Wrong in All the Right Ways

by Tiffany Brownlee

  “That can’t be good,” he mutters underneath his breath. Obviously not low enough, because I still heard him.

  “Why is me reflecting a bad thing?”

  “Because I know women”—Do you, Dylan? Do you really?—“and I know that when you start to think and reflect on things, a reckoning awaits.”

  “Ha-ha, very funny,” I say as I glance into his eyes as I stop at a red light. Looking at the clock, I assume that we only have about twenty minutes of daylight left before the purplish-blue sky settles in for the night. “But seriously … I started thinking about our big picture, and how this whole thing is going to work when I go off to college. I like you, but—”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.” He doesn’t say much after that; he just focuses his eyes on the road before us. He always knows how to shut down conversations that he doesn’t want to have. “It’ll be easier, though. Once I get adopted and you’re away at college, we won’t have to sneak around anymore.” He grabs hold of my hand as he speaks, letting the butterflies out of their cage once again. Leave it to Dylan to find a way to make me smile even when I’m slightly upset with him.

  “Do you know that you talk in your sleep?” He’s been quiet for most of the ride back, and I have to keep the conversation going somehow; I can’t take another second of silence from him. “You kept muttering the name Cheyenne over and over. Is that your mom’s name?”

  More silence.

  “Dylan?”

  “No,” he finally says. “She was this girl who used to live across the street from the group home I stayed at.”

  Involuntarily, my fingers loosen their grip around his. “Did you used to date her or something?” She’s probably the one who taught him how to kiss so well. I bet it was her.

  “No.” He laughs to himself. “But she did give me my first kiss.” I knew it! Is it possible for me to appreciate and abhor this mystery girl at the same time? “She was my escape from everything. You see, my group home was run by a retired drill sergeant, and with eight foster kids in the house, he wasn’t the most compassionate person to talk to. Whenever I could get away, she would listen to me talk endlessly about missing my family, or getting in trouble with Sir, or whatever problem I had going on at the time.”

  “Sounds like you loved her.” Though I don’t mean for them to, my words come out cold and reeking of jealousy.

  “Maybe.” Damn. “Then again, I’m not sure. I don’t really know what it feels like to love someone, and I don’t think I was capable of loving anyone with the state that I was in.”

  I pull into the driveway of our house and unhook my seat belt, but I don’t get out of the car. Through the window, I see the sun resting just above the horizon as if it’s contemplating whether or not it really wants to sink beneath it. “When my parents first got me this car, I didn’t want to drive it because I was scared to damage it. I used to let it sit in the driveway, and every night I would come out, put the top down, and watch as the skyline gobbled up the sun and the stars appeared out of thin air right before my eyes.”

  As I speak, I press the button on the dashboard to let the top down, and another button to let our seats back. “I’ve never been in love either, but I’ve always had this idea that it’s supposed to change the way you see the world. Like, all at once, everything is different … good different.

  “It’s where you want to go out of your way to see that other person smile. And when you get some really exciting news and they’re the first person you think to call, because you know they’re going to be proud of you and just as excited about your success as you are. It’s where their passion is an indispensable part of your own, and you would do anything to keep that happiness in their heart.”

  “So that’s love, huh?” he asks, his eyes sparkling as if he knows something I don’t.

  “My definition, yes.”

  “Sounds like you know it well. You sure you’ve never been in love?”

  “I’m sure,” I say after a moment. “I would have told you if I had been.” Another noiseless minute flies by before either of us says anything. It’s almost as if we’re both trying to figure out if, by my definition, we love each other or not.

  “Do you like Keegan more than you like me?”

  I’m not sure if it’s my imagination, but as he speaks, I think I can hear his heart pounding with anticipation for the answer.

  A part of me wants to deny any feelings that I have for Keegan, but I can’t lie to him. Not again, especially after he let me into a sacred part of his past today. “I like him.” I cringe when the words come out; I can almost hear his heart breaking. “But that has nothing on what I have with you. It doesn’t feel like some silly high school thing with you, like it does with him. It’s more than that.”

