Father Knows Best (7 page)

“But—”

“—because you don’t think my mom, who happens to be awesome, by the way, is worthy of your perfect dad.”

“No, that’s not—”

“—And that sucks, Lila. It really does. For someone who claims to care about me, you sure have a funny way of showing it.”

To say I was stunned did a disservice to the complete reeling, screeching brain mode his outburst had thrust me into. Chloe? Not good enough for my dad? That wasn’t even in the same ballpark as the issue.

I concentrated on breathing deeply until I could manage to speak without squeaking or crying or yaking. Still, my stomach trembled beneath my T-shirt, and the pulse pounded so hard in the side of my neck, the sound was actually distracting in my ears. “How long have you been feeling this way?” I managed after another tense silence.

“I don’t know. Awhile,” he said, through clenched teeth.

Awhile?! “Why didn’t you say something?”

He snorted again. “Because I hoped you’d get over it, that’s why. Besides, I knew you wouldn’t listen to me.”

Stunned again.

Had our relationship gone so sour, so quickly, that Dylan thought he couldn’t even communicate with me? Was I really such a total suckass girlfriend? My leg started quaking so badly, I had a hard time keeping my foot steady on the accelerator. “I h-have to…pull over.”

“Why?”

“Because! Because you just laid all this on me and I want to talk about it. I can’t keep my focus on driving when you’re so pissed off.”

He flicked a hand. “There’s a pull-out just up there.”

I spied it, engaged my right turn blinker, and steered carefully into the gravel area. When I’d turned off the car—thankfully—I released a long, slow breath, then rested my forehead in my fingers for a moment before leaning my head back against the headrest.

I crossed my arms.

He crossed his arms.

I freaked.

He fumed.

We both sat there in awkward silence for several minutes staring straight forward at the rock face.

I don’t know what was going through Dylan’s mind, but all I could think of was that nasty B-word, breakup. Meryl would probably tell me that it’s two words. Is it two words? It feels like one, and a bad one. BREAKUP. BREAKUP. BREAKUP.

BREAKUPBREAKUPBREAKUPBREAKUPBREAKUP.

The more the word echoed in my mind, the faster my breaths came. Shallow, like I’d just run from a rabid dog. Shallow, like Dylan thought I was. My eyes stung.

“Are we going to sit here all day?” he asked, sounding nothing at all like the boyfriend I knew and…loved. Not that I’d ever said the L-word to him. But I did. Love him, I mean. I was pretty sure anyway.

And that’s what did it.

I simply couldn’t let the B-word happen before I ever made it to the L-word, so I thought I’d better get on with the T-word: talking. No matter how frightened I felt, we needed to talk this misunderstanding out.

I unhooked my seat belt and turned in the seat to face him, tucking one ankle under the opposite knee. “Dylan, look at me.” He didn’t. I watched the muscle in his jaw bunch as he clenched his teeth. “Please,” I said, somehow managing to keep the pleading tone from coming through, miracle of miracles.

He turned my way, but every bit of his expression radiated fury. Even worse, disappointment.

My chin verged on a quiver, and we all knew what happened after that. Another thing that article in the teen magazine said was, don’t cry when you’re arguing with a guy, because he’ll think you’re being manipulative or just plain annoying.

I swallowed hard, deciding to take that one to heart.

It also said to apologize if you were in the wrong. I wasn’t sure if I was in the wrong or not, but I hated seeing my boyfriend’s face so dark and remote when he usually looked at me with such joy and amusement. We were, like, the fun couple. I wanted to get back to that place.

“I’m sorry, Dyl,” I said, surprisingly with minimal wimpiness. “Truly. This isn’t about me thinking your mom isn’t good enough for my dad. Not at all. Not ever.”

“Sure it isn’t.”

“Come on. I swear.”

Skeptical silence.

I expelled my frustration in a burst of air. “Look, if I’m lying, I’ll wear my beloved”—I said in a facetious tone—“double-knit Dacron polyester Junior Narc uniform pants to school every day for the first week of senior year. With tops that don’t match. And the Rocky boots.”

He eyed me for a few, seeming to roll the idea around in his brain. “How about with four-inch slut heels instead?”

Brief hesitation. I’d have to borrow them from his ex-girlfriend, but okay. “Deal,” I said. He was just testing me anyway.

His face softened a tiny bit, because he knew how much I despised that whole hideous cop wannabe get-up. And he also knew I wouldn’t be caught dead in The Big Ass Pants with four-inch slut heels. Can you imagine?

“What is it about, then? I don’t get it.”

I uttered a sound of frustration because I didn’t know how exactly to explain it. “It’s about…us,” I said.

“What does our relationship have to do with theirs?” His brows furrowed.

I spread my arms. “Everything?” Duh. “She’s your mom, Dyl. And—I mean, don’t you think it’s the least bit strange that they’re sleeping together?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Why would I? They’re adults. It’s what adults do when they’re in love with each other.”

My eyes widened. “Holy—you think they’re in love?”

He huffed. “They’re sleeping together, aren’t they?”

I had to reel this convo back in damn quick and regain some self-control. There’s sleeping together, and then there’s sleeping together. Two very different animals, people. This whole ordeal was getting more convoluted by the second. I shoved all ten fingers into the front of my hair and held them there. “I…I don’t know if they slept together. I mean, not definitively.”

“Huh?”

