More Than Enough (More Than Series, Book 5) (21 page)

Dylan:
We can continue any time. I don’t mind.

Dave:
Thx so much. Honestly. I kind of just want to see his ugly face, you know?

Dylan:
lol. I’d miss him too.

“What are you writing?” Dylan asks.

“Nothing.”

Dave:
Okay. Added you.

Dylan:
I’ll get him to call now.

I open the app and accept the add request, then hand the phone to Dylan. “Just press the green video camera icon to call him. I’m going to raid your fridge. You want anything?”

Shaking his head, he says, “Thanks, babe.” Then kisses me quickly, but I can already tell his mind is elsewhere. I button up my shirt as I exit his room, leaving him to talk to his buddy.

There isn’t much
in his fridge. Milk, butter, bologna, and a block of cheese. Shutting the fridge, I look around the kitchen. It’s as bare as the fridge is. The table in the middle isn’t even a real table; it’s one of those foldout poker ones. I open the cabinets, searching for the glasses and when I find one, I turn on the tap and fill it with water. I take it with me to the garage and sit it on the workbench where the engine he’s told me all about sits in pieces. Grabbing a smaller piece, I ignore the shaking of my hands, matching the shakiness of my breath. And for the countless time since we got back in his truck, I try to ignore the day’s overwhelming emotions.

Surely, it can’t be that easy to go from one extreme to another. To wake up knowing that the secrets of your past could be the undoing of your future to this—being insanely attached and falling in love with a boy I barely know—a boy who’s declared time and time again that he feels the same way. He’s shown me his heart; I’ve shown him mine. And the best, or maybe the worst part is that I haven’t felt an ounce of guilt.

Grief, yes.

Longing, definitely.

But
guilt
? No.

I don’t know how to explain it—what it’s like to be in unfamiliar arms, kiss in an unfamiliar way, laugh with an unfamiliar sound… but I haven’t felt this connected since the moments before I climbed that cliff. And I don’t mean connected to someone, but connected to the world.

I wipe the tears, the emotions flooding me as the excitement builds. The thrill of waking up every morning with more to look forward to than the next sip of alcohol. I want to drive in his truck, I want to see the world again, and I want him next to me, keeping me safe and sane and knowing that when things get too hard, too rough, and the guilt becomes too much to bare—not just the guilt of my feelings for him but the guilt of my past and the pain I’d caused others, he’ll do exactly what he said he’d do: he’ll be the glue that holds me together.

He calls my name from somewhere in the house, and I tell him where I am. He shows up a moment later, his eyes going from me to the engine. “What are you doing, babe?” he asks.

I love that he calls me babe. “Just tinkering with your engine, Lance Corporal Banks.”

“Oh my God,” he murmurs, his grin wider than I’ve ever seen. He steps forward, looking in my eyes, and then he runs the back of his finger across my cheek. “You got grease on your face, Riley. So fucking hot.”

I roll my eyes and keep him at a distance. “How’s everything with your buddy?”

Shrugging, he releases a long drawn out sigh. “He’s in a war. It’s as bad as you’d imagine it would be.”

“I don’t imagine it as anything. You don’t really talk much about it.”

He takes the part from my hand and holds it in his, palm up as he looks down on it. “You know when you’re having a nightmare and you know it’s just a dream so you try to wake up but your body fights it, so it keeps going and going until something finally happens which forces you up, and you wake up in a pool of sweat but your mind is still there, stuck in the nightmare?”

“I know it well,” I whisper.

“War is like that, Riley. Only the things that wake you up are the cause of the nightmares.”

“So why do it?” I ask.

“Because sometimes you need to have nightmares to appreciate the dreams.”

I don’t know how to respond, so I don’t. I just stare at him, watching his features soften as he stares back, his smile growing with each passing second. Then he bends down, plants a chaste kiss on my cheek and places my phone in my hand. “Your mom’s going to be home soon. I should get you back.”

“Already?” I complain, checking the time.

“Time flies when you’re having fun.”

Dylan

Riley:
You know what I miss?

Dylan:
Me?

Riley:
Please. I only saw you an hour ago.

Dylan:
I still choose the answer to be ME.

Riley:
I miss playing basketball.

Dylan:
You play?

Riley:
I dabble.

Dylan:
Dribble?

Riley:
Dabble. It’s a figure of speech, Dylan.

Dylan:
I know. It was a joke.

Riley:
Your typing’s gotten better. And faster.

Dylan:
I’m on the computer.

Riley:
I figured.

Dylan:
But swimming was your thing, right? You don’t miss swimming?

Riley:
I haven’t been in the water since… you know.

Dylan:
Oh.

Riley:
Besides the bath, I mean.

Dylan:
You kill me with your visuals, Hudson.

Riley:
Unintentional.

Dylan:
Sure.

Riley:
I do miss you though.

Dylan:
Needy much?

Riley:
lol. Shut up.

Dylan:
I miss you too. My room smells like you now.

Dylan:
I could come over. We can drive to the elementary school and shoot hoops.

Riley:
I wish.

Dylan:
You’re twenty, Riley. Surely your mom can’t tell you what to do.

Riley:
It’s not that she tells me what to do. I don’t know. Guilt + respect, I guess.

Dylan:
I call bullshit. I say it’s fear.

Riley:
It’s not.

Dylan:
It makes no sense.

Riley:
Doesn’t have to make sense to you.

Riley:
Besides, it’ll be dark soon. We can do it tomorrow when she’s at work.

Dylan:
Put your sneakers on. I’ll be over in five.

Riley:
Don’t you dare!

I don’t bother replying. Instead, I go over to her house. I knock on her door and fake a smile when her mother answers. “Good evening, Ms. Hudson. I’d like to see Riley. Actually, I’d like to take Riley out of the house. Not just now, but a lot of times in the future so you should probably get used to me knocking on your door and requesting her presence to join me. And I’m sorry if this will cause problems for you, but—”

“What are you doing, Dylan?” Riley says.