  “You’re right. It is more than that.” He reaches for one of my hands that is resting on my stomach, and laces his fingers with mine. And even though we’re out in the open, sitting right beneath my parents’ window, I let him hold my hand, and he repeats, “Much more.”

  Dear Catherine,

  Today I met Dylan’s father. He’s despicable, but I think the entire visit brought me closer to Dylan. The way he looked at me when we were sitting in my car, under the stars, enveloped me in this lightness. Like everything was right in the world at that moment. I don’t know what it was exactly, but I think I like it. I think that feeling has always been there, simmering underneath everything else, but tonight, I felt it boil over.

  Keegan doesn’t ignite anything close to that kind of feeling. Usually it’s just fun and flirty with him. I don’t have the same deep conversations with him that I do with Dylan. But that could be a good thing. Maybe Keegan just wants to keep it simple, because after we’re done with Cedar Pointe, the simplicity of our youth will end. He could just be one step ahead of me already. Or maybe I’m one step ahead of him, keeping just enough distance between us so that once Keegan and I go our separate ways in college, Dylan and I can finally have space to grow together.

  Maybe I’m thinking too much about this, but tonight opened my eyes up to something I hadn’t thought of before: What would have happened if you had gone back to Heathcliff after choosing Edgar? Would you have regretted it? Would you have lived and died happier than you did? As I look at my Dylan vs. Keegan situation, I can’t help but wonder … what if?

  Emma

  chapter 16

  MATTHEW ALWAYS CALLS the shots with our Sunday family activities, but for some reason Dad lets Dylan do it this week. I suspect that he’s trying to make up for entering him into the art showcase against his will, but I’m not exactly sure.

  “So what’ll it be?” he says as he passes the plate of pancakes around the table.

  “How does everyone feel about going to the batting cages for a little bit?” Dylan must be trying to apologize for blowing up at Dad eons ago. Men are so weird. They never apologize for their actions; they just find a way to make it up to the person that they’ve hurt. I, myself, have never heard Dylan or my father actually say the words I’m sorry.

  “Sounds like fun,” my mom says as she pours syrup over Matthew’s short stack. “We’ll leave in an hour.”

  I lace up my cleats and pull on one of Dad’s old baseball jerseys and a pair of jean shorts. It’s unusually hot for the end of October, and, though I typically don’t like to show so much skin in public, I refuse to pass out from hyperthermia.

  “You look ravishing, Emma,” Dylan says as I sneak into his room and close the door.

  “Thanks.” I knew he was going to say something like that. Dylan can hardly keep his hands, let alone his eyes, off of me whenever we’re alone. Since our trip to LA, he’s gotten a lot more playful, and the flirting between us has been at an all-time high.

  “Did you wear that for me?” Before I can answer, he puts his hands around my waist, and presses me up against the wall. I can’t help but wonder what’s gotten into him; he’s usually not this passionate.

  I let hi
s kisses migrate from my lips to my neck, and as they do, I glance at the ground. His backpack is open, papers flooding from it. I follow the trail of papers to the balled-up piles by his trash can. On top of it is a chemistry test, a big, red F in the top right corner of it.

  “How’s school going?”

  “Are we really going to talk about this right now?” He blows off my question and tosses me onto his bed. He tries to kiss me again, but I won’t let this go.

  “Are you failing chemistry?”

  “What? Where is this coming from?” I push him off of me and pick his test from the top of his wastebasket. “Oh, that. I was gonna ask you for help, but we haven’t been hanging out like we used to.”

  “Are you seriously blaming me for your failing?”

  “No. I just have had a lot going on. Between you, the showcase, work, and everything going on with my dad, I haven’t had much time for school stuff. But I’m not worried. I’ll just study more.”

