Press Play

by Sam LaRose

  “I’m already paying those myself.”

  “Are you?” Peter raised an eyebrow. “Because the extra three grand I pay Mora every month for your apartment says otherwise.”

  “If I’m not paying all my rent, that’s because Mora wasn’t honest with how much it cost. Jack and I pay her what our lease says we owe her.” Dylan retorted. “Trying to control me with money is absurd. Pulling Mora into this was inappropriate at best.”

  “She’s your sister. She wanted to help you out.”

  “She is not my sister,” Dylan admonished. “Saying that is not only dismissive of the fact she’s genderqueer, but also that you like this virtual stranger more than your own son. Or am I adopted too? Is that the big secret?” He feigned a gasp. “I’m not Zoe’s secret love child, am I?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Martha snapped. “Your cousin Pete is only a few months older than you. Trust me, you’re my child. You’re the only child I ever had.”

  “So, I’m not his?” He pointed at his father.

  Dylan’s neck snapped as Martha’s palm connected with his cheek. He saw spots as the edge of his vision turned red for a moment.

  “Don’t you dare insinuate such a thing!”

  “First, Mora has never had an issue being referred to with feminine signifiers,” Peter’s tone was sharp. “She is, legally speaking, your sibling. She has had every holiday with our family for over a decade. She has joined us on vacations, she visited you while you were in LA. She’s attended your gallery shows, charity auctions, galas, and every other sort of event possible, as a representative of this family. Your mother and I made the decision to make it official due to a health crisis. Unlike you and your spoiled upbringing, Mora didn’t have a robust support system when she was in trouble. She needed access and your mother and I could give it to her.”

  “You used your sway to pull strings to make an otherwise shady deal happen to benefit a family friend,” Dylan summarized. His cheek stung while his temple throbbed harder. His vision had, luckily, cleared. “It has nothing to do with me. I wasn’t even consulted. You know how I found out about it? Mora shared it on Facebook. It didn’t even warrant a phone call.”

  “We weren’t sure it would go through,” Martha interjected. “Judge Fineman was very on the fence about granting it. It was highly unorthodox, given your father’s position.”

  Dylan squeezed his eyes closed, pressing a hand to his head. “It doesn’t matter. We’re just using Mora as a deflection.”

  “Are you ready to talk about your issues then?” Peter asked.

  “I’ve done nothing but talk about my issues,” Dylan informed him. “I told you when I came home that I wanted the surveillance to stop. I wanted the camera out of my rooms, the tracker off my phone, and the lojack off my car. You’re so paranoid about others, you forget I am the biggest danger to myself.” He lowered his hands, his fingers digging into his thighs as he opened his eyes again. “I was sober for over three years. This is the only time I’ve ever ended up in the hospital. My goal was never to hurt myself.”

  “What was your goal then?”

  Dylan didn’t have an answer for that. He wasn’t sure there was one answer for everything he’d done. He’d started the drugs to fit in with his peers. When they had an effect he liked, he’d continued. Whether that was making the world seem calmer, or feeling less listless. The drinking had been in part because it was offered. The effect was a nice perk. And the sex...well, who would turn down a dopamine rush, no matter how short lived?

  “I don’t know,” he finally answered. “It’s less about hurting myself and more about not being myself.”

  “Dylan, that makes no sense.” Martha reached over to squeeze his knee. “There isn’t anything wrong with you.”

  “Obviously that isn’t true.” He pushed her hand away again. “What do I have to do to get you to stop? You won’t even let me try taking care of myself.”

  “You went off-grid for a week and ended up in the hospital,” Peter said. “Pardon the fuck out of me if I don’t have a lot of faith in you doing that.”

  Dylan gritted his teeth. “If you don’t want me to be an adult, then why did you let me move out? Why did you ever let me go to LA?”

  “You had Dakota and Jojo in LA,” Peter retorted. “We let you move out because of Mora. She suggested you needed the responsibility of being on your own.”

