by Amanda Abram
I gasped. “You did not just do that.”
It was his turn to laugh. “Oh, but I did.”
I grabbed what I could off my head and threw it at him. “You’re a jerk!” I declared through a fit of giggles.
“Hey, you started it.”
“That’s what a five-year-old would say,” I said as I attempted to shake all the cheese out of my hair. I glanced at the empty bag on the counter and frowned. “Now we can’t finish topping the lasagna.”
“Relax,” Dylan said, opening the door to the refrigerator. “We have more.”
“Something smells good in here,” came a voice from behind us. I turned to see Mrs. Meyers entering the kitchen. When she saw me, she smiled brightly. “Oh, hello, Cassie.”
“Hello, Mrs. Meyers,” I said, returning her smile.
As she got closer to me, she narrowed her eyes as she looked me up and down. “Hon, you’ve got cheese in your hair.”
I heard Dylan snicker behind me, and I scowled. “Yeah, I know. Your son put it there.”
“Dylan,” she scolded, “why would you do that?”
“She deserved it,” he replied. “Trust me.”
Mrs. Meyers just shook her head as she set her purse down on the kitchen table and walked over to the counter to look at the lasagna.
“Oh, sweetie, this looks so good. You’re going to want to put more cheese on top, though.”
“I know. I’m on it.” He held up a new, unopened bag of cheese to prove it.
She gave him a pat on the shoulder as she glanced over at me. “Cassie, are you staying for dinner?”
I nodded. “I sure am. If it’s okay with you, that is.”
“Of course, it is,” she said warmly. “You’re always welcome.” Clearing her throat, she turned back to Dylan. “I’m actually having a guest over for dinner tonight as well.”
Dylan froze. “Who?”
“Just a friend from work. He’ll be here in a few minutes.”
“He?” he echoed, his voice dripping with disapproval.
“Yes, he.” She pushed off the counter and looked down at herself. “I’m going to go change out of my work clothes. I’ll be back in a minute.”
She left the room, and as soon as she was gone, Dylan yanked open the oven door and practically threw the lasagna dish in and then slammed the door shut.
“What did that lasagna ever do to you?” I quipped, but then wished I hadn’t. He was obviously not in the mood for jokes.
He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “I’m not ready for this. Can’t my parents at least wait to get divorced before they start dating other people?”
“Well,” I said weakly, “she referred to this guy as a friend from work. Maybe that’s all he is: a friend.”
Dylan shot me an incredulous look. “C’mon, Briggs, you’re not that naive, are you? She invited him over for dinner.”
“So? You invited me over for dinner, and we’re not dating.”
“Yeah, but—” He was struggling to find his words. “That’s different. You and I are just friends.”
“Then why can’t your mom and this guy from work be ‘just friends’ too?”
He pulled at his hair as he let out a strangled cry of frustration. “Because, they can’t. That’s why. Trust me, she blushed when she said he was coming over. Even if she’s not dating him, she wants to be.”
I decided not to try convincing him that his mother wasn’t dating her co-worker, because even I wasn’t convinced. And I was about to tell him he was probably right when the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it!” his mother called from upstairs.
“Great,” Dylan muttered. “That lasagna is going to take about an hour in the oven, which means we’ll have to spend a whole hour getting to know this guy.”
“Dylan,” Mrs. Meyers said a few seconds later, returning to the kitchen with a tall, dark and handsome man trailing behind her. “I’d like you to meet Tim Dixon. Tim, this is my son Dylan.”
Tim flashed us both a pearly-white smile and stepped toward Dylan, reaching out for a handshake. “Dylan, it’s so nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”
Dylan just stared at the guy’s hand for a few awkward seconds before reluctantly shaking it. “Nice to meet you too,” he mumbled.
Tim’s gaze then shot to me. “And who is this?”
“This is Cassie,” Mrs. Meyers replied. “Dylan’s guest. She will also be joining us for dinner tonight.”
“Ah,” he said. “Cassie, it’s nice to meet you as well.”
“Likewise,” I said.
He looked between me and Dylan. “How long have you two been going out?”
Dylan slid an arm around me. “Oh, we’re not going out. We’re married.”
Tim’s eyes practically shot out of his head. “Wait, what?”
Mrs. Meyers laughed. “They’re not really married. It’s for a school project. In fact, they aren’t even dating.”
“That’s right,” I said, looking up at Dylan. “We’re just friends.”
Tim chuckled. “Oh, well, I apologize for the mistake.”
“It’s okay,” Dylan said. “We get that all the time.”
I laughed and pushed him off me. “No, we don’t.”
“Well, then,” Mrs. Meyers said, “if you two are done platonically flirting with each other, why don’t we all go hang out in the living room while we wait for the lasagna to bake?”
“No, thanks,” Dylan replied. “Cass and I have some studying to do, so we’re going to be upstairs until dinner’s ready.”
“Okay. Just make sure to leave your door open,” Mrs. Meyers teased with a sly smile.
Dylan sneered. “Cass and I are just friends, remember?”
“Relax, sweetie, I was joking.” She reached out and ruffled his hair.
I could tell he was not pleased by her joke. Turning to me, he muttered, “Let’s go,” before leaving the room.