  “My parents don’t take failing grades lightly. How do you plan to dig yourself out of that territory?”

  “With these.” He opens the drawer on his side table and pulls out the unlabeled orange bottle of thin white pills that I saw in his bag when we went to LA. “I got them from one of the art students at school. They’re supposed to give me the energy I need to stay awake. He called them—”

  “Study buddies, I know. The real question is why do you have those?”

  “With everything on my plate, I’m getting burnt out halfway through the day.” He pops the top on the bottle and tosses one of the tiny white pills into his mouth as if it’s nothing. “These give me energy like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “You shouldn’t be taking those with your sleeping pills. That’s extremely dangerous. I mean, anything could happen if you mix them. You could slip into a coma or have a heart attack or—”

  “Who told you that I was taking sleeping pills? Nobody but your mom and dad knows that.”

  Uh-oh. I can’t think of an excuse for why I know this and out of fear of getting caught, I tell the truth. “I saw them in your bag when we were on the trip.” Before I can get a chance to explain myself, he’s turning away from me, his hands on his head. That’s never a good sign.

  “You went through my stuff?”

  “I was just worried about you, Dylan. You passed out cold in the passenger’s seat of my car, and I had to figure out why.”

  “I didn’t know it was a crime to want to knock out after a life-altering conversation with my killer slash father.” When he turns around to face me, I can see the disappointment in his eyes. He thinks I don’t trust him.

  “I didn’t know it was a crime to care about you.” There I go again, speaking before thinking. When will I learn? My words must sting a little, because when my eyes gloss over his face, a shade of pink seems to rise from the neck of his shirt, as if I slapped him.

  He bites his lip and takes a breath. “After the shooting, I couldn’t sleep—PTSD, they chalked it up to—so I was prescribed pills to help relieve my insomnia. And when I moved in here, your parents were put in charge of my medication. So every night around nine or ten, your parents give me one pill and watch me take it.”

  But why do you have a bottle of Ambien pills if they are in charge of it? And why is the bottle expired?

  “The guys at school want something in exchange for the study buddies, so sometimes, I hide my pills under my tongue and save them for trading.” There you have it, Emma. He’s storing them in that old bottle to trade with the school druggies. Just great.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  His brown eyes pierce into mine before he says, “You don’t tell me everything all of the time.”

  The heat—fueled by embarrassment and irritation with myself—rising in my own cheeks makes it look like we’ve just engaged in a slap fight. “Okay. I get it.”

  “I’ll share anything with you, Emma. But this”—his finger toggles between our bodies—“this has to be a two-way street when it comes to that.”

  As he leans down to give me a reassuring kiss, I catch sight of the unmarked bottle of pills on his side table; what I want to do is flush its entire contents down the toilet. I know he doesn’t need them. “Okay. Can you get rid of them, please? All of them. Both bottles. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I stood by while you dug a grave for yourself.”

  “The chances of that happening are slim. But if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll flush them.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And you can help me, too … with school. If that offer is still on the table.” That was probably intended to be in a much happier tone, but it sounds like he’s spitting the words out, instead of gently floating them by me. Sister. Girlfriend. And I guess I’ll add tutor to the list of things I am to you. “We better get going before they start getting suspicious.”

  He grabs a pairs of tennis shoes and bolts out the door, leaving me behind to take another look at the bottles of pills still on his side table. I don’t want to have to nag him about keeping his promise to me, but I can’t ignore the gut-wrenching feeling in my stomach.

  * * *

  When I was little, I used to go to the batting cages all the time with my dad. He would pick me up after school, and we would stay out there for hours on end. Before he became crazy with competition, I loved going to the cages. It was a way for us to bond, and I was damn good at it. The bitter smell of the dirt always made me feel at home. And it still does.

  “Who’s batting first?” my dad asks as he unlocks the cage.

