. “Not what you want? Are you sure about that? Because I have a feeling he's
exactly
what you want, Mel. He's one of the most popular guys in school. He's not just a Notable—he's a freaking
legacy!
And then there's the added bonus that as a junior he could actually take you to prom. That probably sounds pretty exciting to you too. So why don't you go pick out your dress and leave me alone?”

“Because he's not you!” I blurted out and then clapped a hand over my mouth as if that could help me magically take the words back. No such luck. So I was stuck standing there while Dylan gaped at me in disbelief.

“Are you for real right now? You don't want me, Melanie. So if you're feeling guilty for blowing off your best friend's little brother—get over it. I certainly will.”

I sucked in a deep breath and reminded myself that he was hurting right now. That I deserved a rejection after unintentionally toying with him. He was right about the mind games. Or at the very least, I had been sending some seriously mixed signals.

Still, I'd hoped that the first time I ever told a boy I liked him, you know,
that
way, I wouldn't be feeling quite so vulnerable. That his whole face would light up at the words.

“What . . . what if I didn't want you to get over it?”

He took a step back and then glanced over his shoulder as if he needed to make sure that this wasn't some elaborate prank. Dylan slowly cleared his throat before answering. “Then I would say I never realized you were this selfish.”

That stung.

In fact, it burned.

“What. Do. You. Want. Melanie?” Dylan enunciated each word and I felt them all like a backhanded slap.

“I-I don't know! We can't be together. You know we can't be together, so—God, I just don't know anymore!”

Dylan crossed his arms. “Want to run that logic by me again? Why exactly can't we be together? Overlooking the whole
I never asked you to be with me
thing for a moment.”

I glared at him. Maybe he hadn't asked directly, but he had made his intentions more than clear. And when he put it that way . . .

I sounded absolutely nuts. Borderline delusional.

But I knew it wasn't all in my head, and if it hadn't been for the fact that he was—

“You're Mackenzie's little brother!” Somehow I managed to get the words out. “There are rules against that sort of thing!”

“No, there aren't. We can go to any state—hell, any
country
—and be together if that's what we wanted. Nobody has legislated against dating a friend's sibling.”

“It's the Girl Code,” I mumbled, embarrassed to have to say the words.

“Sorry, I didn't catch that.”

Liar,
I thought bitterly, but Dylan deserved a straightforward answer. Maybe he would never be able to get one from his dad, but he certainly could from me.

“Girl Code,” I repeated defiantly.

The excuse sounded increasingly stupid as it hung heavy in the silence between us.

“Oh,
Girl Code.
What rule am I breaking, exactly? I'd really love to take a look. Here I thought that involved dating your best friend's ex. Apparently I need to look over the rules again.”

“Well . . . yeah. But—look, I really value Mackenzie's friendship, okay?”

Dylan began walking again and I scurried to keep up. “Okay, then you probably shouldn't try to date Logan. Beyond that—”

“What happens if we have a fight?” I blurted out. “A big one. You want me to go somewhere with you and I can't go and—”

“That's your idea of a fight?” Dylan's eyebrows had shot up in disbelief, but his eyes kept boring into me, past the fake confidence that functioned as a veil and hid my nervousness from sight, right to the heart of the girl who was sick of pretending to be fine.

I flicked a long strand of hair back away from my face, using the movement to cover some of my discomfort.

“Well . . . yeah.”

“If I wanted to go somewhere and you couldn't make it, I'd be disappointed. That's it.”

“Right,” I laughed hoarsely. “You'd just be disappointed if I didn't make it to your middle school graduation because it would make me feel like a cougar?”

“One year, Melanie. I am
one year
younger than you are. And yeah, it would suck if you didn't show up. Is that what you want to hear? Hell.” He started walking, only to stop abruptly in his tracks. “You want to know why I hate my dad, Melanie?”

I did. I wanted to know all his secrets. To be the one person he could confide in even when his whole life felt upended.

But now I was terrified by what I might hear.

“Yes.” I couldn't manage anything beyond that single word. Dylan didn't need a bigger opening, though.

“He bailed. That's why I hate him. He could have been my father and still raised two other kids with his home wrecker. I would have been furious about the way he treated my mom—I'm not sure I could
ever
overlook that—but I still would have loved him.”

I nodded speechlessly.

“But he wanted a fresh start. That's why he pretended that Mackenzie and I never existed. He took the easy way out. He bailed.”

Those two little words began repeating over and over again in my head.

He bailed. He bailed. He bailed.

My stomach sank as it hit me that I was doing the exact same thing to Dylan. Making him believe that for reasons beyond his control he wasn't good enough for me.

“And I never confronted him about it.”

“You were what? Five at the time, Dylan?”

