“Says the man who actually fucked a blow up doll.” Mike’s droll delivery didn’t surprise him. The words did, causing him to choke with shock.
“How did you know that?”
“Who actually names a blow up doll? You were so bizarre that first year of college.”
Dylan laughed. “That’s true.”
“Besides, I didn’t know you fucked it. You just confirmed it, though.” Smirk.
Shit! “Oh, please. It was a dare and we were drunk and I was stupid enough to want to be in the fraternity and they...just. Ugh. Let’s drop this.”
By his judgment they were five minutes or so from Laura’s place. Parking would be a problem, until Mike pulled into a “Permit Only” spot and turned the car off.
“What are you doing? We’ll get a ticket.”
The look on Mike’s face was so out of character as he said, “We’re billionaires, Dylan. Who gives a fuck about a $25 parking ticket? That’s like losing a penny now.” The same wolfish look, a deeply-ingrained expression of cold, brutal action, that he’d seen only once before on Mike’s face, when...when...
When he’d told Mike about Laura.
Bounding up the steps to Laura’s landing, Mike poked the buzzer over and over, like a little kid calling on a friend for a play date. No answer.
Dylan reached over and rang the bell, too. “Right. Like it didn’t work the twelve times I just pushed it,” Mike practically growled.
What the fuck? “So sue me,” Dylan scoffed, rapidly getting pissed. He grabbed his phone and tapped rapidly. Search, search, search—there! Her last name was Mendham, he remembered that much, and she said she lived in Cambridge, and—
Score! Josie Mendham’s phone number. Some charity thing she organized in Allston for old people, the number and email were posted on a web page. He furiously tapped out a text and hit “Send.”
“I just texted Josie.”
Mike pushed the buzzer again. Like it would magically work now? Laura clearly wasn’t home. Gone from work. Not at home. She must be with Josie. He tapped on his phone.
The look on Mike’s face made Dylan freeze, a preternatural instinct putting him on hyper alert. “You what?”
“I found her phone number on a web page and I just texted her. Let’s see what happens. Maybe Laura’s with her and we can figure this all out. And if not, I’m searching now for her address.”
Tapping his foot, Mike leaned against the metal railing on Laura’s stoop. “So you can stalk the fuck out of women and find eleven billion ways to try to contact them, but we can’t have an open, mature conversation with Laura about the money? You’re such an asshole, Dylan.”
Bzzz. Someone, hopefully Josie, texted him. The word “asshole” hovered in the air between them, like a drone seeking a target. And it had found one. He was the asshole here? He’s the one who found Laura in the first place. Mike’s the one who had lied to him! And who did—
Wait. Read the fucking message. More important. He squinted and read aloud: “Laura says to tell you Don’t chase me. Give me that one shred of respect. Why? Because it’s complicated.”
The sound that came out of Mike was like an animal that had just been hit and wounded by a well-placed, though not fatal, arrow. “Jesus Fucking Christ,” he groaned, hand over his heart as if pierced there.
A huge lump formed in Dylan’s throat. They’d really blown it, hadn’t they? No, you did, he thought. You, Dylan.
Without thinking, he typed back: “It’s always complicated. :)” and hit “Send.” Mike didn’t seem to notice, his back turned to Dylan as his arms flexed, gripping and releasing the metal railing, shoulders hunched over and tight with grief and fury.
“Josie lives nearby. In Cambridge. I found her address.”
Mike inhaled deeply, his shoulders spreading like a cobra rising up to strike, then descending as he exhaled. Five long, deep breaths later he turned to Dylan, blinking rapidly, his blonde hair a complete, wavy mess and his eyes shadowed and cold.
“Let’s go before this gets any more complicated.”
Too late, thought Dylan, but he wasn’t going to argue. He’d done enough damage as the leader. Time to let Mike take over.
All those years Mike had spent sitting meditation, going to retreats, reading books by Jack Kornfield and Pema Chodron and the Dalai Lama, all the time he’d invested in breathing techniques and the miles pounded out on his feet, in skis, swimming and biking in triathlons to maintain a sense of inner centeredness was a waste.
A complete, fucking waste. Because the rage that rose up in him, like a megamonster coming up from the sea in some cheesy B film, was very real, rapidly growing, and so quick to activate that he wondered how he had fooled himself all these years into thinking he had tamed it.