  “What about Benjamin, following me to Boston? You didn’t even trust me in a city where no one even knows who I am?”

  “You don’t know that no one knew you.”

  “Did he tell you something I don’t know?”

  “You were perfectly safe,” Peter assured him. “You might not have been. Benjamin was hired specifically to work your detail. We would have told you, eventually.”

  “When, exactly?”

  “It got complicated when you decided to sleep with the help,” Peter intoned.

  “Now it’s about me being promiscuous,” Dylan observed. “I can never do anything right, can I? I’d think you’d be happier to just be done with me.” He reached for the door handle, but the door wouldn’t open. “Are you fucking kidding me?” He banged his fist on the glass. “David! Open this door!” He turned back to his parents. “I’m tired of talking in circles. I’m never going to be what you want. You’re never going to respect me as an adult.” His fist pounded on the glass again. “David!”

  The door swung open and he stepped out into the garage.

  “Whatever needs to be cut off, cut it off,” he told the man, sliding out of the car. “Credit cards, accounts, services. Whatever doesn’t have my name on it.”

  “Peter.” He heard his mother’s voice crack.

  “Martha, I’m sorry,” Peter replied before the door closed again.

  “You’re making a mistake,” David informed him.

  “It’s not your place to give me that opinion,” Dylan reminded him. “Don’t get so familiar. You’re only hired help.”

  David’s jaw tightened. “I know my place, thank you. You’re the one who keeps trying to ignore yours.”

  Dylan didn’t respond, walking away. The elevator opened immediately, and he stepped in the carriage. As the doors closed around him again, he could see David, still standing at the back of the car, watching him go.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The most obvious change to being cut off was that most of his credit cards no longer worked. They had all been in his name, but accounts had been attached to his parent’s credit score. Luckily, his bank cards had all long been transferred into his own name, so immediate funds weren’t a problem. He didn’t, however, expect the giant itemized bill that arrived from Montgomery Holdings, LLC. Reimbursement for everything he’d put on those credit cards over the last six months. He gritted his teeth as he looked at the payment instructions.

  Payable by check to Peter & Martha Montgomery or weekly Sunday dinners at Hughes Castle; exchangeable for $100 per meal.

  In other words, Sunday dinner for roughly the next 3 years. How Gilmore of them.

  It had pained him, but he’d written the check and dropped it in the mail. That was most of his commission earnings, already spent. He hadn’t even gotten to enjoy any of it.

  On top of the issue with his parents, Jordan had been waiting in the apartment for him when he’d gotten home. He’d been struck with guilty pangs the moment he laid eyes on him.

  “Dylan, can we talk?” Jordan had asked.

  “My head still really hurts,” Dylan had bemoaned. “Later?”

  Jordan had switched into Mother Hen mode, offering to get him food or water. Dylan had assured him that he didn’t need anything except to lay down. Jordan had offered his services as a weighted blanket, which had made him laugh, but decline.

  “You should know something before you go lay down,” Jordan had gone serious as Dylan made his way to his room. “Benjamin was here last night, when we got back.”

  “Did he say something?”

&n
bsp; “He had come to talk to you. He said you weren’t answering his texts.” Jordan rubbed the back of his head. “Mora told him a version of what happened. I offered him a ride home. Tyler hit him.”

  “Tyler did what now?” Dylan blinked.

  Jordan explained the conversation, leading up to Tyler’s fist connecting with Benjamin’s face. Then, finished with, “I let him know you got released. He seemed legitimately worried about you.”

  “Thanks for telling me,” Dylan continued toward his room. “I’d appreciate it if you stayed out of it from now on.”

  “Dyl?”

  “Yeah?”

  “About what happened last night,” Jordan started.

  “Jordan, I don’t want to talk about last night. I just want to lie down.”

