More Than Enough (More Than Series, Book 5) (9 page)

“Friday night football!” Eric shouts, which makes absolutely no sense because it’s the end of February.

“It’s not even football season,” I hear Dad tell him.

“Friday night
insert random sport here
,” Eric yells.

I laugh when I open the bathroom door, then cringe when the same girl from the first night squeals from her seat on the toilet. “Go away!”

“Sorry!” I shut the door quickly.

“Oh, yeah,” Eric shouts. “Cindy’s using the bathroom.”

“Sydney!” the girl yells.

Jesus.

Eric approaches, his junk on full display. He pushes me to the side and starts to open the bathroom door. “How the fuck is this your life, man?” I ask him.

He chuckles and closes the door again. “How the fuck is it
not
yours is the real question.”

“Dad!” I shout, smirking at Eric. “Eric’s hiding a girl in the bathroom!”

Dad laughs. “Morning, Sydney!”

“Morning, Mal!” she yells back.

I shake my head. “What the hell?”

Eric scoffs. “Maybe you’d know what goes on in here if you weren’t out all day on The Drug.”

Dad walks over to us. “Dylan, are you on drugs?” He cups my chin and looks in my eyes just like Eric did.

I swat his hands away the same way I did with my brother. “No, I’m not on drugs. What the hell?”

“I found weed in his footlocker, Pops!”

I shove his chest. “You did not.”

“Dylan?” Dad asks.

“Swear it, Dad. Eric’s talking shit.”

“Am not!” He stands behind Dad, smirking while giving me the finger. “Go check it, Dad.”

The bathroom door opens and we all freeze, our words left hanging in the air.

“What’s going on?” Sydney asks.

“Nothing, babe,” Eric answers.

I lift my chin and look at Eric. “You know Dad and I will support you no matter what, E. You’re making it a bigger deal than it is,” I tell him, placing my hand on his shoulder. “Besides, the pamphlet said there was a high chance it could be sexually transmitted from dogs. Not that it
definitely
was. And that case against you when you were seventeen was dropped because you were a minor, right? Plus, the zoo had no
real
evidence.”

The windows of the house rattle and the familiar song filters through, saving me from Eric’s response. I pat his arm twice, basking in the glory of his completely shocked face. He shakes his head slowly, as if accepting defeat.

“I’ll see you later, bro.” Then I look over at Sydney and point to her neck. “You got a little rash…”

Riley

I don’t know
why Dylan’s standing at my door, his hands in the pockets of his sweats, his shoulders square, and his ridiculously gorgeous smile beaming down at me. Even in my drunken haze, I’ve concluded that he gets better looking every time I see him. Not that it matters.

“What’s up,” I mumble.

He steps back slightly and looks down on me. “Regret does
not
look good on you.”

Regret doesn’t
feel
good, either. “What?” I squeak, then shake my head to clear my thoughts but it just makes the pounding worse. “Were you as drunk as I was when you fucked me in my kitchen that you’ve somehow forgotten about it? Because now you’re standing here ignoring the fact that we did, actually, fuck in my kitchen.”

“Riley, come on.”

“And now you think it’s okay to show up, looking like you do and smiling like you are after leaving me hanging the day after your so-called ‘regret’ and—”

“Riley, I don’t regret it,” he interrupts.

“Bullshit, Banks. It was the first word you said when I opened the door. And it’s cool if that’s how you feel because I regret it too.” I take a moment to catch my breath. “It’s probably a good idea if you don’t come around anymore.” Maybe my anger is unjustified. Actually, I’m sure it is because regardless of how I try to spin the events of two days ago, I didn’t push him away. I did absolutely nothing to stop it from happening. In fact, I encouraged it. And even though I know all this, it didn’t stop me from drinking enough alcohol to cause me to puke in the bathtub. Twice. Then pass out in it while I tried to clean it… and that’s exactly how Mom found me. So while my hurt might be uncalled for, Mom’s reaction to Dylan at the door yesterday wasn’t. She knew he had something to do with my actions.
He had to have.

