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

  “What’s up,” I mumble.

  He steps back slightly and looks down on me. “Regret does not look good on you.”

  Regret doesn’t feel good, either. “What?” I squeak, then shake my head to clear my thoughts but it just makes the pounding worse. “Were you as drunk as I was when you fucked me in my kitchen that you’ve somehow forgotten about it? Because now you’re standing here ignoring the fact that we did, actually, fuck in my kitchen.”

  “Riley, come on.”

  “And now you think it’s okay to show up, looking like you do and smiling like you are after leaving me hanging the day after your so-called ‘regret’ and—”

  “Riley, I don’t regret it,” he interrupts.

  “Bullshit, Banks. It was the first word you said when I opened the door. And it’s cool if that’s how you feel because I regret it too.” I take a moment to catch my breath. “It’s probably a good idea if you don’t come around anymore.” Maybe my anger is unjustified. Actually, I’m sure it is because regardless of how I try to spin the events of two days ago, I didn’t push him away. I did absolutely nothing to stop it from happening. In fact, I encouraged it. And even though I know all this, it didn’t stop me from drinking enough alcohol to cause me to puke in the bathtub. Twice. Then pass out in it while I tried to clean it… and that’s exactly how Mom found me. So while my hurt might be uncalled for, Mom’s reaction to Dylan at the door yesterday wasn’t. She knew he had something to do with my actions. He had to have.

  “Is that what you want?” he asks, dropping his gaze and pulling me from my thoughts.

  It takes a few seconds for me to remember what we were talking about and when I do, I nod.

  His eyes narrow. “I’m sorry if what we did hurt you. I regret you were drunk. I regret that I may have unintentionally taken advantage of that. But I don’t regret it.” He starts to turn away, but stops suddenly. “I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for in life…” He points at the wine gripped tightly in my hand. “I just don’t think you’re going to find it at the bottom of a bottle. And just so you know, I do like you, Riley. A lot.” He steps forward, but I push him away.

  I have to.

  Because the butterflies are already starting. But, after the butterflies come the emptiness, and then the guilt. And the guilt is what has me closing the door on him and whatever feelings I might have had for him.

  I go back to my room, my solitude, and I play the song—the song that brings me closer to him. Then I grab my wine, sit in the corner with the pen and paper in my hand, and I remember him.

  It was sophomore year. You knew I was a nervous wreck. You knew I hated the attention. So it made absolutely no sense to me why you showed up at my swim meet with half the JV basketball team holding up signs and chanting my name in the stands. I paced the side of the pool glaring at all of you. Every time you started to chant I’d tell you to shut up. You kept going, your big goofy smile getting wider every time. Then they announced my name and I removed my towel, slowly walking to my block as your cheers just got louder.

  I was so angry.

  So livid.

  I stood there and tried to ignore your chants and cheers and shouts but it was so deafening. Everyone was looking at you. Everyone was looking at me. I swore to myself I’d fly through the freestyle as fast as I could just so I could get out and kick your ass.

  I came in first and before they could even announce it, I stormed up to the bleachers, my wet feet thumping against the floor. You were three rows up. I remember because I could see all the eyes of the crowd move from me to you, and back again. You were smiling. “Why would you do this!” I shouted, stomping my foot. I was so, so mad. And when your grin got wider I wanted nothing more than to climb the three rows—people and all—and smack you on the back of the head.

  But then you said, “Because I know you, Riley Hudson. You swim best on adrenaline. And nothing gets your blood pumping like being mad.”

  I was confused. “What?”

  “I did it for you!” you shouted.

  I wanted to smile, but I wanted more to keep being mad at you. “You didn’t do it for me!”

  You nodded. “I did so!” And I don’t know if it actually happened, or if it was just like that in my head, but everything went quiet. Everything went still. You smiled wider. “And I did it because I’m in love with you, stupid!”

