IX. Reminisce
I, I, I, I, I, oh, I can remember when
We had it all
You and I
Yeah
Let's make the time tonight
The feelin' is oh so right
Reminisce on the love we had
Make the time tonight
Let's make the time tonight
The feelin' is oh so right
Reminisce on the love we had
Make the time tonight
I know that we've been here before
The candle light and you walking softly through my door
Come on in my sweet, how have you been?
You're so nice but tonight, we're gonna be more than just friends
I recall the days and ways of love we made
I still feel the heat when we shared each other
Don't you feel the magic? The mystery's in the air
Let's go down to lover's lane with the love that we shared
Let's make the time tonight
While the feelings right
Reminisce on the love we had
Let's make the time tonight
While the feelings right
Reminisce on the love we had
I can see you standing there alone like an angel
Tryin' to find his way home
I don't remember, how we fell apart
Here we are again, come on, right into my heart
I recall the days in ways of love we made
I still feel the heat when we shared each other
Don't you feel the magic? The mystery's in the air
Let's go down to lover's lane with the love we shared
Let's make the time tonight
While the feeling's right
Reminisce on the love we had
Let's make the time tonight
While the feeling's right
Reminisce on the love we had
Reminisce is the property of Mary J. Blige.
AN: The memories/flashbacks are in italics. For the time being, the Brelly and Dylan/Brenda storylines will take place on different days, usually with Dylan/Brenda a day behind.
The hat's all wrong. Something about the way it sinks forward, or tilts haphazardly is causing Brenda distress. She'd be willing to bet that Bonnie didn't have these problems. Next, she'll probably do something dangerous like choke herself with the string of pearls.
"You look like the saddest gangster's wife in the entire world," sighs Donna, offering her a roll of cookie dough.
Brenda tosses her Bonnie hat into her hamper, and turns towards Donna.
"Please don't eat that," says Brenda. "It's probably crawling with E. coli."
"I've had the desire to do it ever since I saw Suzanne Somers do it," breathes Donna, taking another large bite.
"I can't even let you enjoy your cookie dough," says Brenda, slapping her forehead. "I am a horrible human being."
"Bren, aren't you being overdramatic?" says Donna. "Oh wait. Forgot who I was talking to."
Smirking, Brenda pats Donna's head and lets the smirk fade as she stares sadly out her window.
"Why didn't I follow Dylan?" sighs Brenda.
"Was he carrying the tommy gun, cause that would make me stay put," kids Donna.
No, no tommy gun, and no vicious comments. Just feelings of betrayal crossing his mug right before he sped out of the driveway. What if Dylan does something dangerous? It's far more likely. Brenda grabs at the center of her white blouse. Her heart is rollicking underneath. All Dylan asked of her was to stand up for them. Why did she shrink beneath her father's stare? Part of her will always be his little girl, feel that way, but that's not who she is in other ways. She'd have to be more independent in England, for instance. Nobody could come to her rescue if she screwed up on stage. Nobody could defend her if they didn't like what she did, except herself. Dylan, on the other hand, might not have anyone this summer, and she doesn't like where that may lead.
"Don, you...you don't...you don't think he'd...drink, do you?" stammers Brenda, clutching the costume pearls around her neck.
"I mean, he was pretty mad," says Donna. "But...he's been sober for awhile."
"Right," says Brenda softly.
Donna squeezes the cookie dough, making a large orb of it quiver in her grip.
"Or," breathes Donna.
"Don!" cries Brenda.
"You're making me worry!" says Donna. "At first, I wasn't and then when you...ugh, I'm seriously not focused."
"I gotta...I gotta go to him," decides Brenda.
"Your dad's downstairs," says Donna. "What are you going to do?"
"What are we going to do," corrects Brenda.
"Oh no!" says Donna, standing. "I can't deceive Jim and Cindy Walsh. It's like lying to Mike and Carol Brady, without the atrocious bellbottoms."
"I've been helping you," points out Brenda.
"Mmm, I'm already squeamish," moans Donna. "And it's not the cookie dough...it's sheer Catholic guilt."
"What bothers your conscience more?" says Brenda. "Dylan getting drunk after a long stretch of sobriety or my dad's face getting red for a few minutes?"
Donna stamps her foot, setting her cookie dough on three sheets of tissue she hasn't used. Brenda smiles triumphantly. Groaning, Donna joins Brenda at her vanity mirror.
"I wouldn't do this for Kelly and Dylan," says Donna. "You are so lucky I'm rooting for you guys."
Hugging her friend from the side, Brenda gets to sorting things out. She saw her mother go to her bedroom, and her dad's in the living room. He's most likely rewatching Brandon's Clinton encounter for the millionth time. He would be kind of distracted, more distracted if there was food. Dinner is unfortunately over. Most of their dessert food was consumed by Donna.
