“Special delivery,” Dixon says as he walks into the common room and tosses a pile of calendars on the table we’re all sitting around.
“For fuck’s sake. Do you have to ruin my appetite?” Bowie laughs. “I see these assholes shirtless all the time, and believe me, it’s enough to make me gag if I have to eat and look at their hairy chests at the same time.”
“Says the king of bear rugs on his back,” Dixon fires back as everyone but me laughs.
I can’t laugh. I’m too busy staring at the calendar. My palms coat with sweat and my pulse rages in my ears. For a man who used to stare at himself in the mirror every day to see which muscles were popping better, the fear of seeing what I look like through the eyes of someone else is terrifying.
Grabbing a calendar off the table, I head to the bay, needing a moment to come to grips with what I’m going to see and, at the same time, feeling like the biggest pussy on the face of the earth. I turn the calendar over in my hands, looking at the cover picture and thinking of the raunchy joke the probie Johnson said to make us all laugh.
With a deep breath, I flip it open. And there’s Brody. Brave, funny-as-shit, and incredible. My heart sinks. That little boy is fucking everything to me, and I know Drew would be so damn proud of the little man he is becoming. I bite back the guilt—the voice that convinces me his loss is on my shoulders—and listen to Dylan’s voice from our hike. I focus on her words; I have to live to the fullest or I’m letting Drew down. It’s the same shit everyone else has said to me, and yet, her voice has replayed over and over in my head since then.
I smile at Brody’s picture. He’s the reason I agreed to do this calendar. No matter what I find when I come to August, I’ll accept it. I’ll deal with it. I’ll move forward because it was done for him.
The guys look hilarious as I go through the months. Puffed-out chests and unsuccessful attempts at smoldering expressions. Things I laugh at only because I know the fuckers in real life, yet I know women will buy the calendar and appreciate them.
And then I get to August.
I close my eyes and flip up the page.
Then I open them.
It’s my scars I see first. The black-and-white film mutes their harshness, and as much as I try to stare at them, find the disgust I feel daily, it’s the expression on my face that draws my attention. My eyes. My smile.
This isn’t the photo Marcy took for the calendar. This isn’t the expression I gave her.
This is how I looked at Dylan.
This was the face of relief. The photo session was over, Marcy hadn’t asked a thing about my scars, and most importantly, Dylan had been there patiently waiting in silent support. I hadn’t been alone.
A part of me feels betrayed. Like Marcy took this photo—this side of me that I don’t show anyone—and put it on display. The other part of me is a little shocked. Shocked that when I look at the picture, I don’t feel revolted by the scarring on my back. In fact, they are the last things my eyes focus on when they should be the first. There is also this final part of me that is freaked out by what I see in my expression. Or rather, how I’m looking at Dylan. I know that look.
I’ve seen that look before. It’s how Grant looks at Emerson. How my dad looks at my mom. And how Drew looked at Shelby.
I don’t know how to feel. Everything inside me is a mess of contradictions because when this calendar goes out, everyone who buys it will see the one part of me I’ve kept hidden since the accident. Yet at the same time, they’ll see the other side of me I’ve tried to keep hidden from even myself—my feelings for Dylan.
Well . . . fuck
“Dude, you are so fucking screwed.”
I look up to see the guys all standing there with the calendar in their hands and huge grins on their faces. “What are you talking about?”
“You know we’re doing an event to sell these, right?” Bowie says.
“An event where we all sit down and sign our month,” Mack interjects.
“Yeah. So?” I’m not getting it.
“Your line is going to be so goddamn long with women with hearts in their eyes and cleavage on display. It’s going to be sickening,” Veego says while the rest of the guys make kissing noises. “Pretty-boy Malone kicking ass and taking names, er, phone numbers, without even having to try.”
“Whatever.” I laugh, the tension slowly easing from my shoulders.
“You’re the only fucker who doesn’t have a body shot in this whole calendar, and yet you’re the one who looks the hottest,” Dixon says with a roll of his eyes.
“You checking me out now, Dix?” I ask and climb down from my spot on the rig where I went for privacy.
“No, but lucky for you, that roommate of yours will be heading out soon, because I have a feeling this calendar is going to be getting you some serious revolving-between-the-sheets action.”
“You’re a sick fuck,” I say as Bowie catches my eye and nods to me.
And I can’t help but wonder what for.
Because I did the calendar and I didn’t fuck it up, or because he knows that Dylan leaving might be a little harder on me than I’m letting on.
My money is on both.
I look at the calendar in my hands again as my feet falter and the guys move on, still razzing the shit out of me as if I was beside them.
And for the first time since I woke up from the accident, I look at a picture of me and realize the scars may not matter as much as I thought.
I stand at the back door and watch her. She’s working through lyrics, that much I know from how she constantly repeats the same set of lines over and over. The only difference in how she normally works is this time she’s doing it giving Petunia a bath. Both are covered in suds as Dylan works her hands up and down Petunia’s back. Her laughter floats into the window and catches my attention just as much as the way she swings her hips.
I watch the two of them and wonder when it happened. When did Dylan seamlessly work her way into my everyday life so that something like this—her washing my pig—feels so goddamn natural that I don’t question it?
“I can say I don’t care.
That I’ll walk away without fanfare.
But you know it’s a lie.
This is so much more than goodbye.”
My chest tightens when I hear the lyrics. I need to see her. But the minute I put my hand on the doorknob, I hesitate. There is so much I want to say, need to say, but know I can’t.
Should I show her the calendar? Let her see for herself the words I can’t bring myself to say? The emotions I feel but struggle to permit myself to have.
We both have our own lives to move on with when our playing house comes to an end. We both have promises we made to ourselves we need to keep.
I have promises I need to keep.
Then why is it so hard for me to let go of the doorknob and leave her be without saying a word?
If we’re simply enjoying each other and our time left, why does this feel so complicated?
Because it is.