  We were sixteen, me in my swim gear, dripping wet, surrounded by your friends and two hundred strangers… and you told me you loved me for the very first time.

  I stopped being angry. I stopped caring about the stupid signs and the stupid chants and everyone around us. I ran up to you, through the people in those front three rows and wrapped my wet arms around you. And then I kissed you. And you kissed me back. And the world stopped and my heart grew and when my coach called out and said I had to prepare for the next round, you told me I sucked and that my suit made my ass look fat.

  I told you I loved you too—more than everything and anyone in the history of forever.

  And I meant it, Jeremy.

  More than anything.

  Eleven

  Dylan

  I haven’t slept.

  Not since I left her house two days ago.

  I can’t fucking focus on the stupid engine in front of me. Maybe because all my focus is on the pathetic music streaming from her house. I wonder how long it’s been going on and why everyone else lets her get away with it. I chuck the screwdriver on the workbench and grasp my right shoulder with my left hand, then I begin to do the stupid exercises the doc instructed me to do. Move it in slow circles until the pain becomes too much.

  The pain is already too much.

  Dave: No one’s told me to fuck off in three days. I miss you, you giant ogre of a man.

  With a halfhearted smile, I respond:

  Dylan: Duck off, asshole. Better?

  Dylan: *Fuck.

  Dave: You’re the worst.

  Dylan: Notwgat your mom said last beige.

  Dave: What?

  Dylan: *Norway

  Dylan: *Not.

  Dylan: *What.

  Dave: What?!?!

  Dylan: *Night.

  Dave: Good night, bro.

  Dylan: No.

  Dave: No?

  Dylan: Your mom’s far.

  Dylan: *Gay.

  Dylan: *FAT.

  Dylan: FUCK.

  Dave: What are you typing with? A potato?

  Dylan: Duck you.

  “Hey, Dylan?” Sydney says, her head poking through the garage door. She’s wearing one of Eric’s shirts and nothing else. “Do you have a second?” I don’t know why it bothers me that she’s standing there—a girl I barely know—in the only bit of personal space I own.

  I shut my eyes and nod, giving up on my so-called physical therapy for the moment.

  She steps inside, one bare leg after the other and I look away because she’s not mine to look at. “Sorry,” she says, walking over to me. “I probably should have put some clothes on but I was in a rush.”

  “It’s fine,” I tell her, picking up the screwdriver again. I grip it in my right hand and squeeze a few times, feeling the dull ache filter down my arm. “Did you need something?”

  She stands close to me and leans against the bench. Then she opens her mouth, shuts it, and then does it again. “I feel kind of strange now,” she says, pulling her top down a little. “I just didn’t know what else to do.”

  There’s a desperation in her voice that’s enough to make me look away from my hand and up at her. “What’s up?”

  “Do you… I mean, do you have nightmares… about—” She shakes her head. “Never mind.”

  She starts to leave but I stop her. “About what?”

  She looks at the door and then back to me. “Eric—he’s been having these nightmares, I guess. He tosses and turns and kicks in his sleep. I don’t know what to do. He says he’s fine afterward, but he doesn’t get back to sleep, he just holds me. I don’t k
now if I should ask him about it or just let him be and I just thought because you and he… I mean, you’ve both been there and you’re his brother so if anyone knows—”

  “I don’t know,” I interrupt. Truth is, I have no idea what he’d want.

  Her gaze drops. “Oh.”

  “It’s not like Eric and I are close, you know?” I say, trying to justify my response. “So I can’t really tell you much about him.”

  “But you’ve been there, right?” She shakes her head again. “I’m sorry. This is probably inappropriate and bad for you to think about.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “I just worry about him. Whatever’s making him wake up in a pool of sweat can’t be good.”

  “You worry about him?” I ask incredulously.