"Okay," says Brenda with a resolute sigh. "You're going to be me."
"What?" cries Donna.
"Get in the bed," says Brenda, ripping the covers away from her bed.
"But we have different body types," says Donna. "My butt's not that curvaceous."
"My dad's not going to look at your butt," says Brenda. "Ewwww."
"How are you going to explain where I am?" asks Donna.
"I'll play you," replies Brenda.
Donna hops into the bed, stares at the wall momentarily, and pulls the blankets over her head. Brenda spies a couple tendrils of blonde hair and tucks them under the spread.
"Love you for this," says Brenda.
"Love you, Bren," says a muffled reply.
While the hat may be wrong for this deception, a former blonde wig of hers will do just fine. Brenda retrieves the wig, Donna's denim jacket, and a pair of sunglasses. She dresses quickly and tip-toes down the stairs. From the corner of the eye, she sees Jim chuckling as Brandon's knuckles flash across the screen. What riveting nighttime viewing. She may get to leave without speaking. That's the plus. Brenda starts across the floor.
"Hello?" calls Jim. "Donna?"
Drat. She's inches from the door. Beads of sweat skid along Brenda's back.
"Mmmm hmmm," says Brenda, an octave higher than her usual voice.
"Wow, you've done something different with your hair," says Jim.
Great. The wig's no help either. She might as well revolve around and face the music.
"I like it," adds Jim.
Brenda's jaw drops.
"I know you're a bit depressed, and don't want to see anybody, but you will feel better," says Jim. "Sometimes nice guys like David do bad things. But at least he's not getting in real trouble like a couple other guys we both..."
He doesn't finish and doesn't have to, Brenda's cheeks growing warm. He's so against Dylan that he'll defend any other male in the process. He'll probably start reminscing about Stuart any second now.
"Take care of yourself," says Jim. "You're always welcome here."
"Mmmm hmmm," repeats Brenda, grabbing Donna's keys from her purse.
She slides out of the house without a second to lose. Thank goodness he bought it. She'll try Dylan's house first and if that doesn't pan out, the Peach Pit. And, despite every fiber in her being hoping it will be a wasted trip, the bar on Wilshire. Finnigan's has some flaw-filled memories. Those were days Dylan most likely wouldn't like to revisit. She wouldn't either.
II.
Washington National is a lot colder than LAX, with more grey hallways, more people in proper uniforms, more black and tightly bound pieces of luggage than Kelly can count. You have to look harder for the warmth in this scene. Stewardesses roll their carry-ons to seperate doors, occasionally grinning at her downturned face. The gold wings on the chests of pilots glint under the midday sun that blazes through the large windows. Holiday balloons and baby flags foretell future Memorial Day celebrations, the patriotic day right around the corner.
Around the corner, from where Kelly is seated near a row of payphones, Brandon is making the last arrangements for their flight back to California. So their last memory in this metropolitan city would be full of mockery and malice. She couldn't believe Clare could be that cruel and it's sure to be the last impression Brandon had of her during their whole plane ride home. Every other moment was near perfect, the Clare-free moments anyway. They were learning about each other, falling in love with parts of each other. Then Clare had to come along and ruin it, which was her intention all along.
The final bit of sabotage hurt the most, however, and Brandon probably knew it. She used to be really good at pretending not to care. When jocks would make cracks in the classroom or a fellow Beach Club member snickered when she walked by, Kelly put up her shield of practiced indifference. So what if a senior said he bagged her? He wasn't the first. So what if "trampy Taylor" and "bed-hopping bimbo" became the newest buzzwords at West Bev? They'd talk about someone else tomorrow...hopefully. She had Donna, the sweetest girl she's ever met, and she had a piece of pride in herself that never disappeared. Kelly clung to both during those difficult situations. But she's past high school now so why is she suffering? Why won't it all go away? She's sick of trying to show she's changed. When are they going to change?
Kelly removes the caricature of Brandon that was done a couple days ago. Lenny got every line of Brandon's face right. He hasn't changed, hasn't had to alter himself to meet anybody's approval. In fact, he's so similar to the day she met him that it's easy for her to reenvision their first introduction in the West Bev quad. He stood alongside Brenda. Brandon was clearly eager to explore the campus despite mentioning the beach to Brenda before Kelly or Donna spoke. It was only when they bumped into one another again that Kelly was able to get a better read on him.
She could've picked out that deep blue T-shirt and those light blue jeans anywhere, and the guy that wore them. They had to be from some pass-it-by department store. Had to be. But discount clothes can be appealing on the right body. She didn't look too long, though. Dating her new friend's twin brother? That would've been a soap opera storyline too complicated for words, or too delicious for words. Still, way too early. Plus he was preoccupied, scanning his schedule.
