Dylan(75)

Not now, though. Taking a year off still seems like a good idea. Need to sort lots of things out—and Dylan. I need time to figure out what’s going on between us, because…

Because something is going on, and it’s impossible to ignore it anymore. Dylan has opened up to me. He’s told me things I’ve been longing to hear, has held me as I wanted him to.

I said I’d fight for Dylan if I had even a glimmer of hope. Well, now hope is a bright sun filling my thoughts. Time to do something about it.

***

Getting ready to leave work, I’m closing windows on my computer screen and striking items off my To Do list, making sure I’ve done all that was urgent as tomorrow is Saturday, and the office will be closed. Mr. Walker’s rules. Saves on costs.

I’m taking work with me to do at home, and I guess everyone here does the same. This isn’t so much about the salary as about a passion, and it’s such a different mentality from my dad’s. It’s fantastic.

As I’m preparing to turn off the computer, it occurs to me to type Dylan’s symptoms into the search engine. I bite my lower lip as I try to remember things he’s told me. Joint aches. Fatigue. Maybe fever, too, judging from the way he gets dizzy and shivers.

Worry gnaws at me as I hit enter and wait for the results to appear. The search engine spits out the results, and I scan the links suggesting what’s ailing Dylan.

Rheumatoid arthritis. Medication reaction or side effect. Lyme disease. Acute sinusitis.

Lyme disease. That rings a bell.

I sit back in my chair. Isn’t that what Teo had? Caused by tick bites. From their garden. Could Dylan have gotten it too? He’s so strong physically he wouldn’t suffer as much, at least not at first—and knowing him, he’d probably attribute the symptoms to stress.

Of course, I saw no rash on his skin. Another check of the symptoms, though, tells me that there’s a pretty significant percentage of cases where patients do not display characteristic rashes.

Right.

And what—now you’re a secret agent and a doctor? Get a grip, Tessa.

Stress may well be the cause of Dylan’s symptoms. God knows it plays a number on many people. Or it could be the flu. Or just about anything else.

But what if it is Lyme disease?

I lean forward again and read on the long-term effects of the disease going untreated. It’s scary stuff. Arthritis. Meningitis. Facial paralysis. Heart problems.

Jesus. That’s it. I’m dragging Dylan to the doctor for a checkup, whether he wants it or not. I’m not a doctor, but only a doctor can reassure me there’s nothing seriously wrong with him.

In a hurry, I turn off the computer, grab my things and leave the office. The gym where Rafe works out isn’t far. I’ll just swing by before I head over to Audrey’s to shower and change, and then go convince Dylan to see a doctor. If money is a problem, I’ll have to call Mom and see how much I can withdraw from the account she set in my name, if needed. I wasn’t going to touch it, wanted to make it on my own, but this isn’t about me.

Not for me, I think as I cross the avenue and turn into a side street. For Dylan. I’d spend every penny in my name making sure Dylan is okay.

His words about fighting love and pretending it doesn’t exist come back to me as I spot the gym and head toward it. I try to imagine living in a home with a parent gone and the other sliding into depression because of love.

Isn’t my family the same? My mother, caught in a downward spiral over my father? All these years I saw it happening, right in front of my eyes. Only, she dealt with it differently. Dylan’s mom left, and his dad joined a cult. My mom clung to my father, ignoring the truth, until that perfect illusion shattered.

Am I clinging to Dylan the same way? Everyone seems to think so—my mom, my friends. But Dylan isn’t an illusion, a perfect ideal I cling to. God knows he has his faults and that he’s hurt me—but didn’t I hurt him, too? The more he flirted with other girls, the more boys I kissed. We hurt each other. And we need each other.

I recall all he revealed, after years of silence—why he broke up with me, why he thinks he shouldn’t love me, his doubts and fears. How he tried to turn off his love for me—and failed.

Maybe I’m not crazy after all, I think as I enter the gym. Because, while I’ve always had trouble believing any man wanted me, I believe Dylan does. And while I’ve always doubted my parents love me, I believe Dylan does.

I spot Rafe and head his way. The smell of pine from a cleaning product is strong in the air, overlaying that of sweat, and it makes me want to sneeze.

Rafe is alone. I don’t see any of the other boys. He’s doing crunches on a machine, and wowza, the guy is ripped. I didn’t remember him so muscled. His chest is a work of art. His pecs bulge, and his abs form a sculpted eight-pack. Talk about a washboard stomach.