  She tilts her head, her brow bunched in confusion. “Of course I do,” she replies, as if I’m the dumbest person in the world. She rolls her eyes. “Dylan, your brother and I are really good at faking our feelings. I mean, look at us. We’ve known each other a couple weeks and we’ve spent practically every second together. We could be out having sex with different people every night but we choose to have sex with each other.” She laughs a little when I scrunch my face in disgust. “A little too much information?”

  “A little.”

  “I don’t know,” she sings, a slight smile pulling on her lips. “He says I keep him sane and he makes me happy, so why not? Yolo, right?”

  “What the hell is a Yolo?”

  She eyes me sideways. “You Only Live Once. How long were you deployed?”

  I can’t help but laugh. “I’ve always been out of touch, I guess.”

  “So no advice?”

  I look down at the screwdriver in my hand, squeeze it once, and look back at her, thinking about what Eric would say if the roles were reversed. “Just keep letting him hold you when he needs to.”

  She smiles again, her hand soft as she squeezes my arm. “That’s perfect advice, Dylan.” Then she gazes toward the garage window that faces Riley’s house. “Are you going to go over there and tell her to turn off that God-awful music again?”

  “How do you—”

  “I’m here every day, D. I’m not stupid. I see things.”

  “Nah. Pretty sure she hates me.”

  “Doubt it,” Sydney says, her smile still in place. “Maybe you guys are just like Eric and I—really good at faking it. Besides, you could be out seeing other people, but you choose to see each other.”

  Riley

  “Go away,” I mumble, my face smeared into a cushion. I can feel the dried drool on my cheek and smell the wine that must’ve spilled onto the floor while I was sleeping. Not passed out. I’ve lived through both enough times to know the difference. Last I remember, the bottle was half full. Great. I just wasted half my portion of alcohol for the day.

  The knocking sounds again and I mumble another, “Go away,” a little louder than before but not by much.

  Another knock.

  “Jesus! Okay!” I take my time getting up, not because I’m drunk, but because I hope whoever the hell is knocking gives up by the time I get there.

  My stomach drops to the floor when I open the door to Dylan standing there, his hands in the pockets of his sweats, his lips pressed tight while he looks down at me. Then he smiles and rocks on his heels. “You look beautiful, Riley.”

  I eye him sideways while I bring the bottle to my lips and take another dose of my painkiller.

  He clears his throat before saying, “Look. I get it. You’re mad. You have every right to be. But I’m not going to stand here and act like what we did was wrong because at the time, we both wanted it, and you can’t deny that. Do I wish it’d gone down differently? Of course. Regardless of what you might think about me, I’ve never done anything like that before. With anyone. Ever.” He takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. “I have feelings for you, Riley. Feelings I can’t ignore. Sure, I would’ve liked for us to take our time and to get to know each other a little… maybe convince you to actually enjoy the time we spend together, like I do, instead of…” He shakes his head. “…whatever it is you feel when you’re with me.”

  My heart aches. For him and for me. He has no idea that I feel exactly the same way, and that it’s those feelings that causes the guilt that’s slowly eating away at me. “Dylan…”

  “Just give me a chance to explain.”

  I push back the tears burning behind my eyes. “You don’t need to—”

  “I do, Ry. You need to hear it.”

  I nod slowly, opening the door wider.

  “You ever feel stuck, Riley?” he says, but it’s not really a question because he doesn’t wait for my response. “I don’t mean in your house or anything like that. I mean in time. Or in your head. I feel like I am. I feel like I’m stuck in a dust-filled room with gunshots going off around me, staring into the eyes of the kid who shot me. I feel like I’m there and I can’t shake it, and even though so much has happened since that day, and time has passed, and I’ve moved more times than I can count, I’m still there. Sometimes, I close my eyes and it’s all I can see.” He takes a breath. “But being with you—being in your room—it’s the only place I feel free from it all. I can’t explain it. I’m not even sure I want an explanation for it. All I know is that I want it. Because even though, technically, time itself is the same for everybody—every second, every minute, every hour—it’s not when I’m with you. It’s like it doesn’t exist. Or I don’t care that it does.” He pauses, his jaw tense and his lips thinned to a line, then he curses under his breath and shakes his head. “I’m not good with words,” he mumbles. “Am I making sense?”

