More Than Enough (More Than Series, Book 5)

by Jay McLean

  He rolls onto his back again. “That’s completely valid, Riley.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Why are you thanking me?”

  “Because you understand my frustration. My mom says—”

  “Do me a favor. Don’t talk to me about your mom anymore.”

  I press my lips tight.

  He sighs and places his hands on his chest. “What else did you see?”

  “Just your caption. I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s confusing.”

  “What was it again?”

  “‘A man of many words.’ It just doesn’t make sense.”

  He smiles. Not out of humor, but the kind of childish innocent smile his mother would’ve loved had she been around to see it. It’s a side of him I hadn’t seen before now and something I’m completely fascinated with. Something I’m drawn to. Like the flashes of color in his eyes after every blink. The way his nostrils flare with each exhale. The way his lip curves slightly higher on the right than the left. I want to ask him what he’s thinking—what it is about this moment that has him smiling the way he is. But I don’t. I stay silent. So silent I can hear every single one of his breaths. He adjusts his head on my lap so he’s more comfortable, then he looks up at me, his lips curving higher, shifting the tiny strands of hair along his jaw. I run the back of my finger across them, feeling the heat of his cheek against my skin. He bites down on his bottom lip and my hand moves, as if on its own, until I’m millimeters away from his mouth and when his eyes drift shut and he inhales deeply, I blink and come back to reality—a reality I wish didn’t exist.

  “Go back to my hair,” he whispers, his eyes still closed.

  I do what he asks, feeling his neck muscles relax against my leg as soon as my fingers weave through his hair.

  “So good,” he murmurs. “I could fall asleep like this.”

  I let myself smile because I know he can’t see it. “You can’t use sleep as an excuse to avoid my question.”

  His body shakes with his silent chuckle. Then he licks his lips and I curse myself for pulling my hand away instead of touching them like I really wanted to do. As if reluctant, he slowly opens his eyes—eyes that instantly meet mine. They stay on me as he sits up and leans his back against the wall. “Try it,” he says.

  Something’s happening to my heart… like the butterflies in my stomach. Constant, hectic movements that have me struggling for breath. “Try what?”

  He pats his lap; that same perfect innocent smile taking over his handsome face.

  I lie on my back, hesitating a second, before settling my head on his lap. He removes my hair from its knot and places the band on my stomach. His fingers are rough, just like I remember, but they’re warm and gentle. He runs the tips of his fingers from my eyebrows and up to my hairline and when they comb through my hair for the first time, my eyes drift shut, but not before I see his smile form into a frown. I don’t open my eyes because I don’t want to see his face anymore. I don’t want to see the sadness. I want to go back to a few minutes ago when his smile released my butterflies.

  I focus on his touch, the sounds of our breaths, the feeling of weightlessness. Then he places one hand on my stomach, the other continuing with my hair. “I’m not really much for talking,” he says, and for a moment I’m confused, then I remember what I’d said earlier. I’d already given up on his response, like so many of the unanswered questions I’d asked before. “Unless it’s with you for some reason.”

  Finally, I open my eyes and look up at him. He’s smiling again, his fingers now working a rhythm.

  “Sometimes I feel like it’s just easier to keep my mouth shut. Saves a lot of arguments.”

  “Like talking about my mom?” I ask, only half joking.

  He arches his eyebrows. “Exactly like your mom.” Now his hand on my stomach is moving, matching the strokes in my hair. “I guess it’s kind of something I got from my dad,” he says with a shrug. “And I think that you can tell more from people’s actions than their words.”

  “Like what?”

  His gaze shifts, so does his smile. He stares off at nothing in front of him. Both of his hands have stopped, but they’re still touching me. “Like when you’re at college and you ask the girl you love—the sole reason you’re there—if she’s happy you followed her path rather than take your own… and when she looks at you, there’s a second’s pause, a moment’s hesitation, right before she says ‘yes.’ That split second of silence gave me the truth, right before she spoke the lie.”

