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“Why are we doing this, again Evie? Are you sure we can’t just have sex?”
“No. Trust me, Dylan. Close your eyes. Feel this scar, tell me its story, and then we can have sex.”
He closes his eyes. “Scars happen after you’ve been sliced open. Injured. Suffered.”
“Tell me more.”
“Scars happen when the body tries to repair tissue because pain has torn into the body. The worst scars usually happen with the toughest injuries.”
“Yes. What does my scar feel like?”
He crinkles his forehead. “It feels like it’s pushing me out. Pushing my hand away. Something bad happened to you Evie.”
“It did.”
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ Queasy asks, flip-flopping dramatically in my stomach.
‘Keep going,’ Hope says, throwing an encouraging fist punch, and I get a hit of adrenaline.
“Let’s not talk about me right now.” I still my hand on his chest. I close my eyes and silently count three, two, one. I move into the empathic layer within me. The outside world drifts away and I feel.
I simply feel.
Heaviness fills my chest. I wade into the ocean of Dylan’s sorrow, the waters rising. The weight of the world wears on my shoulders and I am eighty-four years old, not twenty-four. His core wound is within me. It’s furtive, panting, eyes darting, sneaky, staying one step ahead of me. But it’s been stealing from him for a while now, and like any thief who hasn’t been caught in a while, it’s growing bloated from its undeserved, vampiric success.
I circle it, my hand skimming across Dylan’s body as the predator twists inside him. It disappears behind a black veil of fear. Dare I go there? Dare I pull back the curtain? Who am I to confront Dylan’s shitty belief? I’m no hero. I boast no supernatural abilities to lift myself up. I’m just a rental date who met him a few weeks ago wearing a borrowed dress.
But I’m also the girl who willed life back into Wyatt Wolfe. I’m the girl who puts others’ needs first – my mom’s my sister’s. I’m the girl who has to try. I need to identify these sensations. The heaviness, the drowning, feel familiar. And then it dawns on me that I’ve already been given the answer.
Guilt.
“I love you, Mom,” Dylan said to his mother on the boat. “I’m sorry I stayed away for so long.”
“I love you too, Dylan,” she said. “I forgive you.”
Dylan found out Dixie cheated with his brother and it wrecked him and he left. He bailed. He stayed away. He’s felt guilty ever since. It’s killing his mojo. But the funny thing is, that guilt’s not going to make his mom better.
Losing his game, screwing up the life he built is not going to make his mom better. On the other hand, owning these feelings is a big first step toward healing Dylan, healing his relationship with his mother, and getting on with all the love that they share.
I open my eyes and stare into his. “You feel guilty,” I say.
“About what?”
“When did you leave home?”
“When I found out about Dixie. Five years ago.”
“You left to keep your sanity when your marriage fell apart. You left in anger.”
“Yes.”
“Now your mom’s sick and you’re blaming yourself. Magical thinking,” I say. “We think we can control everything. We can’t.”
“But she is sick and I did leave.”
My hand on his stomach starts sweating as that fucked up belief tries to wriggle away from me. I grit my teeth and hold onto that belief. I’m not letting this sucker go. “If your career crashes and burns, it justifies you returning to Texas and Lighthouse Cathedral. In a strange way, it’s doing you a favor, a service. It’s making the decision for you.”
“That can’t be.” He props himself up on his elbows, looking a little pissed.