Now I sounded like an idiot. “I’m just saying I wasn’t in the room, thank God. She did spend the night, granted, but that doesn’t necessarily mean—”

“Hold up.” He lifted one palm as his expression morphed into incredulity. “You don’t even know if they’re having sex, and you’re still all self-righteous and disapproving?” He shook his head around, as if to clear it. “What’s up with that, Lila?”

“It’s not about them having sex!” I yelled, a little louder than I’d intended. “Not totally, at least.” Shudder. “The point is, you’re my boyfriend! He’s my dad! She’s your mom! Any of this ringing an alarm bell?”

“No! I’m not an imbecile. I get what you’re saying. I just don’t understand why it’s such an issue.”

“Not an issue?!” Now I was yelling, and I didn’t care because Dylan was bringing true life and meaning to the word obtuse, at least by my estimation. Why did guys always seem so “no big deal-ish” about stuff that really mattered, and yet they could stare into a car engine for three weeks straight without blinking? So frustrating. “If they do love each other, like you say, what happens to our relationship if they get married?”

He jolted. “That’s what you’re stressing about?”

I hiked my chin. “Well, yeah. What else?”

A silent moment stretched.

Dylan’s eyebrows raised.

And right after that is when he busted into laughter.

Yep. Big, honking laughter. At me.

It began as one of those startled bursts, but pretty soon it had digressed into full-on belly guffaws, complete with tears rolling from the corners of his eyes and a couple of inadvertent snorts. He even leaned his seat back until he was almost lying down, probably to relieve the gut-cramping from his uncontrollable howling during the biggest, most traumatic fight of my life. Freakin’ guys.

My face flared with heat.

Now I was really pissed off.

“Stop it!” I said, pushing at him. “Stop laughing!”

He didn’t.

“Dylan! God!” I wrenched open my door and stomped across the parking area to the rock wall that jutted straight up. I leaned against it, crossed my arms, and decided stupid relationship articles in teen magazines didn’t take into account boyfriends who launched into massive hyena-esque laughing fits at their girlfriends’ expense. So I started crying. Screw that dumb article.

After a minute, Dylan’s door opened and closed. He crossed over toward me, hands stuffed into the front pockets of his jeans. When he saw my tears, it didn’t seem like he thought I was being manipulative or annoying (freakin’ magazine. That subscription would be cancelled immediately). In fact, his expression morphed from rollicking humor to sympathy.

“Aw, Lila. I’m sorry I laughed. I just don’t share your worries about our parents dating, okay? People date.”

“Whatever,” I muttered.

“Come here.” He pulled me into his arms, and I went reluctantly at first. But then I smelled his woodsy scent and felt the warmth of his muscles, so I wrapped my arms around his body and buried my face in his chest. I was soaking the front of his T-shirt, but tough nuggets. It felt good to be hugging instead of yelling.

He just held me like that, resting his cheek on the top of my head, until I’d stopped crying and started hiccuping.

Uncontrollably, in case you wondered. Lovely, I know.

Worse, in my infinite how-to-be-hot wisdom (or the lack thereof), I decided to try and speak during the aforementioned hiccups. “I”—hic!—“don’t think your mom”—hic!—“isn’t good eno”—hic!—“enough for my dad, Dy”—hic! hic!—“Dylan. It’s just hard for”—hic!—“me, and I don’t want to”—hic!—

“To what?”

“To”—HIC!—“lose you.”

Holy craaaaaap, had I actually said that? I felt so emotionally naked right then, and I just wanted to hoof it into the hills, like a shaggy mountain goat, and hide.

Dylan, in his infinite guyishness, didn’t seem bothered by my lameoid, borderline codependent admission, though. Instead, he slipped his hands around to cup my face and tilt it up toward him, then he kissed me. Softly at first, but more intensely after that, until everything around us disappeared.

When we pulled apart, the hiccups were miraculously gone, and I have to say, the “hot kiss remedy” is much more enjoyable than hanging upside down while trying to drink water from the far side of a cup.

“Lila,” Dylan said.

I sniffed, smearing my nose on the back of my hand. (I know, I know, another real date-getter. I grew up with five guys, okay? Granted, my three oldest brothers are grown up and out of the house, with Luke soon to follow, but cut me some slack—habits are hard to break.) “What?”

“You’re not going to lose me,” Dylan said.

I peered up at him through wet eyelashes. “I’m…not?”

He shook his head. “That’s what you don’t get. This isn’t about me or you. You’re opposed to our parents possibly getting serious.” He rolled his shoulder. “I’m not. We’re just talking things out.”

“Oh.” But…but…how could he not be opposed?

One corner of his mouth curved up into a smile. “If you say your hissy fit isn’t about my mom, I believe you. Especially after that uniform pants and slut heels deal, which I will hold you to.” His eyes gleamed as he, no doubt, pictured it. “But I had to tell you how I was feeling. It’s what couples do.”

“I know. But we’re fine?”

“Yes. Although you should cut your dad some slack in the relationship department. Everyone deserves someone.”

“I get that.” I cast him another glance, not wanting to be needy, but I had to be totally sure. “We’re okay, though? I mean, really okay?”

He nodded. “You have some whacked-out worries, no doubt. But where else am I going to find a girl as adorably snarky and low maintenance as you?”

Relief washed through me, followed by the rocky detritus of shame. “I’m so sorry.”

“I am, too.”

I slid my palms up his chest. “I love your mom, Dyl. She’s really cool.”

“She is.” He tucked in his chin. “But?”

“I just—” I bit the corner of my lip.

“Tell me.”

“My mom died a long time ago, and it’s always been just us guys. Well, and me. I’ve never really known my dad with a girlfriend. It’s…weird.”