Kelly's locker clattered open. She moved some party fliers to the left. She got a lot of those, usually about seven a week, for house parties, club openings, and any other event a guy thought she was cute enough to attend. Donna thought up the idea of scrapbooking the events they actually attended. The scary thing about it was that she was serious about it. She was so sentimental sometimes, not that Kelly hated any of her quirks. Brenda proved to be more quirky and maybe that's why Kelly was drawn to her. Here was a Midwestern girl, undeniably pretty but who stuck to her values. The Walshes were just plain interesting as a whole. No luxury vehicles, no custody arrangements, not even a pool. Strange, so strange, but comforting. Those types of families do exist.
"Yo yo yo, check me out, if you want D-Silv as your deejay, lemme hear ya shout!" says an enthusiastic voice over the campus airwaves.
"Hey!" barks another voice. "Get away from my mic!"
The sound of scuffling and a door opening followed the command, and then the PA went silent. Kelly shook her head. David Silver could be such a loser. Walking down the hall, Donna stared at a loudspeaker innocently.
"Who is that?" said Donna absent-mindedly. "He is so dope!"
Sigh. She just called Brandon "dope" thirty minutes earlier, but Brandon deserved it.
"What other pestering gnat would call himself D-Silv?" asked Kelly.
"I don't know, but I totally should've shouted," said Donna, stroking her chin and continuing on her way.
Kelly was tempted to bang her head against the locker next to hers, but retrieved her English textbook for summer reading instead. Without raising her eyes, she unceremoniously bumped into the boy with no ridiculous nickname and who was on her mind earlier. Brandon stooped to get her book. His piercing blue eyes matched the shade of his shirt, with his brown hair ruffling into its original position.
"Hemingway was trying to get away, I guess," said Brandon, noticing the book cover.
"He's a slippery son of a gun," said Kelly and then instantly regretting it.
Really? Who says son-of-a-gun unless they're wearing spurs or roping steer? She thought it would be better to recover with a smidge of confidence.
"I was hoping to bump into you," continued Kelly. "I didn't want your first impression of me to be of someone laying on their back all day...I mean, for tanning."
That was smoother. Doesn't half of the student body joke about her being on her back...not tanning. Brandon may've thought she was a whore. Kelly cradled Hemingway to her chest, cheeks changing to crimson.
"Well, when my dad told us we were moving, the first image that did pop into my mind was a bunch of beautiful, beach-ready blondes," said Brandon.
Kelly twisted her lips. Way to break the ice and stereotype yourself, Kel, she thought. He must not think much of her now.
"And then I thanked him for that mental snapshot," added Brandon.
She laughed, loosening her grip on the book a little. "We do like to sun ourselves and shop lots, I'm afraid."
"So in your expert shopper opinion, is this a good first day of school outfit?" said Brandon, stretching out his arms so she could make a proper assessment.
"Yeah, you should always wear blue," replied Kelly, looking into his eyes. "And you look comfortable. That's key."
"And Bren said I was hopeless," waved off Brandon.
"Nope," said Kelly.
Brandon seemed pleased that he passed her test, and she was happy to tell him the truth. Steve and a couple other guys she dated were sticklers for wearing the right designer or besting their friends but this guy didn't seem to care and may've been only asking to make her feel less awkward.
"I can't believe I'm not wearing a jacket in September," commented Brandon. "It's surreal."
"Just wait until you're wearing shorts in March," said Kelly.
"Did that in Minnesota, but it was a dare," recalled Brandon. "Why can't we all just be pale and live in peace?"
"You'll change your tune soon," guessed Kelly. "Get the hang of it."
"We might have to do this evaluation everyday until I do," joked Brandon with a grin.
"Whenever I'm alone at my locker," offered Kelly.
"I'll let you be alone with Ernie, but could you point me to the Blaze newsroom?" said Brandon.
Ernie? He thought she had a boyfriend? Oh, right, the author of her book. She was more quick on gesturing to the Blaze newsroom, nodding to her left.
"Catch you later, Kelly Taylor," said Brandon, smiling and turning around.
"Bye Brenda's brother!" called Kelly after him.
Brandon paused and did a backwards wave. "Don't forget your sunblock!"
Kelly beamed, taking off in the opposite direction.
Now, the fact that they're opposites is working against them. What if Clare's just the tip of the iceberg? What if the Walshes were okay with her being Brandon and Brenda's friend, but not Brandon's girlfriend? What if some jerk utters the word that was written on the mirror to Brandon and he gets tired of hearing about her past dalliances? She's made mistakes, sure, but they were exaggerated or misinterpreted or simply half-truths. The truth is is that she's more that girl at the locker than the girl others have imagined her to be.
