Just more.
By the time she’d arrived home she had been fine, so whatever triggered the tears seemed to have settled and found its place inside her. Could sex with someone she’d only met a couple of days ago unleash emotions that strong?
Was it deeper than that? Her earring got stuck as she tried to shove the post through the ancient hole, the back of the earlobe grown over. A few layers of skin had closed up the back of the lobe and she worked to center the end of the post over the spot where the lump of scar tissue was thickest. Gritting her teeth, she forced the metal rod through, the hot sting of newly-pierced tissue evolving into a throb.
Her favorite pearl earring dangled nicely. Was it worth the pain?
Sure. For the sake of wearing something that complemented her perfectly.
Maybe Mike’s the same, she thought. You had to date a lot of painful jerks before you found the one who complements you perfectly.
Hot tears filled her mouth and eyes.
Aha. Now she understood.
And yet Dylan—she closed her eyes and full drops poured out of her inner tear ducts and down her nostrils. An ache in her throat spread to her chest. Ignoring his messages had been agony. Sheer, unadulterated pain in the form of restraint.
She had held fast, though she had faltered only once. The (gorgeous, incredible, irresistible) idiot had gone and created a completely new online dating account to circumvent her blocking him! How stalkerish and weird and creepy and—
Flattering.
Charming.
Arousing.
She had almost—almost, achingly almost nearly so close—broken down and agreed to meet him for coffee, just to hear his side of the story—which she already knew. It was a cliché upon a cliché, right?
Holding fast, though, she had simply typed:
Please leave me alone.
And, like magic, he had.
The ache that his respect for her wishes created in her was so contradictory yet so pervasive it made her question her own sanity. Why was she so drawn to this guy? What was so special that she would override her own moral code for him?
Ah, but you didn’t, her conscience reminded her.
Oh, how I want to, she retorted.
Dylan stared at the computer monitor, completely unsure and yet painfully, deeply certain of what he was reading. Mike and Laura? Mike was hitting on Laura at the online dating site? What? He scrolled through the history of the chat window and realized that—that the first chat took place the morning after his date with her.
Oof. His stomach twisted and his balls felt like lead. Stretching his neck and clearing his throat, he fought back a tearful rage. Ease up, Buddy. Last time you let your temper flare you had a $400 door to replace.
He’d been a bit confused when he woke up that morning and she had been gone. But he’d had plenty of encounters where that happened—yet he’d expected her to answer one of his phone calls or his texts. She had plenty of opportunities.
While he wasn’t quite ready to stomp over to her house and hold a boom box over his head, with Peter Gabriel’s In Your Eyes blasting from it, he was definitely in that uncomfortable zone where he expected to have a second date with her, anticipated it—really, frankly was excited by the prospect of it and had been stymied by her refusal to talk to him.
Mike had sniped her? This wasn’t a rare baseball card on eBay, for fuck’s sake.
Even though it had been less than twenty-four hours since he last saw her, and he knew he shouldn’t be so eager, it stung. He had an inkling about why she was blowing him off now— some inkling. A 6’5” inkling.
According to the times on the chat window, it looked like within a few hours of leaving his bed, she was planning a date with—Mike?
Mike? Mild mannered, boring old Mike?
This didn’t make any sense! Dylan was the one who went out and found someone for them. Dylan had found Jill, who had been their one and only.
Jill.
He sighed, his shoulders slumping, and as he leaned forward, cradling his face in his hands, a wash of nostalgia, of mourning, of pain came over him. And this time he let it. Normally, he pushed it away, manned up and did what a lot of guys do —went for a run, watched the football game, ate too many wings, pumped iron. But right now he let his feelings sink in. Watching her die had been one of the most—no, the most difficult thing —Dylan had ever experienced. The helplessness had nearly killed him, too. Mike had just retreated into his own world. Running tens of miles, half marathons, day in and day out until his shoes wore out within weeks, until his feet blistered, until he put his body into a state of pain that let some of the agony in his heart leak out.
Dylan wasn’t like that. Dylan had fought and fought, and fought, had argued with the doctors, had argued with Jill. Bargained with God and anyone who could help. Had tried to convince her to try all sorts of alternative therapies that he had read about on the Internet, from vitamin C to certain yoga positions to chelation—and while the doctors said none for it could hurt, none of it helped.