Chapter 5
Dylan stares down at the photo of Brenda, taken earlier this morning as they exited the hospital. Splashed across the front page of the tabloid news website the headline reads...
Brenda McKay Back From The Dead!
The photo's grainy, snuck on a cell phone, but still has Dylan seeing every shade of red in the rainbow. This is exactly why he wanted to keep Brenda's homecoming under the radar. She's not even home yet and already the media's around. Asking questions. Wanting her photo. Trying to take advantage when she's at her most vulnerable. It's why he's asked friends and family to stay away until Brenda feels up to visitors. Overwhelming her isn't an option. It's her pace or no one's.
"Geez," Steve mutters.
Dylan growls. "How in the hell did they find out?"
Marshall has the phone against his ear. "Workin' on that now."
Scrubbing a hand down his face, Dylan watches as his, he guessed now, and Brenda's agent sticks his earpiece in and launches into take-charge mode. However Marshall will squash it, Dylan will let him.
There was a moment, early last year, when Dylan wasn't sure Marshall was the right agent for Brenda. It was Brenda's ultimate decision but he always rubbed him the wrong way. Then Marshall was pushing for the band to go mainstream—a change Dylan wasn't comfortable with. However, after Marshall discovered that it was Jasper Jones who'd sent Brenda the photo that had caused her accident, Marshall proved his worth and Dylan never looked back.
The soft pad of footsteps sound somewhere behind Dylan. He stands when he sees Brenda coming down the corridor. Almost warily, she sidesteps Marshall before hovering in the doorway to the lounge.
"Hey," Dylan says, moving toward her. "All okay?"
"Fine," she says. "Just exploring." The husky lilt of Brenda's voice nearly has Dylan's knees buckling. He's still not used to the sight of her, appearing like an apparition, only a hundred times more real.
She stares up at him with those big blue grey eyes, and all the air leaves his lungs. God help him. He wants to kiss her so damn bad. Just take her in his arms and tell her that he'll never leave her, that it's always been her he's loved all these years. But he's kept his distance. It's her decision if she wants to be touched by him. By anyone. She barely knows him. He's a stranger to her, just like everyone else. Just having her back is more than he deserves. It'll take time for Brenda to heal. And he'll be beside her every step of the way, helping her with whatever she needs, giving her whatever she wants.
"What do you think of the bus?" he asks.
"It's like a maze." Brenda raises her eyes up, looking around with a kind of innocent awe. "A palace on wheels." She arcs an inquisitive brow. "So do you do this a lot? The whole bus thing?"
Dylan smiles. "The whole bus thing? You mean touring?"
"Uh-huh."
"We did, with these guys but also with your theatre groups." A tilt of her dark head.
"Right…I'm an actress." Dylan's heart breaks. She is so confused, it's sad to see no sparkle in her eyes when she talks about her occupation. So nonchalant. Brenda loved being on stage, she loved acting period. "We…I went with you?"
He swallows past the dryness in his throat. "Always and I you."
Even with Brenda's job as successful working actress, even to Marshall's chagrin, Dylan managed to coordinate his schedule with hers so that she always went on tour with him and the band or he her. He never went without her. He never wanted to go without her and Brenda didn't want to be away from him either.
Brenda considers this, then her eyes are widening, fixed on a point above Dylan's shoulder. Following her gaze, he turns to see her sights on the rolling green hills and snaky roads that make up the Tennessee hills. Down in the valley, twenty minutes from Nashville, sits their farmhouse.
"Is that home?" Her voice borders on awe. Home. Even the thought of it bamboozles his brain. Brenda, home. With him. This chance. He can't fail.
"Yeah," Dylan says hoarsely. "Our ranch"
When Dylan thinks of their ranch, he thinks of Brenda.
Brenda was making a western years ago and she was on location in Tennessee. After she had wrapped, they decided to rent a car and spend a few extra days in town. Brenda loved Nashville. She loved the people, the food, the live music everywhere you went. She loved how she could walk right down the middle of lower Broadway and no one cared who she was. There wasn't paparazzi, at least for her. You weren't famous in Nashville unless you were a country singer and that thrilled Brenda.
Within less than a year, they had picked prime land and built their farmhouse. Brenda also enjoyed doing stuff with her hands. She wallpapered the downstairs bathroom, painted, Dylan would laugh when we saw Brenda with a hammer, ready to help out where ever she could. That was his wife, never willing to wait, always ready to take on the world and make it theirs.
"Oh, wow," she murmurs, pushing past him for the front of the bus. She hangs over the shoulder of the driver, taking in the scenery through the large windshield.
A wraparound porch, peach trees, stables, the tree line of forest.
"This is gorgeous," she tells Dylan as he comes to stand beside her. But Dylan only has eyes for Brenda, watching her pretty profile as she takes it in, looking like a kid on Christmas morning. She's still painfully thin, but her face has more color than it did in the hospital. Her dark hair has been washed and brushed glossy, hanging down to her waist in loose waves.
Only the sharp bend of the bus is enough to draw Dylan's attention from her.