Kelly leans forward, her arms over her legs, staring at the floor. The announcements of arrivals and departures go in and out of her ears. The gentle air conditioning from the terminal's vent strokes her ankles. She's still in the dress she wore to the reception. Frankly, she didn't have the heart to switch clothes and she packed with very little energy. Brandon must've noticed. Anybody could. They were silent in the taxi, the first time they'd stayed quiet all afternoon. Brandon sat with Kelly for a few minutes, then went to go get the tickets.
The tickets appear under her nose without any hint of noise. Brandon's shoes are perpendicular to her forehead. Kelly sits up reluctantly.
"There's an in-flight movie," says Brandon. "It may or may not star a Muppet...there's a lot of kids on board."
Despite the attempt, Brandon's humorous comment falls flat. She can't laugh, can't brush her sadness aside.
"Kelly," says Brandon, sitting and smoothing back her hair. "It's a worthless word from a pack of jealous idiots."
"Brandon, that word represents every other word I've heard growing up," sobs Kelly, her throat tightening. "And on our last day...that's not how I ever wanted you to see me."
"I don't," insists Brandon, leading her face to stare at his.
She'd love to believe him, as she searches for doubt in those same bright eyes that matched his first-day shirt. But it's difficult. How could a guy shrug that off, especially such a good guy like Brandon?
"Clare and her cronies can't erase what happened this week, what is going to happen with us," says Brandon. "You know that, don't you?"
"I want to," cries Kelly.
"I cherish everything we've done on this trip," says Brandon. "And I don't usually use the word 'cherish' so that's gotta mean something."
Kelly releases a pained chuckle, wipes her eyes with the hankerchief Brandon hands her.
"Remember when I totalled Mondale?" mentions Brandon. "What an emotional wreck I was, and how much harder I had to work to get any trust back?"
"I remember," says Kelly.
"I didn't like myself then, and I had a reason to," says Brandon. "You don't have a reason to not like yourself. Especially not today. Why beat yourself up over nothing?"
"Rumors are spread for a reason," says Kelly tentatively. "Brandon, I did sleep...with some guys. I didn't feel good about it..."
"The past is the past," counters Brandon. "Let the rumors die."
"But they're part of me," chokes out Kelly.
"They're not, Kelly," says Brandon. "They're not. Because I never think of them when I'm with you. Not before and certainly not now."
Removing the hankerchief to catch her breath, Kelly blinks maddeningly until her gaze is clear. She can detect that he's clear about what he says. Maybe the reason that the effect of the rumors has lasted so long is because she's letting them live.
"I still wish the day had gone differently," confesses Kelly, sniffling.
She lays her head on his shoulder, their hastily written baggage tags illegible in her sight. Brandon rubs her shoulder methodically.
"That?" says Brandon. "I agree with."
III.
He continually grits his teeth, his nerves on edge. There's the wire-rim glasses, sandy brown whiskers, the slightly crooked chin. Dylan hopes somebody punched him square in the chin to make it look like that. When he pictures this weasel from this day forward, he'll have harder features with a voice that sounds gravelly and a darkness in his eyes that changes to warmth on a whim.
"I can't believe I let this monster into my home," groans Dylan, gaze focused on the photographic record of the man on the computer screen. "I can't believe I let him dupe me and take my sister."
"We've caught scum like Kevin Weaver before," says Jonesy. "Don't you worry."
Jonesy hands Dylan a cup of coffee. Dylan looks into the liquid without the urge to down the contents. He'd enjoy something stronger, much stronger. He misses the days when he carried around a flask. Easy to down, easy to hide. Dylan sets the coffee on the desk.
"And Suzanne?" mutters Dylan. "She's a really good sell. A really good sell."
"Maybe she got caught up in it and couldn't see straight," offers Jonesy.
"She's too whip-smart for that," says Dylan. "She knew exactly what to say to get me to go along with this."
"My boys haven't caught any big cash transfers...yet," says Jonesy.
"My money...it's gone," brushes off Dylan. "I had plans for it."
"It's not necessarily gone," reassures Jonesy. "Have a little faith."
"Man, I just want my sister back first," says Dylan.
"And that's what we're focusing on," says Jonesy. "Go home. Come back tomorrow."
Dylan checks his watch. He's been at the station for six and a half hours, with officers buzzing around him doing their jobs. Dylan doesn't even have a job. He still owns part of the Pit, and that would help with necessities, but going with Brenda to London may be out of the question. Who's he kidding? After walking out on her today, the trip was definitely out of the question before he got Erica's phone call. Brenda let him walk out. She didn't follow him because of his hard-headedness. It's the same quality that landed him at the police station. Jim did try and warn him about Kevin but his stubborn pride got in the way again. Maybe the Walshes were on to something. He ruins everything he touches...him and no one else.
