Dylan (Wild Men)

by Melissa Belle

  I look over at Dylan. “You okay?” I ask as I touch his leg.

  He starts as if he’d almost forgotten I was there. “Yeah.” He shakes his head. “Sorry. That bar brings back old memories. I love seeing my cousins, but most of them aren’t even from here, and Brayden doesn’t live in our hometown anymore. But all the guys who stayed…”

  “I get it. It’s like you’re stuck in the past with them temporarily.” We pull into a parking space at the motel. Hardly anyone’s here, and I appreciate the quiet as we walk through the empty parking lot and back to our room.

  Dylan insists on us sleeping in the same bed. “I won’t be able to sleep without you by my side.”

  “You’ll be so uncomfortable,” I say as I climb in next to him. “You don’t fit in this bed as it is.”

  I point to his feet hanging off the end.

  Like this town, the bed’s too small for Dylan. He’s too big for it. Maybe he always was. It’s difficult for me to comprehend because this whole experience is so the opposite of my childhood.

  “You’re treated like a God here, aren’t you?” I say.

  He turns me away from him so he can pull my back into his chest. He puts his arm over me and curls his body against mine. “Outside of my cousins, who are there for me no matter what, the rest of it doesn’t mean anything. It’s not like I’d call anyone in my hometown up in the middle of the night with a problem. It is what it is. And what it’s always been is football.”

  I wake up early. I glance at the time, but the clock’s not set correctly. I never noticed last night, but right now the time reads three p.m. Not very helpful. I crawl out of bed to go pee and then turn on my phone.

  Eight o’clock. I grab my clay and roll of paper towels. Then I sit down on the floor by the bathroom sink, which is outside the actual bathroom.

  I’ve been sculpting for about an hour when Dylan, all sleepy and adorable-looking and wearing nothing but his boxers, finds me. “You could have done this on the other bed. You wouldn’t have woken me.”

  I smile at him. “It’s okay. This spot was perfect.”

  “What’d you make?” He sits down next to me and gives me a kiss.

  “Bill. Not Bill all the time, just this specific side of him. Pretty much the worst side of him.” I show him Bill’s angry face and curled lip. “But it’s not for keeps. I promised Lilla I’d do this…” I take my fist and smash the sculpture back into just clay.

  Dylan reaches out like he wishes he’d stopped me. “But you could have put that into your collection.”

  “I don’t want Bill in my collection. I don’t need it. I can sculpt something else.”

  Dylan tentatively touches the clay. “I only used clay once. For art class in junior high. The teacher said I didn’t have any creative talent.”

  I frown. “That’s why I dropped out of art school. Teachers don’t always know what they’re talking about.”

  “Really? I thought they were like coaches.”

  “I don’t know about that. I just know they’re not always right. Nobody has no creative talent.”

  I take the clay and put it in front of him. “Try it. I’m going to take a shower.”

  Dylan’s hands are full of clay when I come out of the bathroom. “I don’t know,” he says with a laugh. “But I’m pretty sure this takes some talent.” He shows me his mound of a hunched-over person. “Okay. Now we’ll crush mine, too.”

  “Wait, let me see it.” I sit down with him and look for a minute. Then I turn to him. “The burdens?”

  He studies the figure he sculpted. “You think?”

  “This man is straining under the burdens, the pressure to be perfect, to uphold the town and his family.” I touch it gently. “It’s good, Dylan. Really.”

  Dylan stares at it and then takes his fist and smashes it back to nothing.

  “Like a fresh start,” he says as he kisses me. He stands up and goes to wash his hands. “You want to grab some breakfast and then go see my uncle?”

  “Sure.”

  He goes over to his suitcase and pulls something out. “Can’t forget this,” he says, holding up his MVP trophy.

  “Oh, my God.” I get up and go touch the metal lightly with my finger. “I never saw you pack this. It feels very powerful.”

  “I know it’s just a trophy. But yeah, it’s pretty cool.”

  “Can I hold it for a second?” I ask him.