Grabbing my backpack, I followed him out of the kitchen and up the stairs to his bedroom. I’d never been in his bedroom before; I’d never had a reason to be. I was impressed, though, as it wasn’t nearly as messy as I was expecting. Elijah’s bedroom always looked like a hurricane had passed through it, with clothes, magazines, and dirty dishes strewn about everywhere. But Dylan’s room was nice. Small, cozy, and clean.
“I like your bedroom,” I commented as he went against his mom’s instructions and closed the door behind us.
“Thanks.” He strode over to the desk in the corner of the room, sat down in his computer chair and opened his laptop. I could tell by the way he started typing that he was on a mission.
“What are you doing?” I asked, glancing curiously at the computer screen.
“Research,” he mumbled as Facebook popped up on the screen. He typed the name “Tim Dixon” into the search bar.
I sighed. “Seriously? You’re going to Facebook stalk your mom’s co-worker?”
“Yup.” When Tim’s profile loaded, Dylan frowned and shook his head. “This is bad.”
“What’s bad?” I scanned the page expecting to see a status update where Tim confessed to murdering someone, but there was nothing of the sort. In fact, the guy mostly seemed to just post dog memes and pictures of food.
“His profile picture,” he said, pointing. The picture was of Tim and a black lab—presumably his.
“What’s wrong with his profile picture?”
Dylan motioned to it. “He has a dog.”
I narrowed my eyes at the picture. “So?”
“So, my mom hates dogs,” he said as if it were common knowledge. He began scrolling down the page to see what other bombshell revelations he could find, but after about a minute he gave up. Tim wasn’t that interesting.
“Let me see if he has an Instagram,” he muttered to himself. He navigated to the other site and searched Tim’s name there. When he found an account with the same profile picture as the one on Facebook, he eagerly clicked on it.
Tim’s Instagram account had more of a personal touch to it than his Facebook account did. As Dylan scrolled down, there were numerous selfies of him with his dog, him with his friends, him with kids that were either his own or maybe nieces and nephews, and more pictures of food. All in all, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that raised any red flags.
Clearly unhappy with that, Dylan opened a new tab and typed Tim’s name into a Google search, probably looking to see if he could find some sort of police report or mug shot of the guy. When he came up empty-handed, he sighed and sat back in his chair.
“Looks like Tim’s clean,” I said. “Except for being a dog owner, that is.”
“It’ll be a deal-breaker, trust me,” he said with confidence.
As he continued to scour the Internet for dirt on Tim, I walked over to his bookshelf to check out what types of books Dylan liked to read. He only had a few: a couple of car repair manuals that looked like they’d seen better days, the entire Lord of the Rings series which looked pristine and untouched, and a gently used copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.
“Interesting book collection you have here,” I commented over my shoulder.
He spun around in his chair to see what I was doing. “Oh. Yeah. My dad gave me his copies of the Zen book and the repair manuals. My grandmother got me the Lord of the Rings books for Christmas last year and I haven’t gotten around to reading them yet.”
My gaze lowered to the next shelf down and landed on a framed picture of a young man and woman holding a little baby. I picked it up to examine it closer. “Is this you?” I asked him, holding the frame up to show him.
“It is,” he said. He rose from his chair to join me at the bookshelf.
“You were such a cute baby,” I gushed. “Are these your parents?”
“Yeah. Back when they actually liked each other.”
I took a closer look. “They look like kids.”
“That’s because they were kids,” he said matter-of-factly. “They were only seventeen when they had me.”
“Wow,” I breathed. It was crazy: Dylan was the same age now that his mom and dad were when they became parents.
“My mom had me three months after they graduated. She and Dad got married a couple of months after that. They probably shouldn’t have.” He frowned down at the picture. “I know they’ve only stayed together this long because of me.”
“I’m sorry,” I said solemnly, setting the frame back down on the shelf. I should have known that picture would be a sore subject.
He shook his head. “Don’t be. It’s not your fault.” He smiled. “Now, what do you say instead of talking about my parents’ failed marriage, we work on our own pretend marriage?”
I narrowed my eyes in confusion. “We weren’t given any Life Economics assignments today.”
Dylan wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and smirked. “I wasn’t talking about homework.”
He was just teasing, but my heart skipped a beat anyway at the implication. “Dream on,” I said, giving him a playful shove.
I barely touched him, but he purposefully stumbled backward onto the bed as if I’d put some strength into the push.
Sitting on the edge of the mattress, he patted the empty spot right next to him. “Have a seat, sugar lips. Little Madeline is spending the night with your parents. We have the whole house to ourselves, and you know what that means.”
I cocked my hip and crossed my arms over my chest. “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I picked Madeline up from my parents’ house after work. She was feeling homesick, and I told her she could come home. She’s right down the hall.”
Dylan groaned and rolled his eyes. “You’re terrible at role playing.”
“Good. I was trying to be.” Quite proud of myself, I grinned as I joined him on the bed. “Want to do some actual homework now?”
He made a face before laying back and draping his arm over his eyes. “I don’t have any homework. I finished it all in study hall.”