  “Hey Dylan,” I whisper, and he drops his gaze, his eyes immediately finding mine. “Do me a favor? Don’t talk to me about Heidi anymore.”

  He doesn’t say anything, just continues to stare at me, his eyes roaming my face, my eyes, my lips, and back again. “Hey Riley.”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you want me to kiss you right now?”

  A second’s pause.

  A moment’s hesitation.

  “No.”

  Dylan

  She lied.

  She wanted me to kiss her.

  I wanted so badly to kiss her.

  I didn’t.

  Instead, I gave her time.

  Time + perspective can change people.

  Hopefully.

  Jake answers after several rings, just long enough for me to start losing my mind. As much as I’m not much for talking, I need to talk to someone. And I need to talk about Riley.

  “What’s up?” he asks, barely louder than the voices in the background.

  “You busy? I can call back.”

  “Nah. You’re good. The girls are here for book club so they’re drunk and loud and stupid.”

  “Shut your whore mouth, Jacob!” Lucy shouts in the background.

  I laugh. I can’t help it. Honestly, after seeing Jake last week, I’d started missing everyone.

  “Calm your clit, Luce,” Cam tells her.

  “The guys are there, too?”

  “Yep.”

  I try to imagine them all there, all together, having fun and talking shit. “Have you told them I’m back?”

  “Nope.”

  “Who is it?” Mikayla shouts.

  “Just a guy from the team,” Jake says.

  I smile to myself, grateful I have someone I can trust in Jake. “Wait. Isn’t it Wednesday? Don’t they have book club on Tuesdays?”

  “Oh man. You don’t even want to know…”

  “What guy from the team?” Micky asks, and I can picture the scowl on her face.

  “No one, babe,” he tells her.

  “Talk about your stupid book, drink your wine, and let’s go!” Logan shouts.

  “Fuck you, Logan!” I think I miss Lucy the most.

  “Why is everyone there for—”

  “So they decided to change from Tuesdays to Wednesdays after last week,” Jake cuts in. “Apparently new books come out on Tuesdays and Lucy reads faster than the others. She was done, and Kayla and Amanda weren’t and according to Kayla, Lucy spoiled the story for them. This is all hearsay. All I know is I came home from practice and Amanda was on top of Lucy. Hair was being pulled, wine was being spilled, something about some Mason Kade dude and it was fucking hectic, man. I tried to break it up and it’d work for a second and then they’d be at it again so I had to call the guys over to help and shit got real because Logan got mad that Amanda was into some other Logan guy from the book and Cam was trying to get him to calm down. Then Logan and Cam got into a fight about letting their girls swoon over fictional boyfriends and—” He breaks off laughing, his accent thicker than normal when he adds, “It was just fucking crazy, mate, and Kayla was just standing at the side, drunk off her tits, laughing at them and shouting your name over and over and—”

  “What!” Mikayla screeches.

  Jake pauses a beat. “What?” he asks, and I can hear the fear in his voice.

  “You said I was shouting your name. As in Dylan. I was shouting Dylan’s name. Are you talking to Dylan? Is
Dylan back?”

  He curses under his breath. Static fills the phone and then silence… just for a moment before I hear Amanda’s voice. “Dylan?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, preparing for the inevitable. “Yes?”

  “How’s Afghanistan?”

  “I don’t know, Amanda. I’m not there.”

  “So… where are you?”

  I smile, and give her a truth I’d been waiting to feel. “I’m home.”

  Fourteen

  Dylan

  I didn’t get to talk to Jake about Riley last night. After I told them I was back I spent a good couple hours talking with each of them, one after the other. We made plans for them to come over on Sunday. Normally, it’d probably annoy me, but it didn’t.

  I was on a high—a Riley-induced high.

