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‘What are you doing?’ Queasy wrings his hands. ‘This is supposed to be about making money. Not losing your soul.’
“Three hours?” I ask and think hard, scouring my brain for a way I can make this right.
“Yes,” he says and continues to pack.
‘Redemption’s knocking,’ Hope says. ‘An opportunity to get it right. Really help someone heal this time.’
“Dylan, I’ve got an idea.”
“Sure thing, baby. Tell me anything – right after breakfast.”
We jog down a path in a pretty park. The morning air’s warm, not yet stifling. Dew burns off lush green grass. Dylan’s not turning his game around. He says I calm him, but I’m not the human equivalent of Xanax.
There’s something else -- not just the game -- that’s throwing a fat monkey wrench into his brain, his heart. Something else is cutting him off from his mojo. I’m removed, on the outside looking in. It might be easier for me to identify whatever this thing is and help him change it.
We run in step next to each other, both breaking a sweat. I gather my courage, prepare a big old long speech in my head that sounds rational and smart and cool and just when I have the words perfect, all lined up like little soldiers on parade I forget them and spit out, “Dylan, I like you.”
“I like you too.”
“What if there is a way for you to turn this losing streak around that you haven’t thought of yet? A solution that’s not even on your radar?”
“I don’t count cards,” he says, shooting me a disappointed look. He sprints ahead, practically leaving me in the dust.
Anger pops, lighting a fire under my feet. “Hey!” I race quicker, catch up with him, and smack his shoulder.
He slows down. “What?”
“I don’t count cards, either, asshole. Don’t assume a new suggestion is illegal or amoral.”
“You’re right.” He slows. “I’m sorry. Tell me more.”
I take a deep breath. “I’m empathic.”
He frowns. “The last thing I want is your sympathy.”
“Not sympathy, old man. Empathy. Sounds similar but it’s completely different.”
“How so?” He stops running, wipes the sweat off his brow with the hem of his T-shirt, and eyes me. He’s wearing one of those sleeveless tanks, the muscles cut and defined in his arms and I have to pinch myself to stay on subject.
“I can feel in my body what’s going on inside of yours. Literally feel it. That’s called empathy.”
“Okay,” he says and grazes a finger down my neck, my shoulder, his blue eyes dropping to my sweaty cleavage. “What am I feeling now?”
Goosebumps prickle on the backs of my arms, my nipples hardening. “Besides you wanting to go back to the motel?”
“Yeah. There’s that.”
“Sadness and regret.”
His eyes widen. “That’s a good guess.”
“It wasn’t a guess. I felt it.” I clench my fist tight at my side. Don’t care how hot he is – I need him to take me seriously.
“What are my sadness and regret about?”
“The game.”
“That’s obvious,” he says and removes his hand. Disbelief rears up within me. I’m used to being dismissed. Used to being the small voice that people ignore, but for some reason I thought Dylan would be different.