“Is that what you want?” he asks, dropping his gaze and pulling me from my thoughts.

It takes a few seconds for me to remember what we were talking about and when I do, I nod.

His eyes narrow. “I’m sorry if what we did hurt you. I regret you were drunk. I regret that I may have unintentionally taken advantage of that. But I don’t regret
it
.” He starts to turn away, but stops suddenly. “I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for in life…” He points at the wine gripped tightly in my hand. “I just don’t think you’re going to find it at the bottom of a bottle. And just so you know, I
do
like you, Riley. A lot.” He steps forward, but I push him away.

I
have
to.

Because the butterflies are already starting. But, after the butterflies come the emptiness, and then the guilt. And the guilt is what has me closing the door on him and whatever feelings I might have had for him.

I go back
to my room, my solitude, and I play the song—the song that brings me closer to
him
. Then I grab my wine, sit in the corner with the pen and paper in my hand, and I remember him.

It was sophomore year. You knew I was a nervous wreck. You knew I hated the attention. So it made absolutely no sense to me why you showed up at my swim meet with half the JV basketball team holding up signs and chanting my name in the stands. I paced the side of the pool glaring at all of you. Every time you started to chant I’d tell you to shut up. You kept going, your big goofy smile getting wider every time. Then they announced my name and I removed my towel, slowly walking to my block as your cheers just got louder.

I was so angry.

So livid.

I stood there and tried to ignore your chants and cheers and shouts but it was so deafening. Everyone was looking at you. Everyone was looking at me. I swore to myself I’d fly through the freestyle as fast as I could just so I could get out and kick your ass.

I came in first and before they could even announce it, I stormed up to the bleachers, my wet feet thumping against the floor. You were three rows up. I remember because I could see all the eyes of the crowd move from me to you, and back again. You were smiling. “Why would you do this!” I shouted, stomping my foot. I was so, so mad. And when your grin got wider I wanted nothing more than to climb the three rows—people and all—and smack you on the back of the head.

But then you said, “Because I know you, Riley Hudson. You swim best on adrenaline. And nothing gets your blood pumping like being mad.”

I was confused. “What?”

“I did it for you!” you shouted.

I wanted to smile, but I wanted more to keep being mad at you. “You didn’t do it for me!”

You nodded. “I did so!” And I don’t know if it actually happened, or if it was just like that in my head, but everything went quiet. Everything went still. You smiled wider. “And I did it because I’m in love with you, stupid!”

We were sixteen, me in my swim gear, dripping wet, surrounded by your friends and two hundred strangers… and you told me you loved me for the very first time.

I stopped being angry. I stopped caring about the stupid signs and the stupid chants and everyone around us. I ran up to you, through the people in those front three rows and wrapped my wet arms around you. And then I kissed you. And you kissed me back. And the world stopped and my heart grew and when my coach called out and said I had to prepare for the next round, you told me I sucked and that my suit made my ass look fat.

I told you I loved you too—more than everything and anyone in the history of forever.

And I meant it, Jeremy.

More than anything.

Dylan

I
haven’t slept.

Not since I left her house two days ago.

I can’t fucking focus on the stupid engine in front of me. Maybe because all my focus is on the pathetic music streaming from her house. I wonder how long it’s been going on and why everyone else lets her get away with it. I chuck the screwdriver on the workbench and grasp my right shoulder with my left hand, then I begin to do the stupid exercises the doc instructed me to do. Move it in slow circles until the pain becomes too much.

The pain is already too much.

Dave:
No one’s told me to fuck off in three days. I miss you, you giant ogre of a man.

With a halfhearted smile, I respond:

Dylan:
Duck off, asshole. Better?

Dylan:
*Fuck.

Dave:
You’re the worst.

Dylan:
Notwgat your mom said last beige.

Dave:
What?

Dylan:
*Norway

Dylan:
*Not.

Dylan:
*What.

Dave:
What?!?!

Dylan:
*Night.