  When he hands the trophy to me, I’m amazed by how enormous it is. “Wow. This thing’s freaking heavy, Dylan.”

  Of course I can hold the trophy up, but it certainly doesn’t feel light and airy like I’d imagined when I’ve seen players hoist their trophies on television.

  “I don’t know where the heck I’m going to put it. It’s been in a box ever since we won.”

  “You could display it in your living room,” I say. “Although maybe that’s not safe. Sometimes people steal those things, don’t they?”

  “Yeah, I never understood that,” he says. “It has my name on it. Why would somebody want to take something that doesn’t belong to them?”

  I love the mountains in Montana. I love the stillness and the big sky even more. L.A. is so crowded most of the time. Dylan says he misses that part of where he grew up, too.

  “I’d like to have a second home eventually,” he says. “Around here somewhere.”

  And I’d like to live here with you.

  Dylan’s eyes flick to mine like he knows exactly what I’m thinking, and he smiles.

  Our visit with Uncle Irv is short and relatively sweet. He’s a grouchy man and doesn’t seem to like me much, so I take a seat by the window while Dylan sits in the chair next to the bed and talks about the championship game. As much as I try to act like I’m not listening, I’m actually hanging on every word.

  “What was it like?” Uncle Irv asks breathlessly.

  Some of the breathlessness is because he’s on oxygen, but I can tell the rest is excitement. He’s lying flat and looking up at Dylan.

  “It was incredible,” Dylan tells him. “The greatest high.”

  Uncle Irv seems to like that answer. They sit in silence for a moment until he asks Dylan, “It looked like a warm day. Was it warm?”

  “Mid-sixties,” Dylan says. “It was sunny and clear. Perfect playing weather.”

  “The sportscasters said the same thing,” Irv agrees. “Said it was great throwing weather.”

  “True. Hardly a breeze, actually. I should thank the weather gods.”

  Irv chuckles and then goes into a coughing fit. I look over at Dylan nervously, but a nurse comes in and settles Irv down. “Let’s prop up the pillows. Make it easier for you to talk to your famous nephew.”

  When she leaves, Irv says, “I miss playing you know.”

  “I know.” Sadness passes through Dylan’s eyes. “But at least you know what it felt like.”

  “Oh, I remember those days,” Irv says. “I was no good, mind you. Not a star like you are. I was backup receiver to my cousin. But I loved being out there on the grass with the sun shining, the fans in the stands. The whole thing was…” He pauses to breathe. “Euphoric.”

  “Yes,” Dylan says immediately. “Exactly.”

  Irv looks over in my direction now. “Was she in the stands?”

  Dylan smiles at me. “I didn’t know Jasalie then. We met just after.”

  Irv says, “And the feeling?”

  Dylan answers easily as he looks right at me. “Euphoric.”

  Irv reaches out to take Dylan’s hand and holds it until we have to leave.

  Dylan pops open the back porch door easily and we step inside his parents’ house, the place where he grew up.

  “Did you ever worry about burglars?” I say nervously. “That seemed a little too easy.”

  “We know everybody in town. So not really.”

  “This is definitely not Los Angeles,” I say as I follow him through the living room and into the kitchen.

  “That’s the
downstairs.” Dylan gestures with his arm. “The whole house is pretty much the same, in every way, since I lived here. I’ve tried to get my parents to move a million times—I’ve offered to buy them something larger, something newer, to have a place custom-built for them, or even to upgrade what they do have, but they won’t budge. They’re stubborn like that. Although they’ve finally agreed to let me buy them a cabin in the mountains. Dad’s supposed to start looking this spring once the snow’s gone.” He heads for the stairs. “My bedroom’s up here.”

  Dylan’s room looks like a shrine, like it’s been completely untouched since he was a kid. Football stuff is everywhere, and an old twin bed sits in the corner.

  “Do they use this room?” I ask.

  “Maybe for guests? My brother’s room’s the same.”