  Speaking of Riley—she hasn’t stopped watching me since I stepped foot in her house. It’s different from the other times I’ve caught her looking at me. Most of the time they’re quick glances when she doesn’t think I’m watching—which is dumb, because I’m always watching. Now, it’s different, like she’s trying to figure something out. Or like the times I’d unknowingly done something wrong and Heidi would look at me waiting for me to admit to something I hadn’t known I’d done.

  Riley takes a sip of her wine, her eyes on mine, completely unthreatened by the fact that I’m staring right at her… watching… trying to figure her out… waiting for her to admit to why she’s looking at me the way she is.

  Oh, what a tangled, fucked-up web we weave.

  I’m giddy.

  I don’t know why I’m giddy.

  She brings the bottle to her lips and takes another sip.

  I’m going to kiss those lips again.

  That’s why I’m giddy.

  She lowers the bottle, her head tilting and her eyebrow quirked.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” she says.

  Sure, nothing.

  “So…” I start, getting up from her bed and sitting down next to her on the floor. I like being close to her, touching her, sniffing her. Creep. “I have a thing tomorrow.”

  She turns to me, a glare in place, and I suppress my chuckle because dammit, she’s cute. “A thing?” she asks. Another sip.

  I move the hair away from her eyes to behind her ear. I keep my hand there for longer than needed, because like I said, I like touching her. “At the VA hospital. Apparently I’m meeting up with someone who’ll be in charge of the physical therapy for my shoulder so I guess her and I will be spending a lot of time—”

  “Her?” she interrupts, her glare more glary.

  Win.

  “I was hoping you’d come with. Make it more bearable?”

  She opens her mouth, then shuts it, then opens it again—not to speak—but to take another sip.

  “It’s cool if you don’t want to,” I tell her, feeling my heart sink to my stomach. “I just thought… I mean, it would’ve been good to have a friend there, but like I said, it’s cool.” I start to get up but she presses down on my knee to stop me.

  “I can’t,” she murmurs, her gaze lowered.

  I shrug and physically remove her hand from my leg. I stand up and walk to her nightstand where I pick up my phone, keys and wallet. I don’t want to risk staying, because staying means talking, and I’m sure whatever we’ll end up saying will be something we’ll regret.

  I need time. Time + perspective.

  “You’re leaving?” she asks, sitting up on her knees, her eyes wide as she places the bottle on the floor next to her.

  “Yeah. I think so. I have—”

  “You’re mad?” she interrupts.

  I drop my shoulders and face her fully. “I’m not mad, Riley. But there’s a big difference between can’t and won’t. It’s not like you have plans,” I say. “You can go, Riley. You just don’t want to.” I make it halfway to her door before I feel her hand on mine and when I spin to face her—there are tears in the eyes the color of sadness.

  I drop my gaze, my hands on my hips. “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

  “Dylan…” She says my name like some sort of plea. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I do. I really can’t. I haven’t left the house in over a year,” she admits. “I’m terrified of what’s out there.”

  I try to breathe through the ache in my chest caused by the fear in her voice. “Why?”

  “Just don’t leave yet, okay?”

  I don’t leave. I can’t.

  And I don’t bring it up again because I don’t want to see that same look in her eyes—the one telling me that whatever she fears is bigger than she lets on, bigger than this room we call our solitude, bigger than us.

  She goes back to drinking in silence and writing in her notebook.

  I go back to watching her.

  She doesn’t look at me the way she did when I walked in.

  I think about the horizon, the calm—and I wonder when it is we’ll be able to find it. And if we can ever find it together.

  The alarm on her phone sounds, warning us that her mom will be home soon and I’ll need to go. She reaches for it and taps the screen a few times, silencing it, then she looks at me.

  I look at her.

  After a while, she gets up and sits on the bed next to me. “I really do wish I could go with you,” she says quietly.

  “It’s okay. You have your reasons.”

  After a sigh, she says, “Can your dad go with you? Or Eric?”

  I turn to her. “It wouldn’t be the same as having you there.”