He acknowledged that point with a brittle smile. “Yeah, but as you can see, I'm a whole lot older than that now. And I never called him up. Never yelled at him over the phone. None of it.”

I bit my lip as I searched for the right words. “Do you want to—I mean, should we turn around? Do you want to talk to him now?”

Dylan shook his head. “I don't need to anymore. Mackenzie may need to have him answer her questions, but I don't. I already got mine years ago: not interested. That came through loud and clear.”

I flinched. That was the same message I was supposed to be giving him.

Isn't it?

I didn't even know anymore.

“I don't hide now, Melanie. Not even for you. So if you actually want to do this thing—well, you've got my number.”

This time when he started walking, I stayed in place.

I didn't feel I had the right to be anywhere near him.

Because I had been lying; not on purpose, but I'd been misleading him nonetheless. Dylan wasn't too young for me. He wasn't too immature. He wasn't lacking
anything.

I'm not good enough for him.

And it was only a matter of time before he realized it too.

I
walked home.

I didn't really see any other viable alternative, given that Isobel probably wasn't speaking to me since I had ditched her with Spencer back at Dylan's house. And the last thing Mackenzie needed while having a conversation with her dad for the first time in
years
was for me to call, asking if Logan could give me a ride.

My mom was still at work and wouldn't appreciate getting a phone call during business hours at Sew Creative. And it wasn't as if my dad would be in any condition to give me a lift home, even if he was working weird shifts in the hardware store this week. Assuming that he was at home, he was probably on his third beer and his fourth episode of
NCIS.
Or maybe it was
SVU.

All of his TV shows blurred together for me. Someone was murdered. A concerned group of “good guys” tried to piece it all together. The case was solved. The theme music blared.

I had a case for him to solve: the one of his deteriorating liver.

That would be a much better use of his time.

Then again, my dad wasn't looking for a good use of his time. He was looking for . . . actually, I wasn't quite sure. Numbness, maybe. Or maybe he had just been drinking for so long that he'd stopped asking himself that question. What he wanted was a beer. And then another.

It didn't matter that my mom and I desperately wanted to him quit.

Still, I'd never asked him to stop.

I had just accepted this as my way of life. Wake up. Make breakfast. Go to school. Come home. Maybe cook dinner. During most of the time we spent together, my dad would be quietly nursing a drink. We'd talk a little—stuff about my day, the idiocy of some people who couldn't tell a Phillips head screwdriver from a wrench—normal, boring stuff like that, while he worked his way through the first one or two drinks. Then he would graduate to drinks three and four when I started making noise about going to my room to do my homework. He was usually on number six by the time my mom came home with a new quilt store sample project in her tote bag.

Unless he switched to something a whole lot harder.

Then there was no telling when I might find him passed out on the couch.

But I had never confronted him about it directly. My mom and I had discussed staging an intervention a few times, but it never went anywhere. We wanted to give him an ultimatum, but we couldn't cope with the consequences if he called our bluff. If he didn't stop drinking, then we would do what exactly ? Leave him?

He would be dead by the end of a week. Not from starvation or general incompetence, but because if the alcohol didn't numb the pain of that rejection, he would use a bullet instead. That's how I thought it would play out. And given the choice of watching my dad, the man I loved despite everything, drink himself slowly to death or getting that phone call from a neighbor that they'd heard a gunshot and that nobody was answering the door . . . yeah, I would pick the drinking.

I still couldn't shake Dylan's voice in my head.

He bailed.

So had my dad. Maybe Dylan had a point. It was time for me to stop running.

From everything.

I barely paused to scan the recycling bin—five beer bottles, one bottle of cheap gin that he had consumed last night—before I took a deep breath and forced myself to unlock the front door.

“Hi, honey.” My dad's voice didn't have the faintest hint of a slur to it, which meant he hadn't made it even halfway through his latest six-pack. Good. “How was your day?”

I didn't even know how to answer the question.

Really freaking terrible. I mean, I got to spend time with this guy I've been crushing on. So that would have been great if I hadn't just totally screwed it up with him. And I'm not even sure why I said half of the things that I did. Why it scares me so badly to admit that I like him.

“Fine,” I lied. “Could we, uh . . . talk?”

My dad tipped his head quizzically. “I thought that's what we were already doing.”

“No, I mean, yes. But—” I gestured awkwardly at the couch. “Could we really talk?”

He settled down on his preferred side of the couch, the place that had one enormous wet ring in the fabric from all the drinks he had rested beside him over the course of the past ten years. The couch we had before this one probably had a similar stain.

“What's this about? Is someone giving you trouble at school?” My dad took a long pull from his beer as if he were bracing himself for the worst. Or maybe it was just because he wanted more.

