More Than Enough (More Than Series, Book 5) Read online

  Dylan: I know. It was a joke.

  Riley: Your typing’s gotten better. And faster.

  Dylan: I’m on the computer.

  Riley: I figured.

  Dylan: But swimming was your thing, right? You don’t miss swimming?

  Riley: I haven’t been in the water since… you know.

  Dylan: Oh.

  Riley: Besides the bath, I mean.

  Dylan: You kill me with your visuals, Hudson.

  Riley: Unintentional.

  Dylan: Sure.

  Riley: I do miss you though.

  Dylan: Needy much?

  Riley: lol. Shut up.

  Dylan: I miss you too. My room smells like you now.

  Dylan: I could come over. We can drive to the elementary school and shoot hoops.

  Riley: I wish.

  Dylan: You’re twenty, Riley. Surely your mom can’t tell you what to do.

  Riley: It’s not that she tells me what to do. I don’t know. Guilt + respect, I guess.

  Dylan: I call bullshit. I say it’s fear.

  Riley: It’s not.

  Dylan: It makes no sense.

  Riley: Doesn’t have to make sense to you.

  Riley: Besides, it’ll be dark soon. We can do it tomorrow when she’s at work.

  Dylan: Put your sneakers on. I’ll be over in five.

  Riley: Don’t you dare!

  I don’t bother replying. Instead, I go over to her house. I knock on her door and fake a smile when her mother answers. “Good evening, Ms. Hudson. I’d like to see Riley. Actually, I’d like to take Riley out of the house. Not just now, but a lot of times in the future so you should probably get used to me knocking on your door and requesting her presence to join me. And I’m sorry if this will cause problems for you, but—”

  “What are you doing, Dylan?” Riley says.

  I look past her mother to see her standing just outside her door. Then I ignore her question and speak to the woman in front of me. “But I like your daughter. A lot. And if I don’t get to see her now, then I don’t know what I’ll do. Honestly, I’ll probably revert to being a teenager and toilet papering your house.” I shrug. “Sorry.”

  “Dylan!” Riley snaps.

  Her mom doesn’t speak, so I keep going. “I guess I’m not really here to ask for permission. I’m just here to pick up your daughter.” I glance up at Riley. “Let’s go.”

  Her gaze moves from me to her mom. “I can’t,” she says.

  “Just go,” her mom says. “We’ll discuss it when you get home.”

  I thought Riley would smile, but she doesn’t. She looks hesitant, but more than that, she looks pissed. At me. “I don’t have to go,” she tells her mom, like she’s a grounded teenager.

  Her mom looks me over from head to toe. “You’re a marine, right?”

  I square my shoulders. “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “And you’re home for what? R&R?”

  “No, Ma’am. Medical.”

  She nods. “Afghanistan?”

  I lift my chin. She’s trying to be intimidating. It’s not going to work. Not on me. And not when it comes to Riley. “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “So medical leave… that means you’re going back, right?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “So what is it exactly you’re doing with my daughter, Mr. Banks? Are you just looking for a good time with her before you redeploy? And then what? You leave her behind as just another notch on your belt?”

  Now I’m pissed. “That’s not at all—”

  “You can show up at my door and act as tough as you want,” she cuts in. “But regardless of what she’s told you, I love my daughter and I do what’s best for her. And what’s best for her is definitely not you. Because you’re not staying, you’re going back. Back to a warzone where it’s your job to put your life on the line every single second you’re there. She’s already lost someone she loved. Someone we all loved. And look at her. This is how she dealt with it… how she’s still dealing with it. If you really like her like you say you do, you’ll leave her alone. So she doesn’t have to go through life worrying how she’s going to handle the next death that comes her way.”

  I don’t know how long I stand there, my hands in my pockets looking at the woman who I thought I hated, wondering exactly when it was in her speech that my hate turned to admiration, but it’s a long ass time.

  And time + perspective can change people.

  Instantly.

  Because she’s right.

