Dylan shuts his eyes. “I always tried to be perfect. It was just never enough.”
“For him?” I ask.
When his eyes open and they’re filled with tears, I tense, feeling that familiar urge to bolt.
I’m not used to playing this role in our relationship, in any relationship, really. I’m always the person with the problems, the screwed-up one.
But I don’t run. I hold Dylan in my arms and rub his head gently until he stills.
“I’m sorry.” He sits up straight. “This is awkward.”
“No, it’s not.”
“I never wanted to deal with certain personal issues,” he says. “I thought that if I could just keep throwing the football and never get off the field, I wouldn’t have to.” He looks away from me and out the window. “I guess I even thought I could hide it from you.”
I feel the irony of what he’s saying as the words are coming out of his mouth.
“I know,” he says as if he’s reading my mind. “It’s incredibly crazy. You spent all that time in Arizona, not wanting me to know about your past and your pain, and I was avoiding telling you about my family. Because the thing is, I had a great childhood. For the most part, I was a really happy kid. My dad and I just…never got along. He always preferred to be with Matt. No matter what I did, he chose him. And that was probably the beginning, now that I think about it.”
“The beginning of what?”
“Of me not trusting anyone. I thought it only happened once I became a public figure, but it actually started long before that.”
I tilt my head as I search his troubled gaze. “And here I thought I was the only one of us who didn’t trust.”
He puts his hand on my thigh. “I told you about my issues with letting people in once I got drafted.”
“You did. But that’s not the same thing. That’s just you being careful.”
“It’s more than careful,” he says. “I started to lose faith in the goodness of people. And that’s a scary place to be. But realizing it may have all started when I was a kid, that’s even more disturbing.”
I take his hands in mine and look down at them. They’re tanned even though it’s winter. The veins are clearly defined with some freckles, probably from all that time playing football underneath the hot sun. His fingers are strong and callused. I stroke them with my own, and then I look up at him. “You have honest hands.”
“How do you know?” He looks down at them intertwined with mine.
“Because I sculpt. I looked at people’s hands constantly in different seminars or workshops I attended. I didn’t mean to, of course,” I add hastily, realizing I sound like I’m some sort of a voyeur.
Dylan’s eyes crinkle at the corners.
“But when I was looking at people’s work, they’d point at different things, and I noticed their hands as much as I noticed what they’d made with them.” I pause. “Yours are so strong, but they’re tired. They’re a little angry from all the heat put on them, all that pressure, but they’re also confident and sure of themselves. And happy.”
Dylan brings my hands up to his mouth and kisses them.
* * *
We don’t say it out loud, but neither of us wants the day to end, and driving back to Malibu would imply that sleep is imminent. After tonight, we only have one more night together, and then it’s over. So we hang out at Dylan’s apartment and stall.
At nearly one a.m., Dylan looks at his watch. “It’s too late for the pool.”
“What pool?”
“This building has an enclosed heated pool on the rooftop. But it closes at midnight.”
I nod, swallowing down my disappointment.
“Unless I can pull a favor…” He’s already reaching for the phone.
* * *