  “I didn’t mean what I said,” Jordan pressed. “I was just angry about being pushed away. I—”

  “Jordan, I don’t remember anything you said to me,” Dylan informed him. “I remember taking the pills in the bathroom and going down to the dance floor. I think I kissed a guy? I don’t know how I got into the alley. If you yelled at me, I probably deserved it.” He stepped into his bedroom. “Let’s just forget last night ever happened, okay?”

  Jordan pressed a hand to the door as Dylan tried to close it. “We can’t do that and you know it.”

  “I’m not doing drugs again,” he promised. “It was a random impulse.”

  “You seem to be giving into a lot of those lately.”

  “Jordan,” Dylan’s tone flattened, “I’m going to bed. You can show yourself out.”

  Dylan assumed he had listened because when he woke up later that afternoon, the apartment was completely empty.

  It hadn’t stayed that way for long. After a shower and changing, he’d walked into a full living room. He’d glanced over the assembled population, which seemed to be everyone he knew in the entire building, turned around, and headed for the office. He’d closed the door, flipped the lock, and sat down at his computer to go to work on commissions.

  It took fifteen minutes before someone came and knocked. He turned up the wireless speaker hooked up to his phone, drowning out the voice from the hallway. He kept working until he couldn’t ignore the hunger pangs anymore.

  The living room had emptied out except for Jack and Mora. He ignored them to head into the kitchen.

  “Everyone left once they saw you were alive,” Jack informed him.

  “I brought your phone and wallet.” Mora set the items on the counter. “Jordan had them for safekeeping.”

  “Thanks.” Dylan looked over the contents of the fridge. He was officially out of leftovers from Rosa. Most of the fridge contents were Jack’s. He hadn’t done any grocery shopping for a while. He closed the fridge, going for a pantry cupboard instead.

  “Dylan, are you going to ignore that you could have died last night?” Jack asked.

  “I’m not ignoring it,” Dylan replied. “I have an appointment with a therapist on Tuesday.” He closed the cupboard too. “Unless either of you obtained a medical degree I’m not aware of, I’ll ask you to stay out of my head.”

  “I’m glad you’re going to talk to somebody. You should have done it eons ago.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “What is wrong with you,” Mora exclaimed. “If you’d been alone in that alley, you would have died! You stopped breathing!”

  Dylan muttered under his breath. He picked up the phone and wallet. He shoved them into his back pocket, making his way for the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You shouldn’t be alone,” Jack argued.

  “I’m going to find something for dinner,” Dylan informed him, pulling his coat from the peg in the entry way. “I’m more than certain I can handle that on my own.”

  “We haven’t eaten either. We can order something in,” Jack offered. “I can make something. We have food here.”

  Since walking out of the apartment after that, Dylan had been avoiding everyone. It wasn’t difficult. He’d learned how to tune people out very quicky in life. He spent Sunday at Stuart’s; which he needed to stop referring to as Stuart’s. It was his house. Monday, he’d had an awkward conversation with the new Foundation Director about the weekend’s events, which had been published in the society pages. After assuring the man it was being blown completely out of proportion, he’d had a similar conversation with the head of the CSG Art Department and Dean of Students. He still had a job, but he was going to be observed much more closely.

  Talking to the students was the worst part. The disappointment he had in himself was overwhelming. Most of them seemed confused, though not in the dark about events. He had the feeling that Jack’s sisters and Morgan had done the work of informing everyone of the post-gallery events. Afterwards, he had texted Travis.

  [YOU] You probably know I fell off the wagon.

  [YOU] I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.

  [TRAVIS] I’ll be at the 86th Street Café meeting tonight at 6. Join me if you’re ready to get back on.

  Dylan didn’t go to the meeting. Travis continued to text him daily opportunities. He didn’t take him up on the offers, but he also didn’t ask Travis to stop.

  Tuesday morning, he met with a Dr. Miller in an office in midtown. He’d been immediately distracted by a piece of astonishingly bad art hung behind her chair. He tried to keep his mouth quiet about it, but it wasn’t happening.