  Through the chaos Riley and I created within the four walls of her bedroom, and the overwhelming feelings I let overshadow our reality… I never thought about it like that.

  Not once.

  But then I look over at Riley, her eyes right on mine, full of hope and promise and a complete contrast to how she was a month ago, and I take a breath. And then another. And I wonder what events in all our lives, her mother included, were The Turning Points? The points where we all determined that the fear of our pasts and the uncertainty of our futures were greater than our need for happiness.

  Here.

  Now.

  While time and everything around us stood unmoving… who’s to say we couldn’t have it all?

  I look at her mother again, right into her eyes, clear and gray just like Riley’s. “I’ll come back tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that. I’ll keep coming back until you allow me to see her. I won’t be sneaking around behind your back. I won’t be calling or texting her without your approval. She matters a lot to me. More than a lot. So I’m here. Now. And I don’t plan on that changing until you both realize that Riley’s happiness is just as important as everyone else’s.”

  I turn and walk away, leaving them standing there. I don’t hear the door close. Not until I’m on the sidewalk and half way home. Once I’m back in my room, I get a message on my phone.

  Riley: Why the hell would you do that?

  Dylan: Retaliation. Fight or die, Hudson.

  Then I grab a notebook, a pen and another empty jar.

  Twenty-Four

  Dylan

  I wake up early the next morning prepared for battle. I shower, dress, and make my way out to Riley’s house, where I lean on her mom’s car, jar in hand, and I wait. I’m only there a few minutes before she appears from the door, stopping in her tracks when she sees me. “Mr. Banks,” she says in greeting.

  “Ma’am.”

  I push off the car and stand tall, waiting for her to get to me. When she does, I offer her the jar. “For you,” I tell her.

  She eyes it curiously for a moment. “What’s this?” she asks.

  “A gift.”

  “Like Riley’s jars?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  Her eyebrows narrow in confusion. “I’m late for work,” she mumbles, using the keyless entry to unlock her car.

  I open the door for her and wait until she’s seated before saying, “Have a phenomenal day, Ma’am.”

  I give her an over exaggerated grin, along with a pathetic wave as she reverses out of the driveway. Then I turn to her front door—where I know Riley will be standing, watching with the same narrowed eyes, same look of confusion.

  And as hard as it is, I keep my promise to her mother: I walk away.

  Twenty minutes later, Riley calls. Not texts, but actually calls.

  “Mom just called me,” she says.

  I hold the phone tighter against my ear, my anticipation building. “And?”

  “She asked if you wanted to come over for dinner tonight? What the hell, Dylan?”

  Riley answers the door with the same look of confusion that I left her with. But it doesn’t last long before she smiles—this all-consuming, heart-stealing smile that has me doing the same. She throws her arms around my neck, forcing me to bend down and she squeezes tight, so tight it begins to hurt. But she doesn’t need to know that. “Sorry,” she whispers, releasing me. She points at the flowers in my hand. “For me?” she asks.

  I cringe sli
ghtly. Crap. I should’ve gotten two. “For your mom, actually.”

  She shrugs. “It’s cool. You already got me flowers on my birthday.”

  “I picked you dead flowers,” I remind her.

  “But it’s the thought that counts.” She pulls me by my shirt and practically drags me down the hall and into the kitchen where her mom’s busy on the stove. Whatever she’s cooking smells amazing, better than the frozen dinners we have at home. I tell her that, and when she hears me, she spins around with a smile that’s almost identical to Riley’s. She wipes her hands on a cloth and makes her way to us.

  She hugs like Riley too. “Good evening, Mr. Banks.”

  “Dylan’s fine, Ma’am.”

  Riley says, “Is someone going to tell me what happened?”

  “I’m getting to know your boyfriend,” her mom says, releasing me.

  We sit down for a meal at an actual dining table, with an actual freshly cooked meal, and salad, and iced tea. My enjoyment is obvious by the constant moans of pleasure. Something they seem to think is hilarious. I don’t even realize until I’ve polished off my plate that they haven’t even touched theirs. I lean back in my chair, my hands on my lap and look down at them, trying to suppress my laughter. “Sorry. I’m a growing boy.”