  We walk down the hall to Matt’s room. It has the same twin bed as Dylan’s, but the walls have motorcycles and punk rock posters instead.

  “It looks like you guys felt comfortable here,” I observe.

  “Yeah,” Dylan says. “I think we did. My parents did a good job with that part.”

  He takes my hand and leads me back to his bedroom. We take a seat on the bed. “Thanks for coming here with me. You were right. It was a good idea.”

  His dark eyes shine with so much emotion when he looks at me that I grip his shirt with both fists. I love him so much in this moment that it hurts.

  “I love you, Dylan,” I whisper to him. “I can’t express how much in words.”

  So I try to show him. I lean in and put my lips on his. His hands go to my ass, and he lifts me up and onto his lap. Then we lie down on his childhood bed and make love, and as I hold him tightly, I feel the euphoria he mentioned at the hospital. I feel the indescribable high, and I know I’ll never be able to forget it.

  We’ve just boarded the plane to take us back to Arizona when Dylan’s cell phone rings.

  He picks up right away. “Hi Tim, I remember about the interview. I was going to do it by phone. Jasalie and I are on our way back to Tucson for our last night there.”

  I’m busy putting my bag into the overhead, so I don’t catch what he says next.

  But when I turn to glance at him, his face is hard as stone. He glances at me quickly, and then drops into his seat.

  “What is it?” I say, sitting next to him and touching his knee. “What’s wrong?”

  “Yep,” he says into the phone. “But what can I do…”

  Another panicked glance in my direction.

  “Is it your uncle?” I ask.

  He shakes his head.

  “I’ll call you back,” he says into the phone before hanging up.

  Instead of saying anything to me about that weird-ass phone call, he busies himself for the next few minutes with his bag and then adjusting his seat belt.

  Finally, I tap his arm. “Dylan. What happened? You’re white as a ghost.”

  “Change of plans,” he says in a clipped tone. “I have a damn magazine interview in L.A., and apparently I can’t do it by phone after all. I need to talk to the pilot about changing our route. I know you want to get back to Tucson so you can focus on what to do with your mom. Are you okay to wait a few more hours?”

  “Of course. I’ll wait for you in Malibu while you do your interview. As long as you come home to me afterward.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Dylan’s been pulling back from me since we stepped onto the plane. He was quiet the entire flight, and now that we’re back in L.A., he’s distant and edgy. He’s not telling me why, but I’m guessing it was something to do with that phone call from Tim.

  Desperate for a distraction while he’s at his interview, I take out my bag of clay and start sculpting.

  “What are you doing hiding in here?” Dylan says two hours later when he finds me in his bedroom walk-in closet.

  I’m on the ground with a sculpture.

  “I’m not getting any clay on your carpet. I swear.”

  I show him the contraption I’ve concocted. It consists of one of his bath towels followed by an alarmingly-voluminous layer of paper towels.

  “I tried to pick out your oldest towel,” I explain to him as he takes a seat next to me. “But it was hard. I don’t think I own a towel half as new as any of yours.”

  “Don’t worry about dirtying stuff. It’s no big deal.” He looks at my sculpture of a bald man with sunken eyes and a drooping chin. “What’s it supposed to be?”

  “Death,” I answer him before I can stop myself.

  But Dylan doesn’t flinch. “Interesting take. I love that you can just express yourself like that. I’m envious.”

  I go to the bathroom to wash up. When I return, Dylan’s sitting on his bed, staring into space.

  “Dylan.” I take his hand. “Hey. Talk to me. Something’s going on. Please tell me what it is.”

  He hesitates like he’s not sure he knows what to say. He turns away from me and pulls at his hair like he’s going to tear it right out of his head. When he turns back, his dark eyes are distant in a way I’ve never once seen him be with me.

  Cold dread shoots through my chest.

  He’s going to break up with me.

  “Tim called with some news.”

  “Okay.”

  “I received a death threat.”

  I gasp. “Oh my God! From who?”