“How did you find time to do your homework between passing all those love notes to your study hall girlfriend?” I teased.
Dylan propped himself up on his elbow and arched a curious brow at me. “She’s no longer in my study hall,” he replied, eyeing me suspiciously. “Cass, can I ask you a question?”
“Yeah, sure.”
He sat back up, so we were face-to-face. “Do you have a problem with Claire or something?”
“No,” I said, blinking innocently at him. “Why would I have a problem with Claire? I don’t even know her.”
His eyes searched my face for a moment before the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. “Good. I want to make sure my pretend wife approves of my future girlfriend.”
I felt a knot form in my stomach as my mouth formed a tight line that mimicked a smile. “I approve. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have homework to do.”
I reached over to my backpack to pull out one of my books, but Dylan grabbed my wrist to stop me.
“In all seriousness, do you think I should ask her to Winter Formal?”
I gave him a curious look. Why would he care about what I thought? “If she’s the girl you want to go to Winter Formal with, then yes, I think you should ask her.”
Dylan’s eyes studied mine for a moment. “And if she’s not the girl I want to go with?”
“Then you should ask the girl you do want to go with.”
“What if I can’t?” he asked softly.
“Why can’t you?”
He chuckled and ran a hand through his hair. “Because she’s, uh, going with someone else.”
“Oh.” I bit my lower lip as I tried to figure out who he was talking about. I rarely ever saw Dylan socializing with any girls other than me and Lauren, so I was drawing a blank as to who—besides Claire—could have possibly caught his eye.
“I probably just won’t go. Dances are lame, anyway.”
I nodded in agreement as the knot in my stomach began to loosen. “It’s not like you’ll be missing anything. Other than the opportunity to make fun of my lack of dancing skills.”
He arched a brow. “You can’t dance?”
“Nope,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m clumsy and have no rhythm. Whenever I slow dance with anyone, I just end up stepping on their toes the whole time. Just ask Elijah about Homecoming this year.”
“No, I don’t believe that.” Dylan stood from the bed and held out his hand to me. “Prove it. Dance with me.”
I eyed his outstretched hand with amusement. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious.”
“Right here? Right now?”
He grabbed my hand, pulled me up off the bed, and yanked me forward. “Yes,” he said, staring down at me with a smirk. “Right here, right now.” He took my hands and brought them up to wrap around his neck before slipping his arms around my back and pulling me toward him.
“W-we don’t have any music,” I stuttered, my mouth suddenly feeling like it was filled with sand.
He pulled me closer. “Who needs music?”
I clasped my hands behind his neck. “This is probably going to hurt. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Bring it, Briggs,” he whispered into my ear.
I desperately tried to ignore the sudden tingling sensation taking over my entire body as we slowly began to move. To the left. To the right. Repeat.
“So far, so good,” he commented. “I still have all my toes.”
“Careful,” I warned. “You’ll jinx yourself.”
Dylan grinned. “I’m not worried.”
It was weird dancing to no music, but not as weird as the fact I wasn’t hating it. In fact, I was kind of enjoying it. Being in Dylan’s arms, swaying back and forth to nothing but the rhythm of our hearts beating. Closing my eyes, I rested my head against his shoulder and took a deep breath, inhaling the faint, spicy scent of what was most likely his aftershave. It smelled amazing.
“Hey, Dylan?”
“Hmm?”
“Who is the girl you want to ask to Winter Formal?”
He stiffened at my question, and for a few seconds, he said nothing. I had to wonder if he’d even heard me. But then, finally, he quietly replied, “I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
He sighed and rested his head against mine. “Because if I tell you, it’ll change everything.”
My eyes flew open. “Why would telling me change anything?”
We stopped moving but we didn’t let go of each other. My breathing became shallow as my heart hammered inside my chest. This was beginning to feel all too familiar. Too reminiscent of that night in my driveway. The night we almost kissed.
And once again, for reasons beyond my comprehension, I wasn’t pulling away.
“Cass,” he said, his voice low and heady. “Please don’t make me say it.”
“Say what?” I asked numbly.
He pulled back slightly, lowering his gaze to meet mine; his eyes searching my face. “You don’t know, do you? You haven’t figured it out yet?”
I think maybe I had.
But I needed to hear him say it.
He leaned back in, pressing his mouth against my ear, and whispered, “It’s you, Cass. I want you.”
My knees went weak and my breath hitched in my throat as Dylan’s hands slowly navigated from my back to my hips. I unclasped my hands from around his neck and brought them down to rest on his chest. I could feel his heart beating against the palms of my hands, and it was pounding just as hard and fast as mine was.
Removing a hand from my hip, Dylan brought it up to the side of my face and traced the line of my cheekbone with his thumb before slipping it around to the back of my neck and grabbing a fistful of my hair. And before I could stop him—before I could even figure out if I wanted to stop him—he pulled me forward, leaned down and kissed me.
At first, his lips just barely grazed mine, as if testing to see if I would pull away. But I didn’t. Instead, my eyes fluttered shut as my lips parted beneath his and I kissed him back. Lifting myself up on my tiptoes to meet his height, I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him in closer as he deepened the kiss, sending immediate shock waves through my entire body.