Irv reaches out to take Dylan’s hand and holds it until we have to leave.
* * *
Dylan pops open the back porch door easily and we step inside his parents’ house, the place where he grew up.
“Did you ever worry about burglars?” I say nervously. “That seemed a little too easy.”
“We know everybody in town. So not really.”
“This is definitely not Los Angeles,” I say as I follow him through the living room and into the kitchen.
“That’s the downstairs.” Dylan gestures with his arm. “The whole house is pretty much the same, in every way, since I lived here. I’ve tried to get my parents to move a million times—I’ve offered to buy them something larger, something newer, to have a place custom-built for them, or even to upgrade what they do have, but they won’t budge. They’re stubborn like that. Although they’ve finally agreed to let me buy them a cabin in the mountains. Dad’s supposed to start looking this spring once the snow’s gone.” He heads for the stairs. “My bedroom’s up here.”
Dylan’s room looks like a shrine, like it’s been completely untouched since he was a kid. Football stuff is everywhere, and an old twin bed sits in the corner.
“Do they use this room?” I ask.
“Maybe for guests? My brother’s room’s the same.”
We walk down the hall to Matt’s room. It has the same twin bed as Dylan’s, but the walls have motorcycles and punk rock posters instead.
“It looks like you guys felt comfortable here,” I observe.
“Yeah,” Dylan says. “I think we did. My parents did a good job with that part.”
He takes my hand and leads me back to his bedroom. We take a seat on the bed. “Thanks for coming here with me. You were right. It was a good idea.”
His dark eyes shine with so much emotion when he looks at me that I grip his shirt with both fists. I love him so much in this moment that it hurts.
“I love you, Dylan,” I whisper to him. “I can’t express how much in words.”
So I try to show him. I lean in and put my lips on his. His hands go to my ass, and he lifts me up and onto his lap. Then we lie down on his childhood bed and make love, and as I hold him tightly, I feel the euphoria he mentioned at the hospital. I feel the indescribable high, and I know I’ll never be able to forget it.
* * *
We’ve just boarded the plane to take us back to Arizona when Dylan’s cell phone rings.
He picks up right away. “Hi Tim, I remember about the interview. I was going to do it by phone. Jasalie and I are on our way back to Tucson for our last night there.”
I’m busy putting my bag into the overhead, so I don’t catch what he says next.
But when I turn to glance at him, his face is hard as stone. He glances at me quickly, and then drops into his seat.
“What is it?” I say, sitting next to him and touching his knee. “What’s wrong?”
“Yep,” he says into the phone. “But what can I do…”
Another panicked glance in my direction.
“Is it your uncle?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“I’ll call you back,” he says into the phone before hanging up.
Instead of saying anything to me about that weird-ass phone call, he busies himself for the next few minutes with his bag and then adjusting his seat belt.
Finally, I tap his arm. “Dylan. What happened? You’re white as a ghost.”
