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“To be a mess?”
“Letting yourself be a mess. A point when you’re ready to feel things. Really feel them deep down in the sucked-up marrow of your soul. You took such a big step today.”
“You go up to New England for a month and come back quoting Thoreau?”
“Christ, no. Dead Poets Society was on TBS last night, and I stayed up and watched it with Stella’s dad.”
“I hate that fucking movie. That ending? What the actual—”
“Gaaaaaahhhh.” Her annoyance must have grown beyond words, devolving into half growl, half shriek. She smacked him again. “Derek Chang. Stop changing the subject. What do you feel when you look at Dylan?”
The entire world slowed.
He leaned forward and gripped the dashboard. The unfurling feeling in his stomach was halfway between nausea and that lifting sensation when you drive over a hill too fast and it feels like flying, but it also feels… it also feels like falling.
What did he feel when he looked at Dylan Gallagher?
Chapter 50
Dylan was alone, but he was home. In his house, at least. Felicity had started her semester, so she wasn’t coming by anymore with absurd excuses or camping out in his guest room. Before, she would just come and sit while he read or come help him fix something that his renter’s kids had broken. They’d watched the three DVDs he’d accidentally stolen from Derek countless times without Felicity complaining.
Last night there had been another system outage, and it felt amazing to lose himself in the predictable complexities of a work crisis. He’d taken his medication. He’d taken his breaks and eaten. He’d done all the right things. He’d been setting firmer boundaries lately.
The sound of a car in his driveway dragged him upright from where he’d been dozing in an Adirondack chair on the porch. He fixed his glasses and walked around the house. He stopped dead at the sight of Derek’s ancient Dodge Dart, and Derek himself leaning against it with his hands in his pockets, wearing a gray striped Henley and black twill pants. His hair was longer than usual, and his chin was stubbly rather than perfectly clean shaven.
“You said there was an open invitation,” Derek said, looking up through lowered lashes. He held up the key. “For always…”
Dylan stared, feeling miles away from the self he was when he had scribbled those words on the card. He’d been right to hate the idea of missing Derek. For the last few weeks, missing Derek felt like being ripped in half. His brain was still struggling to know how to say any of the things he wanted to say or ask any of the questions he needed to ask.
He opened his mouth, and something unexpected came out. “Can I give you a tour?”
Derek smiled. “I’d love that.”
Derek followed him inside. Dylan pointed out the old stained glass he’d refurbished. The cozy front room with the fireplace. The small but well-apportioned kitchen with its vintage-styled appliances and large island. He led him out on the back porch and down to the elevated, partially covered cobblestone patio that looked out onto a garden and the large field with a duck pond and small dock in front of the woods. He showed Derek the barn he was still in the process of restoring.
When Dylan’s voice was gravelly from speaking too long, he returned to the cobblestone patio at the back of the house and sat on the narrow cast-iron bench that looked out onto his small work-in-progress garden.
Derek sat beside him. “I’m not going to lie, I feel a little like Elizabeth Bennet visiting Pemberley and then conveniently figuring out she’s in love with the man right after she finds out how nice his estate is.”
Dylan whipped around. “What did you say?”
“Why are you acting so shocked I know about Pride and Prejudice? My best friend is an Anglophile bisexual. Pride and Prejudice is like OG bi panic fiction. Don’t even get her started on the 2005 version. In Olive’s words—do I want to be Keira Knightley’s Elizabeth Bennet or do I want to—”
“That wasn’t the part I meant.” Dylan grabbed Derek’s shoulders. His glasses were drifting down his nose, but he didn’t bother to fix them. “Say the last part of that sentence again, please.”
Derek gently pushed Dylan’s frames back up. “It doesn’t really apply though because I knew I loved you long before I came here to your fucking amazing house. How many blow jobs would you need before you agreed to dive into your pond in a billowing white shirt and then just walk out of it slowly?” Derek touched Dylan’s hair. “You have the right hair.”
“Jesus Christ, can you just be serious for a second?”
“Yes. I can be serious.” Humor shifted into intensity.
“W-what did you say?” Dylan’s chin trembled. The sound that came out of him was definitely not a sob. Nope. It was just a very sob-like manly emotion sound.
Derek’s eyes were glittering, reflecting that misty morning sunlight as if each dark iris was flecked with stars. “Today, when we were in the car at the graveyard, Olive asked me how I feel when I look at you.”
“You were at the graveyard? Christ, is everything okay—”
“Now you focus.” Derek pointed from his penetrating eyes to Dylan’s. “Dylan.”