Dylan:Still avoiding my question, huh? You do that a lot….
I pause, looking back outside at Jacob, then start typing a reply.
Me:I’m not avoiding anything. Just busy having soooo much fun at my party. But if you must know, I hate big crowds. And I hate fake small talk with people I’ve known forever who are more like strangers.
He responds quickly.
Dylan:I get that. I’d choose intimate conversations with people I care about over a big party too. But maybe, if you let people in more, they wouldn’t all feel like strangers.
I can’t help but smile at his persistence.
Me:Look at you, Mr. Hayes, getting all deep with me. A stranger?
Dylan:I’m not sure we’re strangers anymore. I mean, I have seen your oranges, we’re swapping dinner recipes, and I know about your classified parking ‘skills.’ I’d say we’re friends.
I bite my lip, debating my reply. How the hell did he manage to crawl so deep under my skin?
Me:You’re persistent. I’ll give you that, my persistent, annoying new friend.
I could use a friend. I love Izzy, but I can’t talk to her about certain things, especially about her brother.
Dylan:Aww, I’ve been upgraded to ‘annoying friend’? I’ll take it. That means you can tell me the real reason you hate surprise parties.
Me:Remember how my dad’s an asshole? He missed most of my birthdays—probably too busy drinking. Then, when I was thirteen, he finally showed up at my surprise party… only to walk out for good later that night. I haven’t seen him since.Good enough reason to hate them, don’t you think?
Dots come on the screen and then stop. For a moment, I think the conversation is over. Then—
Dylan:Next year, I’m sending you to a rage room where you can drink wine and smash things. I’ll even put a picture of your dad and that damn parking lot pole on stuff to smash for the full experience.
He adds a hammer and wine glass emoji. I laugh, a strange, warm rush filling me—something only he seems to bring.
Me:That's exactly what I needed today. Tell me something about your ‘asshole’ dad.
There’s no stopping myself. I’m too far in now, drawn by something I can’t even explain.
His response takes longer this time.
Dylan:What’s there to say? He made me who I am. Strong. Hard-working. And nothing like him.
That’s not much of an answer.
Me:Seems like you hold some things back too.
A beat passes.
Dylan:Not me. I’m mostly an open book with people I care about. Blame my sisters for that. But there’s one chapter I choose to keep closed. My dad he was... He is an alcoholic. Maybe you’re lucky yours wasn’t around. At least you didn’t have to watch him self-destruct.
Lucky? If that’s luck, I don’t want it.
Me:Doesn’t always feel so lucky. And most of my chapters are burned, broken, or buried… tucked away on a dusty shelf while I pretend to read someone else’s story.
Jacob’s still laughing outside with guests, easy and carefree. A sharp contrast to the hollow ache in my chest.
Another text buzzes.
Dylan:You’re not broken, even if it feels that way. You’re pretty fucking badass. Stop living someone else’s life—it’ll vanish in the blink of an eye. Tell me… what do you want? What do you dream about when everything’s quiet?
His words pierce straight into my heart, digging deeper with every breath. No one’s asked me that. I don’t even have an answer. But right now, I want to find one.