"I'll go home," sighs Dylan.
"Are you okay to drive?" questions Jonesy.
It's a very cop-type question, but it's also the first sign that Hawaiian shirt dude/Jonesy cared about Dylan's well-being more than solving the case.
"I'm good," replies Dylan.
He passes a police officer and a handcuffed perp coming into the entrance. How he wishes that perp was Kevin. The accused sneers at Dylan until the officer jolts him towards Jonesy.
Jumping into his car, Dylan runs both of his hands through his hair. What's the point in going home to an empty house? To be reminded of what he's lost, to be in the place where he last saw Erica? He wishes he could scrub away those scenes and start fresh. He bangs the dashboard, a couple items falling from his glove compartment. One is an old, torn West Bev bumper sticker an annoying member of the Pep Club stuck on his car. The other is a bookmark of Erica's with a kitten playing with a ball of yarn. He crumples the bumper sticker and holds up the bookmark. Would he ever get the chance to give it back to her? Would she forget him if they failed to find her?
Mexico. That's where she said they were headed. There's no doubt in his mind that she's right. Unlike that creep Kevin, who would list every city on the California coast, Dylan trusted Erica's gut. But Mexico's so large. It's a shame since he has some great memories of Mexico. Being there with Brenda is at the top of his list of personal highlights. Of course, Jim retrieving Brenda was the low point. Everything before, though, was amazing. Both Baja and Bren were beautiful. Now Mexico will always be tainted for him, thanks to Kevin's dirty dealings.
Dylan lets the bookmark fall to the seat. The sun is setting in front of him, the outside ready to envelop him in the night. He might as well grab onto the thing that got him through the other dark times. Who's there to tell him different? He's burned too many bridges. Dylan cranks the car into drive, speeding out of the station lot, onto a familiar track. He is more than willing to stare down at the empty bottom of a glass. At least there the only disappointed person he'll view will be himself.
Finnigan's hasn't lost its appeal. He's driven by the bar on several nights, sometimes with AA chips housed in his pocket. He repeated the usual remarks his group ran through, points that emphasized redemption and willpower. Dylan can scarcely remember a word of them as he parks outside his former haunt. They barely carded here...bad for business. Just the ticket for a guy whose business went bad. Up in smoke. Isn't that how old Jack died? Dylan grimaces, images of the explosion rattling his brain. Destruction enjoys waiting for him, doesn't it?
He enters the evening rush, Happy Hour having already commenced. There's a few clearly underage college kids, a handful of auto workers, a couple waitresses he may've flirted with, and that gold ol' bartender Tyce. Tyce recognizes Dylan, his eyes almost leaving his skull.
"Where you been hiding?" asks Tyce, shaking his hand.
"Nowhere," says Dylan.
It was the truth. He was doing more hiding when he was drinking.
"You were never much of a chatterbox," laughs Tyce. "What can I do you for?"
"Coke...for now," answers Dylan.
"Nothing like a slow start," says Tyce. "A buck fifty."
Dylan coughs up the money, catches the glass when it flies to him. He closes his eyes, the cold Coke in the glass numbing his fingers. The last trip here came directly after Jack's funeral. He almost didn't want to give his father or his father's enemies the satisfaction of getting plastered, to show that he was unravelling that quickly. Dylan and Kelly were in the Walsh kitchen. Kelly thought it would be useful to go through the floral arrangements, make a list for people who deserved thank-you cards. Dylan didn't feel much like thanking people. He snapped at her, a common act he wishes he had more control over. So he went to search for control at the end of a liquor bottle. He went to Finnigan's, thought about drinking until his eyes stung from all the frustration. Dylan considered phoning his sponsor but ultimately he rung Brandon, who wasn't even home. Cindy received the message and promised to give it to Brandon, but that's not who came.
He lined up a bunch of pretzels like they were soldiers. Their salted bodies kept his hands and mind busy. They kept his eyes away from the glittering gin bottles, the dripping wine with gold labels, the scotch he knew by name. He figured that his mantra about "only drinking at family reunions" would die with Jack. Less stress, right? Wrong. Despite the drama, the pain, and the shady relationships in this whole messed up scenario, Dylan did love his dad in some twisted way. So to see those fruit baskets, flowers, and cards coming in, from people who knew Jack better than he did, was crushing. There would be no more family reunions where he could reach for a better relationship. It was done.
"You're all over the news," said Tyce, mopping the counter with a clean rag.
"I'm the McKay of the day," said Dylan sarcastically.
Tyce shrugged, left Dylan with a shot glass of soda. He ordered it but was trying to decide what to order with it. Rum or scotch or anything that has a kick and will kick the heartache right out of him.
