Dylan(87)

“Oh, Mom…” I link my arm through hers, and together we cross the avenue. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was my mistake, and God knows you also suffered from it. You fighting back inspired me to do the same.” She withdraws a hand from her pocket to squeeze my arm and smiles at me. “You’re stronger than me. You won’t make the same mistake. Never let anyone dictate what you should do. Deep inside,” she taps my breastbone, “you know who really loves you, who’s honest and who’s lying to you. Trust your instincts. They’re better than mine.”

“Mom…” We stop when we reach our cars. “I’m going to move in with Dylan. You remember him. Dylan Hayes?”

“That boy who dumped you in school?” She frowns. “Honey…”

“You said to trust my instincts. We’re back together, Mom, and I love him. He loves me. He asked me to move in with him, and I said yes.”

Or rather, showed him my agreement in other ways, and the memory of our wild lovemaking on his bed sends warmth up my neck.

“Tessa.” She strokes a hand down my cheek. “If you’re sure, honey, then I’m happy for you and him.”

“He’s not rich or anything,” I say, because I need to hash this out now. “He’s quite poor, but I—”

“Money isn’t everything. I should know.” A trace of bitterness laces her voice. “Nothing can replace true love. If you found it, keep it.”

That’s what I intend to do.

***

Since the reunion   with Mom went well, I decide to tackle my apartment in one go. What are the odds that Sean is still waiting for me, after so many days? I’ll probably never even set eyes on him again.

That’s my hope.

As I drive down the familiar route to my apartment, past the building, I check. No sign of Sean’s car. The relief makes me giddy. I swipe my card for the underground parking lot.

Somewhat to my surprise, the gate opens. I’d been pretty sure Dad would have revoked all my access to the building by now. Unless Mom filing for a divorce is keeping him busy.

I roll down the ramp and park in my space, then take the elevator up to my floor. Heart pounding, I prepare my pepper spray as the doors ding and slide open.

The landing is empty. It feels so weird to be back here. Memories assault me—Sean pushing me against the wall, smiling while treating me like trash, telling me he owns me. That my dad sold me for a business deal.

Holy shit. Heart pounding with remembered fear, I push my key into the lock. It fits and turns easily. Lock hasn’t been changed, either. I enter my apartment—my former apartment, my former life—and look around me like I’ve never been here before.

Did I really live in this cold, huge space? I stand in the hall, looking into the living room with the leather sofas and the enormous flat TV, the tall bay windows and the lake beyond. The mahogany coffee tables bear Bohemia crystal ashtrays, and the lamps in the corners of the room cost more than my current paycheck. The dark gray ceramic floor gleams. A cleaner comes in twice a week, to scrub and wash and polish.

Christ. No wonder Dylan called me a princess. No wonder he thought I’d run when I saw his house and faced his problems.

The only signs I ever lived here are the archaeology posters on the walls and the books and pottery replicas on the shelves. No comparison to the messy coziness that’s Dylan’s home—even if it needs a good bout of cleaning. At least it’s warm and personal.

I step into the stainless steel-and-granite kitchen. At least here I’ve spent some time, trying out new recipes—hiding it from my parents, who think cooking is for lower life forms. I pass my hand over the black counters and open the fridge. Milk, eggs, cheese. I throw everything into the trash.

Getting rid of what has gone bad. Seems very symbolic somehow.

I return to the living room and stand at the bay windows, looking out. I fold my arms under my breasts, wondering why it’s so cold in here, in spite of the heaters whirring.

Why am I lingering? I have no cherished memories of this place—well, except for Dylan making love to me on the sofa that awful night of the gala.

I shake my head, pleasure flooding my senses and sending my mind spinning when I think of him. He’s been in my heart since I first met him at school, long before he asked me out. To be with him is more than I could ever dream of.

So… no more lingering. This isn’t my home. My home is by his side.

Smiling, I cross to my bedroom, locate my suitcase and open my closet.

Again I’m frozen in place. Was this me—the girl who dressed up in these conservative pencil skirts and silk shirts, dresses like the ones my mother wears, black pumps and sheer tights? Speechless, I stare at my collection of cashmere sweaters, my black shimmery pants, my boring black underwear.