Diablo Chicken and a Confession

There’s so much more to Dylan than a great body and a handsome face. He really seems like an amazing guy.

I do a little research and find out it’s not just wishful thinking. He really is a great guy. There’s a ton of stuff on the Wolves’s website about his involvement with helping victims of domestic abuse.

Wow, that makes me like him even more.

All of the players are involved in some sort of charitable work, but Dylan seems to have committed more time and more money than any of the others. I wonder then if there’s more to his advocacy.

“I need to find out,” I declare.

All of this research is conducted in my kitchen, where I’m also trying to decide what to make for our big dinner, which is tonight.

Having Dylan over is about more than just getting to know him better, though that’s a goal too. I’m also up to step three in the X Your Ex program, and it is “Find a New Recipe and Share it with a Friend.”

I have the friend, and we’re all set to share, so now I need to find a recipe that’ll knock said friend’s socks off.

“Here goes nothing,” I murmur as I close out my Dylan research and google “best tasting recipes.”

Turns out, there are many. But one called diablo chicken catches my eye. The pictures look so good, what with all the peppers and such .But it’s obviously a spicy entrée, so I should make sure Dylan likes hot stuff before I move forward.

I grab my phone, scroll to his number, and hit Call. He picks up right away, which I take as a good sign. “Hey, Chloe, what’s up?”

Even better, my name is clearly in his contacts.

“It’s not a bad time, is it?” I ask.

“No, not at all, we just finished up with practice.”

“Oh, good. I won’t keep you, though. I just had a quick question about dinner tonight.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” he says. “I promise to be good and hungry.”

“Great.”

Uh-oh, the pressure to get this right is on.

“So how do you feel about spicy foods? Do you love them or hate them?”

“I love hot stuff,” he replies.

Hmm, I bet he does. Chloe, get your mind out of the gutter. Didn’t you tell him you just want to be friends?

Yes, I did, so I quickly get back to the main conversation.

“That’s good to hear,” I say. “The entrée I have in mind is called diablo chicken, so…” I shrug even though he can’t see me. “…make of that what you will.”

“Sounds like we’re in for one hell of a night,” he jokes.

He’s such a sweetie.

We wrap up, and I head out to buy what I need.

Later, just as Dylan’s game is underway, I start prepping the ingredients for diablo chicken. There are hot peppers to chop, red onions to dice, and chicken to pound.

“At least something’s getting pounded.” I giggle as I pick up a meat mallet.

As I whack away at the chicken, I think about how I’ve never been happier than I am right now that I let Graham buy me the massive TV. I mean, wow, Dylan and his teammates are ultra big and clear, even from where I’m working over at the counter.

Once the chicken is in the oven, I start on the margaritas. I pull out the blender, grab the mix I bought at the store, and locate a bottle of tequila I purchased right after I moved in.

The original plan was to crack the bottle open some lonely evening. It’s so much better that I have someone to share it with.

But second thoughts arise when I discover how strong it is.

“110 proof!” I exclaim as I read the label. “We’re going to be rocked.”

Hmm, but a loosened-up Dylan may not be a bad thing. He just may open up about why he’s so committed to all those domestic abuse causes.

“So, margaritas it is,” I declare.

A short while later, there’s another reason to have drinks—to celebrate, seeing as the Wolves just won the game.

Dylan arrives in a great mood. He looks pretty great too, all dressed in dark pants, shiny shoes, and a crisp white button-down.

I stand in the doorway, staring at him for a good, solid minute before letting him in.

He chuckles as he steps into the living room, but then he gives me a thorough once-over and says appreciatively, “You look beautiful tonight, Chloe. That dress is stunning on you.”

“Oh, this old thing…” I feign nonchalance. “I threw it on without even thinking.”

Totally not true. I knew a sexy black dress would garner his attention.

The oven timer then goes off, and I hurry to the kitchen.

Dylan, following me, remarks, “It smells great in here.”

“I hope you like everything.”

“I’m sure I will.”

When I’m struggling with the roaster, he grabs a pot holder and says, “Here, let me help you.”

Between the two of us, we get dinner on the table in no time. And then, in the small dining area off the kitchen, we eat spicy chicken while sipping on margaritas.

Wow, Dylan wasn’t lying. He freaking loves the diablo chicken.

Me, I like the chicken. But I love the margaritas even more. Or rather, I love the way they make me feel—uninhibited.

I ditch the “friends” bull and start flirting. Dylan responds positively, which should make me feel great. But it doesn’t. The alcohol makes me melancholy, and I start ruminating over things Sten used to say.

And just like that, my confidence crumbles.

I am not this carefree and flirtatious.

I am not someone who’s never been put down, never been hit.

Choked up, I stand suddenly and say, “I should clean up this mess.”

Sten always hated when I left dishes on the table. But poor Dylan, he just looks confused.

“Is something wrong?” he asks.

I sit back down and put my face in my hands, trying to pull myself together.

“Nothing’s wrong,” I say at last. “I just need a minute.”

Don’t cry, don’t cry. Don’t ruin this night.

I look up and God, Dylan looks really worried. “Chloe, seriously, what’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry,” I quietly state. “I just can’t be that girl.”

“I don’t know what that even means. But for the record, I like the girl you are just fine.”

“Oh, Dylan…”

Now I really want to cry. No, I think I’d rather scream. Or better yet, maybe Dylan can hold me. No, he should leave me alone.

I’m clearly a mess, and that is exactly what I wanted to avoid. It’s what I meant when I said I can’t be that girl.

“I’m damaged,” I murmur. “It’s true. It’s just the damn truth.”

“I don’t understand why you’re saying that,” Dylan replies, sounding miffed.

“It’s just, this is my fault.” I start shaking my head. “I’m ruining our night.”

“You’re not.”

“Riiight.”

Our eyes meet then, and there’s such gentleness in his gaze that I must look away. I don’t deserve this kind of kindness and understanding. Despite his words to the contrary, I am screwing up this night, because I’m screwed up, so screwed up.

But Dylan is safety, a little voice says. He can protect you.

From anything, though? Even the past?

I need to talk to him and share with him why I’m so upset. It’s funny how I was thinking earlier that plying him with alcohol would get him to open up. Yet here I am, buzzed and wanting nothing more than to share my life.

Or at least, my secrets. I feel like I have to be honest. Friendship, or whatever our future holds, Dylan deserves the truth before we move forward in any kind of way.

So I start with the black eye, which is healed completely, though maybe not so much when it comes to my soul.

“The heavy bag didn’t swing back and hit me,” I confess.

Dylan sighs. “I figured as much.”

“Someone punched me,” I whisper.

His cheek twitches. “Who hit you, Chloe?”

“My ex. It wasn’t the first time, either. But it was the last.”

“Fuck.”

He says nothing more, so I venture a glance up to see why.

Oh, no, Dylan looks like he’s ready to kill someone.

I better fix this fast.