  “I feel horrible.” She exaggerates a pout.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t say it to make you feel bad.”

  “I know. I just wish I could give back what you’ve given me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know what it’s like to do things alone. Until you came along, I was drowning in it and now…”

  “Now?”

  She dips her head.

  I throw my arm around her shoulders and bring her into me. “I appreciate it, Riley, but I’ll be okay. Promise.”

  “Will you come by after? Tell me how it went?”

  “If you want me to.”

  “I do,” she whispers, then looks up at me, a sad smile on her beautiful face. She leans up and kisses my cheek, her lips lingering longer than necessary. When she moves back, she doesn’t move far. So when I turn to face her, she’s only an inch away. I bite down on my lip, my gaze moving from her eyes to her wet, parted, perfect fucking mouth. Then I reach up, my hand cupping her face… please, please let me kiss you. Slowly—giving her enough time to push me away—I lean down…

  “Shit!” She pushes me away.

  “Seriously?”

  She’s on her feet now, whispering loudly, “My mom’s home!”

  “So what?”

  She’s pulling on my good arm to get me to stand. “You have to leave.” She looks around frantically, then points to her window. “Out there!”

  I dig my heels into the carpet. “Riley, I’m twenty-three, I’m not jumping out of a fucking window.”

  “Please, Dylan.”

  I cross my arms. “No.”

  The panic in her eyes escalates when we hear the front door open. “Dylan, please,” she cries.

  I roll my eyes and start for her window. I lift the damn thing, then climb through it, wondering how it’s possible for a twenty-year-old to be constantly drunk but not allowed boys in her room.

  She follows after me, sticking her head out when I land on my feet and start to walk away. “Dylan!” she whispers.

  I stop and turn to her. “What?”

  “Good luck tomorrow. I’ll be thinking of you.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m always thinking of you.”

  Fifteen

  Riley

  I think I lose my ability to breathe on the third knock. It started the second I stepped foot out of my house and got worse with every step. I have no idea how I manage to keep
it together long enough for someone to actually open the door, but as soon as it does, I instantly regret every single step that got me here. She’s stunning—blond hair, big brown eyes and legs for days. She’s wearing a blue flannel shirt—exactly like the ones Dylan wears—and not much else. If you take away the instant jealousy, I’m pretty sure I have no justified reason to hate her as much as I hate her at the moment. Then she smiles, and I hate her even more. But then she says, “Are you here for Dylan?” and when I nod, her smile gets wider. “I’m a friend of his brother’s. We’re just having breakfast,” she says, opening the door wider. Her smile begins to fade the longer I stand there, completely unsure of what to do next. I want to see him, but I want more to run back to my house, close the doors, drink the wine I hadn’t touched since last night and remember all the reasons I’d told him I couldn’t even though, clearly, I can. I just really, really didn’t want to.

  “Are you coming in?” she asks.

  I nod again, though my reluctance is clear. “Maybe I should—”

  “He’ll be happy to see you, Riley,” she says, and my breath catches.

  She opens the door wider and it’s enough for me to take a step forward, literally and metaphorically.

  I mumble an apology for interrupting when I enter the kitchen—feeling the heat of three pairs of eyes on me. I look at everyone in the room, saving Dylan’s for last. His dad and his brother are almost identical in their features, minus a beard. Their eyes are brown, though. Dylan’s are blue. I’d remember the shade of blue even if I wasn’t looking at them right now.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks, coming to stand.

  I use my skirt to wipe the sweat off my palms. God, I wish I were drunk. Or at least buzzed. It would make this so much easier. But I made my choice, and for the first time since I can remember, I chose someone other than myself. “Your appointment—it’s this morning, right?”

  He nods. “I thought you said you couldn’t—”

  My shrug cuts him off.

  “Why don’t you join us?” his dad says, finally breaking our stare.

  “Do you want me to?” I ask, my eyes back on Dylan.

  There is no second’s pause.