  My hand shoots in the air. Might as well show everyone how it’s done. Grabbing my helmet, I enter the cage as my dad sets the speed of the pitching machine to my old settings. I raise the bat and let it hover over my left shoulder as the click of the machine launches a fastball toward me. For a moment, I imagine it’s coasting at fifteen miles an hour instead of hurtling at sixty. When I think I’ve timed it perfectly, I swing hard. Miss. So much for showing them how it’s done.

  “You’re swinging too early, honey. Wait for the next one, and keep that elbow up.” I adjust my elbow as the machine launches another ball at me, and this time when I swing, the ball and the bat connect with a high-pitched crack. “You still got it, sweetie.” As I turn around to give my dad the thumbs-up signal, I see him walking toward a white truck. Keegan’s truck.

  “What’s he doing here?” Dylan asks through gritted teeth as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other; Keegan’s presence always makes him uneasy.

  “No clue. I didn’t invite him.”

  “I did,” my dad says with a huge grin. “We need an all-star player if we’re going to beat these guys.”

  “Yeah,” Keegan chimes in, setting his baseball bag on the ground. “Your dad said that he called in some of his friends to play a quick game with us on the next field over.” Keegan’s eyes are bright and shiny; he loves baseball probably more than anything.

  “And here they are,” Dad says, motioning to the group of men with their sons walking toward us. “Let’s get a few more practice swings in before we begin.” I’m so mad at my dad that I want to throw my bat at him. We can’t even have a family outing without him getting all competitive.

  I don’t say a word to my dad while we play the game. Partly because I’m furious with him for inviting Keegan, and partly because I’m trying to keep Dylan as far away from Keegan as possible. He was just starting to get used to me being back in his life, and Keegan’s surprise feature at today’s Sunday family outing has brought him back to the dark place he was in before we made up.

  We end up winning the game by three runs, which makes my father happy, and it isn’t until the end that I let my arbitrating guard down. Keegan and Dylan are going to go their separate ways, and everything will get back to normal.

  “Great game. I had no clue that you were into baseball, too.” Keegan reaches down for my hand and squeezes his fingers betwee
n mine. I want to pull away, but I know that I have to pretend, even though I’m fully committed to Dylan now.

  “I used to play softball a couple years ago.”

  “Well, you still got it.” He leans in to kiss me on the cheek, and when he does, I see Dylan’s jaw tighten. He was getting in some postgame swings, and is bringing his gear in now. “Your brother wasn’t as good as I thought he would be, though. Maybe I can come over and teach him sometime.”

  “Pass,” Dylan says as he drops his bat at our feet. “We don’t need you or your help.”

  “What’s your problem, man?” Keegan has released my hand and is now an inch away from Dylan’s face. They’re the same height, but Keegan has more muscle, and I’m scared that a fight is going to break out between them. “I’ve been trying to be nice, but I can’t ignore it anymore. If you have a problem with me, say it, and stop being an asshole about it.”

  “Right now, you are my problem. Why don’t you just leave? Nobody wants you here.”

  I try to wedge myself between them, but they’re like statues; two hot and sweaty Greek-god statues that won’t budge. I see Keegan’s veins start to rise from his skin. Would he actually hit Dylan?

  “Apparently, she wants me here, and so does your dad.” I see a pompous smirk crawl across Keegan’s face. “Maybe if you were the foster son he wanted, he wouldn’t need me to come rescue your team.” Wrong thing to say. Before I can call someone over to break them up, Dylan’s fist has already connected with Keegan’s jaw twice.

  Keegan picks himself up off of the ground and starts toward Dylan, but this time, my dad is there to break it up. After a quick lecture, he sends Dylan to our car and Keegan to his. I know what I have to do now. This has to stop.

  I meet Keegan at his car window. His cheek is swelling from the sucker punches, but other than that, he doesn’t look too bad.

  “Can you believe him?” he says, spitting some blood onto the ground. His eyes search for empathy in mine, but I’m unable to give it to him.