  “A ‘fan.’” He puts the word in air quotes as he rolls his eyes. “She saw all the pictures of you and me in Tucson. She’s jealous. Apparently she thinks—in her mind—that she and I are fucking married, and so she’s decided I was cheating on her with you.”

  “What? That’s insane.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So what are the authorities doing about it?”

  “Trying to locate her. She’s gone underground. So now I have security around the clock. They’re outside the house right now.” He takes a deep breath. “And I’ve hired security for you, too, Jasalie. Twenty-four seven. Because even though her threat was only directed at me, you’re in the line of fire by association. And especially because of her delusion that she’s my fucking wife.” He shudders as he says the word, and I reach out to comfort him.

  I freeze when he pulls away like he’s allergic to me. That’s when he delivers his real blow. “You’re not safe with me, Jasalie. As much and as hard as I would try to, I can’t promise to keep you safe right now. Until this crazy stalker is caught and behind bars, I think we should take a break. It’s the only way I can be sure you’ll be okay.”

  My heart threatens to shut down, but I keep fighting. I’m not about to give up on us.

  “I don’t understand,” I say. “I can take care of myself, Dylan. I’ve been doing that my entire life. More than most.”

  “Who I am in the public eye, hounded by fans—some of them clearly crazy as shit—could get you killed, Jasalie.” He grips my shoulders with both hands. “I can’t take that risk. I love you too fucking much to ever take that risk. I don’t want to do this—it absolutely wrecks me to imagine waking up without you by my side…” His voice cracks, but he clears his throat and continues on stoically, “Maybe after this fan’s caught, Tim can help me rework protocol so I can take care of you better. But until then…”

  My heart sinks into the ground, taking my renewed trust in humanity along with it. I feel like my legs will buckle under me, but I manage to hold myself up.

  “You’re ending this.” I say it with certainty because the flatness in his eyes makes everything crystal clear. “You’re quitting. On us.”

  Just when I’d given everything.

  “I have no choice,” he says. The pain is in his voice, but he tries to mask it with his businesslike approach to our break-up. “I was selfish to want you for longer than Tucson. I was selfish to ask you to be my date for the weekend. I thought I could be like everyone else, but the truth is that my life comes with danger attached to it. I chose to take that risk when I entered professional football, but you didn’t. And you deserve be
tter. You deserve everything good.”

  I shake my head at him in disgust. “I can’t believe you’re actually convincing yourself you’re doing this for me.”

  “I’m doing it to make sure you don’t get hurt,” he says.

  “You’re doing it to make sure you don’t get hurt! I’m not Annabella, Dylan. I won’t blame you for bad press, or rude comments, or for an unflattering photo. And I’m certainly not going to run from one death threat.” I grab my bag and walk out of his bedroom, but he follows me.

  “Jasalie…”

  Dylan follows me as I head downstairs and into his kitchen where I stop by the dining table.

  For a few moments, neither of us says anything.

  I stand awkwardly and ponder what the hell I should do. My life seems to be exploding from the inside out.

  “Jasalie, look.” Dylan’s eyes are pleading. “I admire and respect how strong you are. But I would rather know that you’re safe and lose you for myself than subject you to things I can’t control.”

  “You think I don’t recognize self-protection?” I say. “It’s like looking in the mirror, Dylan! I know exactly what you’re doing!”

  “I’m protecting you, Jasalie.”

  “Bullshit.” Our eyes lock. “You’re protecting you. You may really and truly believe you’re doing this for me, but I know you’re lying to yourself. You know how I know?”

  He doesn’t hazard a guess, so I answer my own question. “You have the most honest, open eyes I’ve ever seen,” I say softly. “And right now, they’re cloudy and you keep trying to avert your gaze.”

  A frustrated growl leaves his throat as he comes closer and kisses me hard on the mouth.

  I breathe him in, knowing it will be the last time. If he’s going to walk away from me, just like everyone else has, I can’t beg him to stay. I know better than anyone what happens if you try to cage a butterfly.

  Dylan and I are exactly the same in this way. The difference is, I’m not running scared.