  Ms. Hudson, who has told me to call her Holly, says, “I hate to break it to you but there’s no possible way you’re growing anymore. How tall are you now, Dylan?”

  “6’3”, Ma’am.”

  “Hmm. That’s not much taller than you were when we first met you, is it?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. Ask Riley. She seems to remember that moment quite well.”

  Riley’s jaw drops.

  I squeeze her leg under the table.

  Her mom laughs. “So that’s why you spent the next few weeks glued to the living room window.”

  “Lies!” Riley squeals. Then her eyes narrow at me. “I was going to give you my food but after that…” Slowly, she puts her entire hand in her plate, using it to scoop up the lasagna and shoves it in her mouth, smearing bits of it around her lips.

  I choke on my guffaw, pick up my napkin and start to clean her face.

  “You’re a mess, Ry,” her mom tells her.

  “And so cute,” I add.

  She waits until I’m done cleaning her before leaning forward and kissing me quickly. Then she places her plate in front of me. I welcome the food and look across the table at Holly. She’s watching Riley with a frown on her face. Then she blinks and as if coming to, she notices me watching her. Riley’s hand’s on mine now, still on her leg under the table.

  Holly clears her throat. “So do you guys have plans for tomorrow?” she asks.

  Riley’s eyes widen slightly when her gaze shifts between us. “Nothing solid,” she says hesitantly.

  Holly nods.

  I chime in. “I was actually thinking of going into town. I need to get some supplies. But I need to be home in the morning,” I tell them. “I’m expecting a delivery.”

  “Oh yeah?” Riley asks. “Of what?”

  “Car shell.”

  “For the engine?” She smiles. “You’re ready to move on?”

  “Yep. Moving on. With you, Riley Hudson.”

  * * *

  Riley: You in your garage?

  Dylan: Youxstalking again, Hudson?

  Riley: Open the door.

  I open the garage door just high enough for her to duck underneath and then close it again. She’s wearing my shirt from yesterday and I’m pretty sure not much else. “What’s up?” I ask as she walks past me and toward the workbench. She uses the stepladder set up in front of it to climb onto the bench and sits down to face me. “Nothing. Just wanted to see you.”

  “Yeah?” I walk over and clean my hands on an old rag, throwing it over my shoulder before standing in front of her and rubbing my hands on her bare legs. “I just left you an hour ago. Already missing me, huh?”

  She places her forearms on my shoulders and spreads her legs, bringing me closer to her. “My mom came and spoke to me after you left.”

  I kiss her quickly. “How did that go?”

  “It was… freeing, I guess.”

  “Freeing how?”

  “She told me you wrote her a letter.”

  I nod.

  “She didn’t tell me what was in it though. She just said it helped open her eyes to what was happening with me. And the fact that she had no real clue what was going on was a huge wake up call for her.” She lowers her arms and places her palms flat on my chest, her eyes focused on the touch. “She admitted some stuff that kind of had me realizing that I’d been pushing her away since the night I lost it. I think we were both drowning in so much guilt—guilt I didn’t know she was carrying—that we lost focus on ourselves and each other and even though we lived together, we couldn’t be further apart.”

  My eyes narrow in confusion. “She carries guilt?”

  “Apparently,” she says, her gaze and her hands dropping. “She said she felt responsible for the accident. Not with Jeremy, but with me. She thinks she should’ve noticed my self-destruction as it was happening instead of when it was too late. She knows I tried to talk to her… It was hard for her to hear what I’d gone through that day at the lake so instead of listening she chose to ignore me. It was easier for her that way, but it’s something she regrets. I feel horrible, Dylan.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I should’ve seen it. I shouldn’t have walked around pretending to be blind to it all. She could’ve let me go to court, had them deal with me… she sold her salon that she worked her entire life to create, sold her pride to the town, lost clients. Now she rents a chair from a chain salon and makes half the money she used to and she did that because she cared about me and she loved me. At the time, I thought she did it to hide her shame.” I let her speak, because it’s important she talks about it, maybe remove some of the weight that’s constantly pushing her down. She adds, “I chose to become a recluse after the mandatory house arrest because I didn’t want people looking at me and judging her. I don’t even know how the drinking started. She hates that she let it go on for so long, encouraged it even. I guess she was trying to help dull the pain, you know?”