There were times I didn't know who made more excuses for my dad's alcoholism: him or me.

“I . . . I'm, uh—” I stuttered before I froze.

There would be no taking back this conversation. So I hovered there, knowing that as soon as my silence was broken, my life would never be the same. My relationship with my dad would forever be altered by the outcome.

“I'm worried about you,” I blurted out in a breath. “Your drinking is out of control, Dad.”

He laughed.

That was one option I had never imagined. I'd anticipated a series of somber nods before he took yet another sip, or . . . for him to get defensive. Grumpy. Uncommunicative. Distant.
Something.

Instead, he was acting as if I had pulled some childish prank on him.

“You had me scared for a moment, Melanie. I thought this was something serious,” he laughed again. “I just like finishing the day with a cold one. Nothing wrong with that.”

Denial.

I forced myself to remain outwardly calm.

“It's not a cold
one,
Dad. It's a cold
eight.
” My hands started shaking, so I pressed them flat against my jeans. “And if you had a long day at work—maybe a customer gave you a hard time about pipes or bolts or something—well, then time to break out the hard stuff.”

He rubbed his forehead as if I were responsible for a pounding migraine. As if he had just come home from a long, grueling day of work and the last thing he needed was his daughter giving him a hard time about the way he chose to relax.

My mouth snapped shut, but I still couldn't find it within me to regret letting the truth out in the first place.

He bailed.

Maybe Dylan was satisfied with having that for an answer, but I had to try at least once to get through to my dad.

“I'm
fine,
Melanie. You're blowing this out of proportion.”

What was there for me to say to
that? No, Dad, I'm not doing your drinking problem justice. It's so much worse than I'm making it sound.

He kissed me on the forehead. A quick peck, a scratchy brush of stubble, and a whiff of the oh-so-familiar scent of liquor; then he ruffled my hair. I felt like I was back to being a six-year-old.

Because nothing,
nothing
had changed.

“I have homework to do,” I mumbled, moving toward my bedroom as I heard the click of the remote and another murder show claimed my dad's attention.

I wanted to punch something. To rip something to shreds. Maybe throw a plate against the wall, shattering it into pieces. Something big enough that my dad would have to listen. Instead, I sank onto my bed and curled up so that I was hugging my knees to my chest while I tried to suppress the body-shaking heaves that wouldn't quit. I wasn't going to cry, though.

Not competent Melanie Morris. Not the girl most likely to move confidently between the Notables and the Invisibles at Smith High School. She wouldn't start blubbering just because her daddy refused to change his ways.

Although I wish somebody could get that message through to my body, because the tears were definitely sliding down my cheeks in wavering lines. And no matter how quickly I wiped them away, there was always a fresh set to take their place.

I couldn't seem to move and once again, I heard Dylan's words playing over and over again in my head. Only this time he wasn't telling me that his dad had bailed on him. I heard him asking me a question.

What. Do. You. Want. Melanie? What. Do. You. Want. Melanie?

What. Do. You. Want. Melanie?

I wanted to scream, “I don't know!” but I couldn't get the lie past the lump in my throat. Dylan was right: I knew exactly what I wanted.

A father who would choose me over a beer bottle.

That was never going to happen.

My heart felt like it was being ripped to shreds by that simple truth. He was never going to be the man whom I needed. For whatever reason—assuming that a rough childhood with a disapproving mother I'd never met and a genetic predisposition to drink counted as legitimate reasons—that was beyond him.

I felt like I was being gutted. This, right here, was why I had fought so damn hard not to confront him. As long as I had been able to pretend that my dad would change if I ever mustered the nerve to ask him to do it, I had hope. I had a fantasy father who would face down his darkest demons for my sake.

That man wasn't real, though.

I had wanted and tried and failed.

And it hurt like hell.

But it was also a relief. That fantasy father would still haunt my daydreams with his alcohol-free breath and his clean-shaven jaw. But I couldn't keep beating myself up for not being good enough to make him a reality.

Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration; there was no escaping the what-ifs that constantly swirled around my brain. What if a proper intervention could convince him to enter rehab? What if we took him to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting? What if my mom and I left so that he could finally hit rock bottom?

What if he required his life to get
that
bad in order to make a change?

Yeah, I would be wondering those questions for years to come. And that was only if I got lucky and he didn't drink himself into the grave first.

Still, I had spoken up.

I had
finally
admitted what I wanted, and there was a comfort in that knowledge even in the wake of rejection.

Now I had to face the unavoidable fact that you can't always get what you want.

If it matters enough to you, then it's worth crying through the pain.

And there was someone else who mattered enough to me.

So the real question was whether or not I had the courage to face another rejection.