  “I have an extensive collection,” he’d finally said. “I inherited several pieces that would be appropriate for the rest of your décor.” His eyes had flitted over the rest of the drab, beige room. “Is this color scheme supposed to be calming? Non-provoking, I suppose?”

  “Are you deflecting because you don’t want to be here?” She guessed. “Or are you legitimately distracted?”

  “It’s just a really atrocious piece. I hope you didn’t pay much money for it.”

  “My Great-Uncle painted it,” she spoke slowly. “While he was in a care facility with Parkinson’s.”

  “Fuck.” Dylan felt his cheeks flush. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine. It’s not a great piece, but it means a lot to me. It was the last gift he gave me before he passed.” She folded her hands on her notebook. “You’re not here to talk about art, Dylan. Why don’t you tell me what happened Friday night?”

  Dylan gave her the highlights in a very bored tone. He jumped right into telling her about the argument with his parents in the car as well. She asked a few clarifying questions, and then asked him about his history of drug and alcohol use. He gave her a cliff notes version, and answered her questions as bluntly as he could.

  “Dylan, have you ever considered that your drug and alcohol use could be a form of self-medicating?” She asked. “Some of the phrases you’ve used,” she looked down at her notepad, “like how it felt to use Adderall.” She looked back up at him. “Do you know what amphetamines are used for?”

  “It’s an ADHD medication. I went to a lot of demanding secondary schools; most people used them so they could study longer.”

  “Right,” she nodded, “but that isn’t the effect it had on you?”

  “Sort of,” Dylan shrugged. “I guess most people talked about it in a sense of things picking up speed; for me it was more of a slowing down.”

  “That’s what it’s supposed to do,” she answered. “I’m not giving you any kind of diagnosis, but I’d like you to consider taking some tests.”

  “Tests?”

  “Nothing invasive. Just checking some boxes, answering questions. Some puzzles. Do you like puzzles?”

  “No.”

  “I see.” She made another notation. “We could do the tests here. You don’t have to prepare in any way. How does that sound?”

  “When?”

  “Same time next week?” She suggested. “While you’re not required to continue seeing me, I have this time slot available for a new patient. No pre
ssure. We could schedule out for the next, say, six weeks. You can decide if this is helping you or not. Or, if I’m not what you’re looking for, I could give you a referral to someone else.”

  “Are you saying I’m going to be in therapy forever?” Dylan asked.

  “Is that a concern you have?”

  Dylan muttered a few curses under his breath. “No. My concern is that nothing is wrong with me, so this is a waste of time. Unless you’d like to stop with the psycho-babble and just tell me what you think is wrong with me.”

  “I think you could have a mild case of attention deficit disorder. Potentially, something neuro-atypical.”

  “You think I’m fucking autistic?” He read between her medical jargon.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Don’t you think my parents would have noticed if I was autistic? Especially considering how over protective they’ve been.”

  “You’ve been very isolated most of your life. Autism is a spectrum. If you are on that spectrum, you’re incredibly high-functioning. It’s true, you’ve already hyper-fixated on the art in my office,” she pointed out. “You’ve been very blasé about everything we’ve talked about this morning, except for the artwork. You like routine and order, but have bouts with poor impulse control. It’s hard to say after only one conversation, but I’m good at recognizing self-medicating at this point in my career. Most likely, you started to help you feel more normal among your peers.”

  Dylan glanced over at the clock. “Is our time up yet?”

  “Dylan, I only want to help you. The tests will let me do that. If there is something, there are ways you can learn to—”

  “There is nothing wrong with me.” Dylan stood from the chair.

  “No, there isn’t.” She turned in her chair, watching him stride for the door. “No one is one hundred percent neurotypical—”

  Dylan showed himself out of the office. As soon as he had put space between himself and the office, his brain went to outlining his to-do list. He had commissions to finish, including the paintings. He’d been contacted by other artists, bloggers, and “new fans”. He didn’t have time to worry about what some psychiatrist thought.