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“…pain can only be dulled by time, and you know we’re always here for you…” Also Dylan.
“…Artem was the first person to truly believe in me,” I heard Row say in his bottomless baritone that licked at my skin like fire. “He saw my potential, made me work for things; they say every kid needs one grown-up to love them and one to believe in them. My mother loved me. But Artem? He believed in me.”
My mouth kept on moving, and it occurred to me that I was talking to Lyle and that he was listening, though not with great enthusiasm. A troubled frown engraved his crumpled forehead, and he kept sloping his head back and forth. Was I even speaking in English?
“…all I’m saying is Meat Loaf shouldn’t have called it ‘I’d Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That)’ because what’s even the point?” I rambled. Oh God. Someone shut me up. Immediately. “Well, Mr. Meat Loaf, clearly, you won’t do anything for love. There’s no exception to the word anything. Everything is kind of baked into the cake, you know? The song should’ve been called ‘I Would Do Most Things for Love.’ But I guess that would have been less catchy. It’s all about the marketing.”
In my periphery, I caught Row pressing his knuckles to his mouth, enjoying my first-degree murder of whatever coolness I had left.
“Ya know, I was never a big Meat Loaf fan.” Lyle took a pull of his Coors, his eyes searching for an escape route from the conversation. “The dish? Sure. Not so much the artist. Springsteen fan, myself.”
His eyes crinkled with affection, like I was a six-year-old trying to spell a new word. “Don’t worry, Calla.” He patted my arm, and I forced myself not to wince and jerk away. “You don’t need to be smart. You’re mighty pretty, just like your ma.”
Dylan chose that moment to unzip her colorful, wet windbreaker and shake it in my general direction. Raindrops caught my dress and peppered my eyes.
“Oops. Clumsy me,” Dylan singsonged, no trace of regret in her airy tone. “It’s been raining like a bitch today, huh?”
So much for giving me a break because I’m newly fatherless.
I turned around, coming face-to-face with my former best friend.
Her face alone made me want to cry again. She was so…Dylan. Her skin smooth to the point she looked like an AI figure. Every feature perfectly proportioned and Apollo-like. With a wide, dimpled Julia Roberts smile and the long, spidery legs of a runway model. She had that Eva Mendes glow that made her look sexy doing anything, including staring me down like I had just battered a baby panda with its own bamboo stick.
My gut pretzeled into itself a hundred times over.
I missed her.
I missed her, and I still wanted her forgiveness. Her love, acceptance, and quirky jokes.
“Not a problem. Mistakes happen.” My eyes twitched four, five, six times. Not even ten seconds had passed, and I already had a tic. I extended a hand for her to shake. “Thank you for coming.”
Row was standing next to her, but I had yet to muster up the courage to look directly at him. Dylan rolled her eyes, not taking my hand. “Ugh.” She looked disgusted with herself for even looking at me. “Come here, you annoying…piece…of…Cal.”
Using my outstretched hand, she tugged me forward. I crashed against her belly. She gave me a crush-your-bones hug full of reassurance. It felt like she’d put an oxygen mask to my face, breathing life into me.
“I’m still mad, but I’m also in pieces for you,” she mumbled into my hair, stroking it softly, the touch achingly familiar and comforting. “Artem was our bestie. Remember when he let us practice our makeup skills on him?”
“Yes,” I choked out, the memories flooding me like a river. “We weren’t even that young anymore. Thirteen, right? Totally past the cute stage.”
“The man could rock a blue winged eyeliner like nobody’s business.”
“So true.” My chin wobbled. “It really made his eyes pop.”
The waterworks officially began. I’m talking Bellagio fountain show. My eyeballs were leaking as she rubbed circles on my back. She smelled like old Dylan: Libre by YSL, bubblegum, and that scent that always lingered at the Casablancas’ household of hearty Italian food.
“Dylan,” I gasped, melting into her hug, breaking into a million pieces and knowing somehow, she’d hold me together. “It hurts so bad.”
“I know.” She kissed my ear, wet with salty tears. “I lost my dad three years ago.”
Doug Casablancas had died? And I hadn’t been there to comfort her?
I pulled away, wiping my face quickly. “What? I’m so sorry. I had no idea. Mom and Dad…no one said a thing to me. I would’ve dropped everythin—”
“It’s me.” She stepped back, and it seemed like we both sobered up from that hug. “I asked them not to. It fell on your second semester finals.”
“Who cares?” I asked, horrified. “I’d have dropped everything to be there for you. No questions asked.”
“I cared. One of us had to do something productive with her life. Even though…” Her eyes swept over me. “Looks like neither of us did. What happened to your fancy degree?”