"What will get me wasted the fastest?" asked Dylan when Tyce crossed him.
"Our menu hasn't changed," said Tyce. "I can make what you had a couple years ago."
"My father was alive a couple years ago," muttered Dylan. "Gimme a minute to think."
Not having to be told twice, Tyce went to a pair or ladies celebrating their single status. Like there was any real cause to celebrate. Dylan shook his glass, then roughly slammed it down. He put his thumbs against his temples. He's earned this anger, this trip, so why was he stalling? Life gave him a bad hand, always did, always will. Nothing should've stopped him.
"Dylan," said an audible voice, pleading as a prayer, light as a gentle song.
He briefly glanced to his right, then shook himself out of his solemnity. Brenda folded her hands together and approached him. She wore the same dress she had on at the funeral, her cheeks flushed. What was she doing here? He couldn't stare at her for too long. He didn't relish the idea of her viewing him in his crumpled suit, with ruffled hair, with the desire for a drink in his eyes.
"Who told you?" said Dylan softly, gripping the edge of the counter.
"Mom," said Brenda. "I practically had to drag it out of her. But I wanted to come."
"I've been trying to decide what to add to this Coke for an hour," said Dylan.
Brenda climbed onto a stool next to his. He expected her to lift the glass, take a whiff, but she didn't. Honestly, any other girl might have done that other than Brenda. He felt foolish for thinking she would.
"Funerals are so...final," continued Dylan. "It's picking me apart, Bren."
"You don't need to let yourself go when you're letting him go," said Brenda, holding his hand. "We're here. Your friends, Kelly...me. I'm always here."
Touching her fingers slightly, Dylan was startled by a charge, like that of static electricity, yet that's not really what it was since the sensation lasted further than he could describe. Brenda slowly unravelled her fingers. He missed when she didn't have to do that, when he could take her in his arms whenever he got the urge.
"Why do I have to break...all the time?" whispered Dylan, choking on the words.
Dylan watched the tears on his nose coast to the counter, his breaths coming out in short spurts.
"It's just like when we met," said Dylan. "I still can't keep it together. I lost my dad, I lost you..."
"If I were lost, I wouldn't be next to you," said Brenda. "You've been with me through some of the toughest experiences of my life. You couldn't lose me if you tried."
She returned her hand to where she had let go, this time keeping it frozen on his coat sleeve when Dylan wrapped his hand around it.
"And don't put up walls around yourself, Dylan, when you have to go through yours," said Brenda. "Though I am a pretty good climber."
"Save your boots for your first Sundance film festival," reassured Dylan. "No walls to climb."
Brenda nodded, hopping off the stool.
"Deep down, I was hoping it would be you," admitted Dylan.
"Not Kelly?" said Brenda. "Or Brandon?"
"You would've been my first call, no question," said Dylan. "After asking myself if I deserved your time."
Without a hesitant motion, Brenda hugged him fully. Dylan let his nose sink into her shoulder.
"Well, you got your answer," said Brenda.
Dylan removes himself from his reverie, the loud clangs and gossip of the bar returning. Tyce flips a whiskey bottle with a sly grin. Rolling his eyes, Dylan revolves his stool to the door. He's made no calls so why did his instincts pivot him in that direction? He sips, the ice rattling to his teeth. Two minutes later, he's asking for another. Tyce waits, as if he's also expecting a repeat performance.
"Scotch," selects Dylan.
"I read your mind," says Tyce, fetching the bottle.
He pours in the scotch, slides the drink towards Dylan. Tyce whistles and turns his back. The strong scent of liquor invades his nostrils. It smells like...defeat. Dylan swallows a lump forming in his throat, ready to pour it down the hatch. He lifts it, lowers it, lifts it, lowers it, and then a final lift.
"Dylan!" calls a voice carrying over the other people in the room.
His hand holds the glass steady while the rest of his body swerves, like it hasn't forgotten the same action it performed years ago. Unlike that night, Brenda's eyes are deep and tear-filled, the remainder of her face troubled. Unlike that night, he can't slam the glass to the table quickly. Unlike that night, he can barely speak...or think.
"Bren," sighs Dylan faintly. "Help."
She reaches the counter in a flash, leading him to rise, crying with him as shouts of joy and weekend frivolity surround them. She's more solid than ever, just in time as ever.
"Almost, Bren," confesses Dylan tearfully. "I almost did."
"You didn't," says Brenda, stroking his back. "You didn't."
IV.
"Why is it that men never seem to fold their towels?" yells Brenda, smiling sheepishly.
