God. She did spend the night, granted, but that doesn’t necessarily mean—”
“Hold up.” He lifted one palm as his expression morphed into incredulity. “You don’t even know if they’re having sex, and you’re still all self-righteous and disapproving?” He shook his head around, as if to clear it. “What’s up with that, Lila?”
“It’s not about them having sex!” I yelled, a little louder than I’d intended. “Not totally, at least.” Shudder. “The point is, you’re my boyfriend! He’s my dad! She’s your mom! Any of this ringing an alarm bell?”
“No! I’m not an imbecile. I get what you’re saying. I just don’t understand why it’s such an issue.”
“Not an issue?!” Now I was yelling, and I didn’t care because Dylan was bringing true life and meaning to the word obtuse, at least by my estimation. Why did guys always seem so “no big deal-ish” about stuff that really mattered, and yet they could stare into a car engine for three weeks straight without blinking? So frustrating. “If they do love each other, like you say, what happens to our relationship if they get married?”
He jolted. “That’s what you’re stressing about?”
I hiked my chin. “Well, yeah. What else?”
A silent moment stretched.
Dylan’s eyebrows raised.
And right after that is when he busted into laughter.
Yep. Big, honking laughter. At me.
It began as one of those startled bursts, but pretty soon it had digressed into full-on belly guffaws, complete with tears rolling from the corners of his eyes and a couple of inadvertent snorts. He even leaned his seat back until he was almost lying down, probably to relieve the gut-cramping from his uncontrollable howling during the biggest, most traumatic fight of my life. Freakin’ guys.
My face flared with heat.
Now I was really pissed off.
“Stop it!” I said, pushing at him. “Stop laughing!”
He didn’t.
“Dylan! God!” I wrenched open my door and stomped across the parking area to the rock wall that jutted straight up. I leaned against it, crossed my arms, and decided stupid relationship articles in teen magazines didn’t take into account boyfriends who launched into massive hyena-esque laughing fits at their girlfriends’ expense. So I started crying. Screw that dumb article.
After a minute, Dylan’s door opened and closed. He crossed over toward me, hands stuffed into the front pockets of his jeans. When he saw my tears, it didn’t seem like he thought I was being manipulative or annoying (freakin’ magazine. That subscription would be cancelled immediately). In fact, his expression morphed from rollicking humor to sympathy.
“Aw, Lila. I’m sorry I laughed. I just don’t share your worries about our parents dating, okay? People date.”
“Whatever,” I muttered.
“Come here.” He pulled me into his arms, and I went reluctantly at first. But then I smelled his woodsy scent and felt the warmth of his muscles, so I wrapped my arms around his body and buried my face in his chest. I was soaking the front of his T-shirt, but tough nuggets. It felt good to be hugging instead of yelling.
He just held me like that, resting his cheek on the top of my head, until I’d stopped crying and started hiccuping.
Uncontrollably, in case you wondered. Lovely, I know.
Worse, in my infinite how-to-be-hot wisdom (or the lack thereof), I decided to try and speak during the aforementioned hiccups. “I”—hic!—“don’t think your mom”—hic!—“isn’t good eno”—hic!—“enough for my dad, Dy”—hic! hic!—“Dylan. It’s just hard for”—hic!—“me, and I don’t want to”—hic!—
“To what?”
“To”—HIC!—“lose you.”
Holy craaaaaap, had I actually said that? I felt so emotionally naked right then, and I just wanted to hoof it into the hills, like a shaggy mountain goat, and hide.
Dylan, in his infinite guyishness, didn’t seem bothered by my lameoid, borderline codependent admission, though.
“Hold up.” He lifted one palm as his expression morphed into incredulity. “You don’t even know if they’re having sex, and you’re still all self-righteous and disapproving?” He shook his head around, as if to clear it. “What’s up with that, Lila?”
“It’s not about them having sex!” I yelled, a little louder than I’d intended. “Not totally, at least.” Shudder. “The point is, you’re my boyfriend! He’s my dad! She’s your mom! Any of this ringing an alarm bell?”
“No! I’m not an imbecile. I get what you’re saying. I just don’t understand why it’s such an issue.”
“Not an issue?!” Now I was yelling, and I didn’t care because Dylan was bringing true life and meaning to the word obtuse, at least by my estimation. Why did guys always seem so “no big deal-ish” about stuff that really mattered, and yet they could stare into a car engine for three weeks straight without blinking? So frustrating. “If they do love each other, like you say, what happens to our relationship if they get married?”
He jolted. “That’s what you’re stressing about?”
I hiked my chin. “Well, yeah. What else?”
A silent moment stretched.
Dylan’s eyebrows raised.
And right after that is when he busted into laughter.
Yep. Big, honking laughter. At me.
It began as one of those startled bursts, but pretty soon it had digressed into full-on belly guffaws, complete with tears rolling from the corners of his eyes and a couple of inadvertent snorts. He even leaned his seat back until he was almost lying down, probably to relieve the gut-cramping from his uncontrollable howling during the biggest, most traumatic fight of my life. Freakin’ guys.
My face flared with heat.
Now I was really pissed off.
“Stop it!” I said, pushing at him. “Stop laughing!”
He didn’t.
“Dylan! God!” I wrenched open my door and stomped across the parking area to the rock wall that jutted straight up. I leaned against it, crossed my arms, and decided stupid relationship articles in teen magazines didn’t take into account boyfriends who launched into massive hyena-esque laughing fits at their girlfriends’ expense. So I started crying. Screw that dumb article.
After a minute, Dylan’s door opened and closed. He crossed over toward me, hands stuffed into the front pockets of his jeans. When he saw my tears, it didn’t seem like he thought I was being manipulative or annoying (freakin’ magazine. That subscription would be cancelled immediately). In fact, his expression morphed from rollicking humor to sympathy.
“Aw, Lila. I’m sorry I laughed. I just don’t share your worries about our parents dating, okay? People date.”
“Whatever,” I muttered.
“Come here.” He pulled me into his arms, and I went reluctantly at first. But then I smelled his woodsy scent and felt the warmth of his muscles, so I wrapped my arms around his body and buried my face in his chest. I was soaking the front of his T-shirt, but tough nuggets. It felt good to be hugging instead of yelling.
He just held me like that, resting his cheek on the top of my head, until I’d stopped crying and started hiccuping.
Uncontrollably, in case you wondered. Lovely, I know.
Worse, in my infinite how-to-be-hot wisdom (or the lack thereof), I decided to try and speak during the aforementioned hiccups. “I”—hic!—“don’t think your mom”—hic!—“isn’t good eno”—hic!—“enough for my dad, Dy”—hic! hic!—“Dylan. It’s just hard for”—hic!—“me, and I don’t want to”—hic!—
“To what?”
“To”—HIC!—“lose you.”
Holy craaaaaap, had I actually said that? I felt so emotionally naked right then, and I just wanted to hoof it into the hills, like a shaggy mountain goat, and hide.
Dylan, in his infinite guyishness, didn’t seem bothered by my lameoid, borderline codependent admission, though.
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