  I hold her closer, her chest pressed against mine.

  She cries more than a year’s worth of tears, releases more than a year’s worth of pain, and when she pulls away, her eyes red and unfocused, she says, “Jeremy—he was such a good kid.” And I can see the smile breaking through caused by the memory of happiness only they could share. “He was always happy. Always smiling. He’d talk to anyone and everyone that approached him and he’d stick up for the shy quiet kids. I wondered if it was because of me that he did that, so I asked him once and he just shrugged and said ‘if all the quiet ones have as much to say as you do, then the world needs to hear it.’ He was always thinking about other people, but beneath that—there was something deep brewing, like he wanted to change the world somehow. He wanted to leave a legacy when he died, you know?”

  More tears.

  Bigger smiles.

  “He had this one postcard in his locker he got from Myrtle Beach and it said ‘facta non verba.’”

  “Actions speak louder than words?”

  She nods. “I shouldn’t have let the words of others control my actions. If he was around to see how badly I let it ruin me, he would’ve been so mad. Not so much at them, but at me. And I’m just pissed off because it’s not what he would’ve wanted, you know? I should’ve done better. For him. I should’ve done more. Like, what’s his legacy now?”

  I keep my eyes on hers, watching the sadness and desperation consume her. “So you be his legacy.”

  Her eyes snap to mine, her breath completely leaving her. “But… I thought I belong to you now?”

  “It doesn’t have to be either/or, Riley. It never has to be. You can have us both. You can have it all.”

  Twenty-Five

  Riley

  Fo
r the next week, we spend every spare second together and when we’re not together, we text—something he’s gotten a lot better at. We leave the confines of my room and spend most of the days in his garage working on putting the engine in the shell that had been delivered. He’s been over twice since. Once with his dad and brother.

  I still don’t know what he wrote to my mom. I stopped “nagging” as he puts it, after a couple days.

  We keep up with his shoulder rehab. I force him to. I keep all records in the notebook from his last visit and make sure I have everything I need for when we go back next week. Maybe it’s dumb to assume it’s important, but it is to me. Besides, I love watching him do it. The best part is when he takes his shirt off and does one-handed push-ups—using his left arm, obviously.

  There’s definitely a difference between a boy’s body and a man’s. Or maybe it’s just Dylan. Yeah. I’m going to say it’s just Dylan.

  His buddy in Afghanistan has called twice using my Skype. I leave the room when they talk. It just seems too private and, to be honest, I’m not sure I’m ready to hear what he has to go back to when he finally does go back.

  We don’t talk about it—what will happen with us when he leaves. Because like he said, he’s here. Now. And that’s more than enough.

  “You’re turning into a grease monkey,” he says, eyeing me from under the hood of the Honda.

  I look down at my clothes and the grease stains smeared on my white shirt. “I am!”

  “It’s hot, Ry.” He stands to his full height, stalking toward me with a wrench in his hand. He has that look in eyes. You know, that look. The one that tells me he’s pretty much done with the car for the day and the rest will be spent with me in his arms while he makes me laugh. I love that time of day. Almost as much as I love him.

  He pulls his phone out of his pocket and takes a picture. (Side note: it took me fifteen minutes to show him how to use it.) Then he drops his wrench on the bench next to where I’m sitting and settles his hands on my legs. “Feel like helping out?”

  “Not right now. I just like watching you.”

  “Quit treating me like a piece of meat, Hudson. Jeez. I have feelings you know.”