Casually sorting the things she retrieved from the linen closet, Brenda notices a new set that must've come courtesy of Iris. The orange towels had blue waves and a hippie-ish pattern of pink and green psychic vibrations. They were the only incredibly clean ones that weren't waiting to be washed. There were more sentimental belongings in the dirty pile that elevated her mood - a green pair of towels Dylan used when they were in Palm Springs near the pool, when Dylan got jealous over the mysterious "Tom"; a yellow set with chili peppers Brenda made Dylan buy as a Baja souvenir; a tattered, tie-dye towel that had seen better days at a Beach Club cookout. Any of these would be nice to give Dylan post-shower after they were washed, but they were also somewhat painful to sort through. The last thing Dylan needs is a frown. Brenda manages a grin upon Dylan's reentry.
There's a lot to grin about. Dylan awkwardly strolls out in a towel that must've already been in the bathroom. It's purple and appreciatively short. Brenda directs her attention to Dylan's blinking answering machine.
"They're waiting for a pretty woman to do it for them, of course," jokes Dylan. "Let me have it."
He folds the towel, setting it beside Brenda's handiwork.
"Not to brag, but mine looks the best," asserts Dylan.
"It's totally crooked," points out Brenda. "You can't do corners."
"The corners give the towels some character," says Dylan. "Now I could take the one around me off and we can have a little lesson..."
Brenda gasps, whipping him with Iris' gift.
"Touchy, touchy," says Dylan, with mock hurt. "I'll be out in a sec."
After disappearing into the bathroom, Brenda lunges for the phone. Eleven o' clock sharp, reads her watch. She went to five different places before Finnigan's with fleeting confidence. What if she had gone to Finnigan's ten seconds later? Or worse, ten minutes later? She would've had to drag a drunk Dylan home, blaming herself the entire way for not being smart enough to go there first. Well, she is smart enough to check on Donna. The plan seemed pretty full-proof but it wouldn't hurt to check.
The phone rings twice, until someone picks up.
"Hello?" says Jim groggily. "Hello?"
Brenda immediately slams the phone in its cradle. He's awake. That might not mean anything. She convinces herself not to be concerned. He would yell at her if he thought it was her, right? Right.
The bathroom door creaks open. Dylan comes into the living room in a gray T-shirt and black shorts. You could more than see the muscles underneath the shirt, however. Brenda clears her throat. Dylan lights two candles and shuts off the room's lamps.
"What are you doing?" says Brenda.
"Cutting down on my electricity bill," replies Dylan. "With my money situation up in the air, this is a good alternative."
When Brenda drove Dylan home, he spilled part of what was bothering him. Brenda sort of knew that her father was weary about Kevin and now it sounds like he was right. She senses there's still a lot to the story, though, that Dylan hasn't told her yet.
"Feels like more of an alternative to outright flirtation," guesses Brenda.
"Why, Brenda Walsh," says Dylan. "You must have me pegged for some other cad."
"Like who?" says Brenda.
"Like you," replies Dylan.
"I have never heard of a woman being a cad," asserts Brenda.
"It's the nineties," says Dylan. "Women can be whatever they want to be."
Dylan plops the two candle holders on the coffee table, sitting on his sofa. Brenda sighs, crosses his arms.
"Surely you're not going to wander around in the dark?" says Dylan.
"Don't call me Shirley," says Brenda, lowering herself to the sofa.
"Oh, not even thirty minutes in, and we've got a movie reference!" kids Dylan.
Laughing, Brenda allows herself to inch closer to him. Dylan eventually guides her cheek to his chest. This is nice, way better than how they parted at her house.
"How did you escape Jim's surveillance?" asks Dylan.
"A decoy," sighs Brenda.
"Why didn't I come up with that?" says Dylan.
"Listen, Dylan," says Brenda, biting her lip. "I'm sorry I didn't go with you. Especially if it meant...going on that...field trip."
"It was stupid of me to go," sighs Dylan. "And it was a lot leading me to that field. There's a lot going on."
"Tell me," says Brenda.
"I will...just not tonight," says Dylan.
It was a rough night. They could use the breather. Brenda traces a fingernail over Dylan's chest. Dylan smirks in the dark.
"Yes, I'm still ripped, if that's what you're evaluating," claims Dylan.
"Shut up!" cries Brenda, pushing his head. "You're the one lighting candles. Ahem ahem."
"Well, ahem ahem, you weren't complaining," points out Dylan.
"It's my prerogative to be silent," says Brenda with a shrug.
"Oh, Brenda," sighs Dylan, kissing her through her hair. "You are so you."
"And you are so you," returns Brenda.
Which explains why this is comfortable, why she hasn't complained. They have more than a slew of towels to chronicle their relationship. They've sat this way before in the same position in the same place. It's like when and where they left off, before the hurt came barrelling in and knocked them down.
"The fact is I don't trust myself when I'm around you," whispers Brenda.
"That's a problem, Bren," says Dylan. "Because you're still the only person I can trust."
