Chapter Seven
Irelocated to the couch,where I sat and read the rest of the letters. Each one of them touched my heart with the way he spoke of our future together. He was the same Dylan. A dreamer, a romantic. But now he was also asoldier.
By the time I reached the last line of the last letter, I knew how scared he was to face me again. According to him, he wasn’t even this scared the day a kid showed up with a suicide vest on near them in thestreet.
I reread the last few lines over and overagain.
If you want a soldier whose only desire in life is to make all your dreams come true, then I’ll be the happiest man in theworld.
A man. A man with afuture.
I couldn’t imagine the horrible things he’d seen. Part of me wanted to go chew out the sheriff for sending Dylan away, especially for not telling me the truth, but it wouldn’t do anygood.
Dylan already knew that the sheriff sending him away had been the best thing for us both. If I was honest with myself, a small piece of meagreed.
He would’ve been broken if he remained, but now he was solid. How could I argue with something that had given Dylan a real future? Yet, he had still chosen not to write to me until he knew he’d be coming home onleave.
In the letters I read the subtext of him growing and changing and learning that he was worth loving, but knowing and trusting were completely different. Had he changed enough never to run from me again? Did I even want this Dylan Markham, or was he a stranger tome?
I curled up on the couch and closed my eyes, holding the letters to my chest. My eyelids felt heavy, and I couldn’t stay awake another minute, so I dozed and dreamed of possibilities. Possibilities withDylan.
A whirling sound woke me from a dead sleep. I blinked and covered my eyes from the morning sun flooding in through the window. The sound caught with a growl andvroomed.
The bedroom door squealed, and Zoey shuffled into the living room. “Do they know what time itis?”
“Guess not.” I covered my face with the sofa pillow. “And our only morning to sleep in, too. Don’t they know this is the south? They could be shot for waking someone up with alawnmower.”
Zoey stumbled to the window with pre-caffeinated coordination. “Ah, I guess we’ll be the ones shot by ourneighbors.”
“What are you talking about?” I grumbled through the pillow still shielding myeyes.
“It’s our lawnmower making that racket.” Zoey dropped the blinds with aclatter.
I tossed the pillow aside and pushed up to try to process what was goingon.
Zoey blew her mussed hair from her eyes. “It’s too early to deal with ex-boyfriend drama. You always say I meddle too much—well, this is me not meddling.” She shuffled down the hall, calling back, “Way too early. Goodluck.”
The bedroom door shut with a click, so I went to the window to see what in the world Zoey meant. Through the blinds I spotted Dylan pushing our lawnmower across the yard. Funny how I got a jolt of non-caffeinated-wakeup in a matter of asecond.
I spotted our neighbor Mrs. Welsh on her front porch with pink hair curlers, a robe, and an attitude. Her mouth moved with what I was sure were expletives, but I couldn’t hear her over the rumble of themower.
Something had to be done before Mrs. Welsh threw eggs at our door again. The last time was because she thought we took her carrots from hergarden.
After a quick brush of hair and teeth I headed for the door. Not that I cared what Dylan thought of the way I looked, but there was no reason to be seen by everyone in a rumpled state of grogginess. By the time I made it outside, Mrs. Welsh was throwing tomatoes atDylan.
I could have moved a little quicker, but it was kind of funny seeing the red splotches on his crisp army green T-shirt and camouflage pants. He looked less perfect, more like my Dylan. No, not my Dylan. The oldDylan.
The lawnmower finally cut off when he held up his arms to block the assaulting old lady who apparently should’ve played pitcher for theBraves.
Why did she always throwfood?
“Mrs. Welsh,stop!”
“Why should I stop? Someone needs to show this blue belly that we meanbusiness.”
Great. She thought she was fighting the north during the Civil War again. “Because those are mighty fine tomatoes. Did you grow themyourself?”
“Of course I did.” She lowered the tomatoes long enough for me to wedge myself between her andDylan.