  He makes more sense than anyone has before and if I could’ve found the words to articulate my exact feelings since the day of the “accident,” he’s just used them all. Every single one.

  He takes another long breath, speaking before I can answer him. “When I was about fifteen, I think, my buddy Jake and I went to this party and got hammered.”

  I start to speak because I have a feeling he’s about to ramble and go off track but he raises his hand between us to stop me. “Just let me get it out.”

  I nod once.

  “We got home at God knows what time and my dad was up waiting for us and he was so mad and we were both so drunk that we couldn’t even register what was happening. My dad said something like ‘Do you boys know what time it is?’ and I kept my mouth shut but Jake, he just started laughing. And then he said—God, it’s so stupid—” He rolls his eyes. “—He said, ‘Nope. Time flies when you’re having fun.’ And we all burst out laughing, even Dad. So, it became this dumb joke between Jake and I—like, whenever we hung out we never looked at the time because we always deemed that we were having fun or whatever, and the other day, after my first check up for my shoulder, I went to UNC to see him—that’s why I didn’t come over. I would’ve, Riley. I wasn’t avoiding you because of what happened with us. Even though you asked me to leave that day, it didn’t change anything for me. I still wanted to see you.” He shakes his head, as if trying to refocus. “Anyway, Jake—he called me out. He asked who the girl was that my mind was obviously preoccupied with and I told him about you, and when I asked how he knew, he said I kept looking at the clock.” He inhales another breath, taking mine with it. “So I guess what I’m trying to say is that even though I feel stuck there, in the middle of a warzone, trapped in the mayhem of my mind, and feeling like time isn’t moving at all—you had me wanting more. You had me wanting you. You had me checking the time, Riley.”

  I wipe the tears off my cheek, but they do nothing to stop the million emotions flowing through me. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe I’d been looking at it all wrong. It’s not the chaos we created in the four walls of my room that had me fearful. It’s the comfort he provided. And I think, deep down, I want that comfort as much as he does. I’ve just never been willing to admit it.

  Until now.

  A slow smile pulls on
my lips as I tug on his shirt and bring him closer. “You need to quit talking so much, Dylan.”

  Once we’re in my room, he admits he hasn’t slept since I saw him two days ago. I offer him my bed, which he accepts without hesitation. I’m adjusting the blinds when he mumbles, his mouth pressed against the pillow as he laughs to himself, “I’m twenty-three and afraid of the dark which is stupid, because you close your eyes and it’s all the same darkness, right?”

  I don’t respond, just sit on the cushions and pull out a notebook.

  It’s not the same. The nightmares you fear when you’re awake are worse than the ones you can’t control in your sleep. That’s why I write it all down. Why I try so hard to remember. Because lately the nightmares are clearer than the memories and I don’t want to forget. I won’t ever forget you, Jeremy.

  Twelve

  Riley

  Dylan knocks on my door for the second time the next day, looking the same as he did a few hours ago. Same clothes. Same squared shoulders, same hand in his pocket… but now the other’s holding a few plastic bags. He must see the confusion on my face when I look up at him because he says, “What? You didn’t expect me to come back?”

  “After I told you I felt like shit because I’m on my period and that I was really grumpy and I’d probably end up throwing something at you? No. I didn’t think you’d come back.”

  He holds up the bags in his hands. “Well, first, I wasn’t sure if it was the booze talking.”

  “I haven’t had that much to drink.”

  “Second. I wasn’t just going to leave knowing you were cranky…” He waits for my response. I don’t give him one. “I just got you some stuff that I’ve heard helps with the…” he points to my vagina. “The lady business.”

  “Are you seriously pointing at my vagina right now?”

  He looks at where he’s pointing.

  “And now you’re looking at it?”