"A second chance scares me to be honest," says Brenda.
"I practically live on second chances," affirms Dylan. "But the only scary thing for me is if we don't have one."
Brenda wipes away the wetness invading her gaze, focusing on the flickering candles. He sounds so sincere. Why shouldn't she believe him when he's fighting ten times harder?
"Can you stay?" whispers Dylan.
"Actually...I can," answers Brenda breathily.
A bit taken aback, Dylan scoots to the table to readjust the candles. Brenda stands, trying to choose between going to the bathroom to freshen up or stick by the sofa. Based on Dylan's attentive gaze, the bathroom could wait. Dylan stands and plays with a prop, hidden under her blouse, that he must remember.
"Are these Bonnie's?" asks Dylan.
"I was dressing up for Donna," says Brenda defensively. "She wanted to see it one last time."
"Well, I like seeing it one last time," says Dylan. "And you dressed up for me first if I recall."
Brenda looks him up and down, notices the shortening length of the vanilla white candles.
"You were the first guy to undress me...if you recall," says Brenda as she comes nearer to him. "Little help?"
"I'm happy to be of service," says Dylan.
Tugly gently at her waist, he places his mouth against her mouth, Brenda feeling her breath stolen from her, and a heat stronger than the flames dancing on the two wicks. She lets her lips tangle with his while the muscles of their faces move and meld. Brenda breaks away to stroke his neck.
"This is okay?" whispers Dylan.
"More than," replies Brenda.
Dylan raises the pearls for easier access to her blouse.
"You're so classy, Bren," says Dylan, unbuttoning her shirt. "I've always loved that about you."
The shirt falls to her sides. Brenda moans, when Dylan runs his fingers along the skin covering her ribs. He lets his index finger trail from the center of her bra down to her bellybutton, where the pearls stop.
"Old-time film star beauty," whispers Dylan as he starts to kiss her neck. "And currently sexy."
"I'm glad I'm here," breathes Brenda.
"It's my intention to make you gladder," sighs Dylan, leading her to the couch.
Before her body meets the cushions, Dylan's brow arches. Brenda wrinkles her own. Suddenly, a repetitive banging fills the room. Brenda twerks her neck to view a shadowy figure behind the house's side window.
"What the?" says Dylan.
"Who is that?" says Brenda, instinctively grabbing the orange towel to cover herself.
Dylan storms over to the door, opens it, and looks sideways for a second. Whatever warmth that was in the room is permanently gone. Brenda wishes she could sink between the cushions.
"Blackout?" says Jim.
He flicks on the lights. Brenda nervously pulls on her shirt.
"Keep your hands off my daughter!" shouts Jim, walking inside.
"Oh, so I can't come into your home but you can come into mine?" says Dylan.
"Believe me, this will be the last instance where you find me here," vows Jim. "It's just that I was lied to tonight and I want to know what's going on."
Brenda's eyes flit from Dylan to her dad, unaware of what to do. How did he figure out that she left the house?
"You knew I called?" says Brenda.
"No, I thought it was Dylan, what with the hanging up, and thought it would be nice to let you know," says Jim. "Though I'm beginning to question that moment of weakness."
Moment of weakness? That's the most understanding thing he's done in the last week.
"Then Donna pops out of bed like a jack in the box!" continues Jim. "And I come here to see the two of you scantily clad without a care in the world!"
"Maybe if you gave her a little more freedom, your blood pressure would go down," suggests Dylan, shrugging. "I mean, you were a freakin' Peeping Tom out there."
"Maybe if you stopped being a smart aleck, you wouldn't find yourself alone in a rut," counters Jim.
"I'm not alone tonight," says Dylan.
"You're about to be," says Jim, glaring at him and then her. "Brenda, you've disrespected me before, but this really takes the cake. If you're going to live under my roof, some things are going to change."
What is she, sixteen? This is embarrassing, for her, for Dylan, even for him. It's insane.
"We're going home," says Jim, already opening the front door.
"No!" cries Brenda.
"Excuse me?" says Jim.
"I said no," says Brenda. "I'm not going with you."
"Brenda, this is much different than that other time you stayed here," insists Jim. "You're eighteen. You're an adult who should be making mature decisions."
"Exactly," affirms Brenda. "And I've made my choice."
Dylan offers her a relieved expression, her father clearly repulsed.
"You can pay for London by yourself," says Jim.
He walks briskly out of the living room, the floorboards groaning in his wake, and slams the door. Brenda practically jumps when the door meets the hinges. As much as she'd like to enjoy her newfound bravery, she can't. She collapses into a heap on the couch. Dylan holds her in his arms.
"I'm...I'm sure he didn't mean that," consoles Dylan.
"No, he meant it," sobs Brenda. "He meant it so much."