I look past her mother to see her standing just outside her door. Then I ignore her question and speak to the woman in front of me. “But I like your daughter. A lot. And if I don’t get to see her now, then I don’t know what I’ll do. Honestly, I’ll probably revert to being a teenager and toilet papering your house.” I shrug. “Sorry.”

“Dylan!” Riley snaps.

Her mom doesn’t speak, so I keep going. “I guess I’m not really here to ask for permission. I’m just here to pick up your daughter.” I glance up at Riley. “Let’s go.”

Her gaze moves from me to her mom. “I can’t,” she says.

“Just go,” her mom says. “We’ll discuss it when you get home.”

I thought Riley would smile, but she doesn’t. She looks hesitant, but more than that, she looks pissed.
At me
. “I don’t have to go,” she tells her mom, like she’s a grounded teenager.

Her mom looks me over from head to toe. “You’re a marine, right?”

I square my shoulders. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“And you’re home for what? R&R?”

“No, Ma’am. Medical.”

She nods. “Afghanistan?”

I lift my chin. She’s trying to be intimidating. It’s not going to work. Not on me. And not when it comes to Riley. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“So medical leave… that means you’re going back, right?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“So what is it exactly you’re doing with my daughter, Mr. Banks? Are you just looking for a good time with her before you redeploy? And then what? You leave her behind as just another notch on your belt?”

Now I’m pissed. “That’s not at all—”

“You can show up at my door and act as tough as you want,” she cuts in. “But regardless of what she’s told you, I love my daughter and I do what’s best for her. And what’s best for her is definitely
not
you. Because you’re not staying, you’re going back. Back to a warzone where it’s your job to put your life on the line every single second you’re there. She’s already lost someone she loved. Someone we
all
loved. And look at her. This is how she dealt with it… how she’s
still
dealing with it. If you really like her like you say you do, you’ll leave her alone. So she doesn’t have to go through life worrying how she’s going to handle the next death that comes her way.”

I don’t know how long I stand there, my hands in my pockets looking at the woman who I thought I hated, wondering exactly when it was in her speech that my hate turned to admiration, but it’s a long ass time.

And time + perspective can change people.

Instantly.

Because she’s right.

Through the chaos Riley and I created within the four walls of her bedroom, and the overwhelming feelings I let overshadow our reality… I never thought about it like that.

Not once.

But then I look over at Riley, her eyes right on mine, full of hope and promise and a complete contrast to how she was a month ago, and I take a breath. And then another. And I wonder what events in all our lives, her mother included, were The Turning Points? The points where we all determined that the fear of our pasts and the uncertainty of our futures were greater than our need for happiness.

Here.

Now.

While time and everything around us stood unmoving… who’s to say we couldn’t have it all?

I look at her mother again, right into her eyes, clear and gray just like Riley’s. “I’ll come back tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that. I’ll keep coming back until you allow me to see her. I won’t be sneaking around behind your back. I won’t be calling or texting her without your approval. She matters a lot to me. More than a lot. So I’m here. Now. And I don’t plan on that changing until you both realize that Riley’s happiness is just as important as everyone else’s.”

I turn and walk away, leaving them standing there. I don’t hear the door close. Not until I’m on the sidewalk and half way home. Once I’m back in my room, I get a message on my phone.

Riley:
Why the hell would you do that?

Dylan:
Retaliation. Fight or die, Hudson.

Then I grab a notebook, a pen and another empty jar.

Dylan

I
wake up
early the next morning prepared for battle. I shower, dress, and make my way out to Riley’s house, where I lean on her mom’s car, jar in hand, and I wait. I’m only there a few minutes before she appears from the door, stopping in her tracks when she sees me. “Mr. Banks,” she says in greeting.

“Ma’am.”

I push off the car and stand tall, waiting for her to get to me. When she does, I offer her the jar. “For you,” I tell her.

She eyes it curiously for a moment. “What’s this?” she asks.

“A gift.”

“Like Riley’s jars?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Her eyebrows narrow in confusion. “I’m late for work,” she mumbles, using the keyless entry to unlock her car.

I open the door for her and wait until she’s seated before saying, “Have a phenomenal day, Ma’am.”

I give her an over exaggerated grin, along with a pathetic wave as she reverses out of the driveway. Then I turn to her front door—where I know Riley will be standing, watching with the same narrowed eyes, same look of confusion.

And as hard as it is, I keep my promise to her mother: I walk away.

Twenty minutes later,
Riley calls. Not texts, but actually calls.

“Mom just called me,” she says.

I hold the phone tighter against my ear, my anticipation building. “And?”

“She asked if you wanted to come over for dinner tonight? What the hell, Dylan?”

Riley answers the
door with the same look of confusion that I left her with. But it doesn’t last long before she smiles—this all-consuming, heart-stealing smile that has me doing the same. She throws her arms around my neck, forcing me to bend down and she squeezes tight, so tight it begins to hurt. But she doesn’t need to know that. “Sorry,” she whispers, releasing me. She points at the flowers in my hand. “For me?” she asks.

I cringe slightly. Crap.
I should’ve gotten two
. “For your mom, actually.”

She shrugs. “It’s cool. You already got me flowers on my birthday.”

“I picked you dead flowers,” I remind her.

“But it’s the thought that counts.” She pulls me by my shirt and practically drags me down the hall and into the kitchen where her mom’s busy on the stove. Whatever she’s cooking smells amazing, better than the frozen dinners we have at home. I tell her that, and when she hears me, she spins around with a smile that’s almost identical to Riley’s. She wipes her hands on a cloth and makes her way to us.