Dave:
Good night, bro.

Dylan:
No.

Dave:
No?

Dylan:
Your mom’s far.

Dylan:
*Gay.

Dylan:
*FAT.

Dylan:
FUCK.

Dave:
What are you typing with? A potato?

Dylan:
Duck you.

“Hey, Dylan?” Sydney says, her head poking through the garage door. She’s wearing one of Eric’s shirts and nothing else. “Do you have a second?” I don’t know why it bothers me that she’s standing there—a girl I barely know—in the only bit of personal space I own.

I shut my eyes and nod, giving up on my so-called physical therapy for the moment.

She steps inside, one bare leg after the other and I look away because she’s not mine to look at. “Sorry,” she says, walking over to me. “I probably should have put some clothes on but I was in a rush.”

“It’s fine,” I tell her, picking up the screwdriver again. I grip it in my right hand and squeeze a few times, feeling the dull ache filter down my arm. “Did you need something?”

She stands close to me and leans against the bench. Then she opens her mouth, shuts it, and then does it again. “I feel kind of strange now,” she says, pulling her top down a little. “I just didn’t know what else to do.”

There’s a desperation in her voice that’s enough to make me look away from my hand and up at her. “What’s up?”

“Do you… I mean, do you have nightmares… about—” She shakes her head. “Never mind.”

She starts to leave but I stop her. “About what?”

She looks at the door and then back to me. “Eric—he’s been having these nightmares, I guess. He tosses and turns and kicks in his sleep. I don’t know what to do. He says he’s fine afterward, but he doesn’t get back to sleep, he just holds me. I don’t know if I should ask him about it or just let him be and I just thought because you and he… I mean, you’ve both been there and you’re his brother so if anyone knows—”

“I don’t know,” I interrupt. Truth is, I have no idea what he’d want.

Her gaze drops. “Oh.”

“It’s not like Eric and I are close, you know?” I say, trying to justify my response. “So I can’t really tell you much about him.”

“But you’ve been there, right?” She shakes her head again. “I’m sorry. This is probably inappropriate and bad for you to think about.”

“It’s fine.”

“I just worry about him. Whatever’s making him wake up in a pool of sweat can’t be good.”

“You worry about him?” I ask incredulously.

She tilts her head, her brow bunched in confusion. “Of course I do,” she replies, as if I’m the dumbest person in the world. She rolls her eyes. “Dylan, your brother and I are really good at faking our feelings. I mean, look at us. We’ve known each other a couple weeks and we’ve spent practically every second together. We could be out having sex with different people every night but we choose to have sex with each other.” She laughs a little when I scrunch my face in disgust. “A little too much information?”

“A little.”

“I don’t know,” she sings, a slight smile pulling on her lips. “He says I keep him sane and he makes me happy, so why not? Yolo, right?”

“What the hell is a Yolo?”

She eyes me sideways. “You Only Live Once. How long were you deployed?”

I can’t help but laugh. “I’ve always been out of touch, I guess.”

“So no advice?”

I look down at the screwdriver in my hand, squeeze it once, and look back at her, thinking about what Eric would say if the roles were reversed. “Just keep letting him hold you when he needs to.”

She smiles again, her hand soft as she squeezes my arm. “That’s perfect advice, Dylan.” Then she gazes toward the garage window that faces Riley’s house. “Are you going to go over there and tell her to turn off that God-awful music again?”

“How do you—”

“I’m here every day, D. I’m not stupid. I see things.”

“Nah. Pretty sure she hates me.”

“Doubt it,” Sydney says, her smile still in place. “Maybe you guys are just like Eric and I—really good at faking it. Besides, you could be out seeing other people, but you choose to see each other.”

Riley

“Go away,” I
mumble, my face smeared into a cushion. I can feel the dried drool on my cheek and smell the wine that must’ve spilled onto the floor while I was sleeping. Not passed out. I’ve lived through both enough times to know the difference. Last I remember, the bottle was half full.
Great
. I just wasted half my portion of alcohol for the day.