He stiffens as he realizes what they're approaching. One of the best ways to take in the beauty of the Tennessee fall foliage is a scenic drive through the Natchez Trace Parkway which runs through Franklin and Leiper's Fork. It's where Brenda fell in love with this place. Downtown Franklin is the most quaint historic little place. It has charm like no other place they've traveled. On the Natchez parkway there is lots of winding roads and one of them off the parkway is the way to Brenda and Dylan's house. The curve nicknamed Hells curve is the place of Brenda's car accident.
Dylan's hand grips white on the headrest. He's aware that both he and Steve are staring at Brenda. They're watching her face to see what she remembers, if anything from that night comes back to her. But her eyes stay blank, her face impassive.
As the bus rounds the corner, it takes the curve so fast its tires squeal. Brenda wobbles and nearly pitches forward into the windshield. Dylan's there to catch her, wrapping a protective arm around her waist. Brenda tenses as he yanks her close but doesn't pull away.
As Dylan swears under his breath at the driver, it's Steve who takes up the yelling.
"Easy man," he snaps, tossing the driver an angry look. They've got precious cargo on board. A shaky exhale. "Nice catch."
Dylan's attention flicks back to Brenda so curved into him its like they've never been apart. The fragile weight of her, her very nearness has him relishing the feel of Brenda finally in his arms. He clears his throat. "You okay?"
"A-OK." Letting out a silvery laugh, Brenda braces a hand against Dylan's chest. When she fans her slender fingers out over his heart, every muscle in his body locks. Her touch is like a thousand volts of electricity to his nerve endings. The nearness of her makes him fall-on-his-knees grateful.
"Just getting my bus legs back, I guess." She stares at Dylan for a long moment, her eyes almost searching, then she drops her hand. He releases her, hating the absence of her in his arms, and she goes to sit next to David.
"Hey, Dylan." Steve's voice is low. Too low.
Dylan turns to Steve. "What is it?"
Steve points out the window. "We got company." As the bus pulls onto the snakelike dirt road that leads to the ranch, Dylan sees the circus that awaits. Media and reporters swarm the front of the farmhouse. One in particular catches his attention.
Dylan's hands ball into fists. Jasper Jones, that dirty rat bastard, leads the pack.
"Holy shit," Brenda says, her stunned voice making Dylan jump. "You said people knew you. You really are famous."
David barks out a laugh. "No…Bren…you are sweetie."
Brenda's mouth drops, shock rolls over her pretty features, stunned. "You said I was a successful working actress, not a movie star…high profile case?" She gasps, it making much more sense now.
"You thought we were lying?" David smiles.
Her mouth twitches. "Exaggerating, more like."
"I'll give you ten bucks for every one you hit," Dylan says as the driver pulls into the driveway.
Beside him, Steve adds, "Make it twenty."
The bus comes to a stop with a groaning whine. "Okay, guys," Marshall says, slicking his stringy hair back. "Get Brenda inside, and I'll handle this."
The bus doors open. The crescendo of reporter babble blasts Dylan's ears.
Gritting his teeth, he says to Marshall, "If they aren't off my property in ten minutes, I'm getting my shotgun."
Steve hops out. "Damn, that's being generous."
Dylan's out next, turning immediately to find Brenda reaching for him, her blue eyes curious, yet tinged with fear.
"You ready?" His eyes hold steady on hers, waiting for permission. Finally, she gives a determined nod. Her armor is a go.
Dylan picks Brenda up by the waist and sets her on the ground next to him. Before the sea of reporters can surge forward, he shields her protectively with his arm, blocking their view of her. They want her tragedy for their own, and he'll do his damnedest to ensure they don't get it.
Brenda winces at the aggressive glare of flashbulbs, at the questions being lobbed her way, at the strangers clamoring for a glimpse of her. With a soft gasp, she turns her face into Dylan's chest. The look of fear in her eyes sends a surge of anger straight through him.
"C'mon, baby," Dylan says as David and Steve flank her, with Erica leading the pack. They all are protecting her from the cameras as they lope up the front steps to the wrap around porch.
Then, the door's swinging open and they step inside.
Brenda blinks at the women hovering in the center of the foyer. There's an older woman with long gray hair, her hands clasped to her heart.
"Oh my word," the woman says loudly not hiding her surprise at seeing a ghost, her eyes on Brenda.
Her eyes fill with tears, "Oh…my word. You're really here…you're alive!" She takes a step toward Brenda, and Brenda backs up, nearly tripping over her own feet.
"Easy." His voice a soft warning, Dylan moves to Brenda's side. When she takes his arm, Dylan clinches his bicep to keep her close. Glancing up, she flashes him a grateful smile. Her legs feel shaky, from the bus ride or from nerves she can't tell, only that she needs something steady to hold herself upright.
Seeing Brenda's distress, the woman freezes, presses a hand to her mouth. She winces. "Oh, shoot. I'm sorry."
She gives Brenda a bright smile. "You've been gone for far too long, sugar…I'm Martha," says the older woman. "Married to Marshall."
Dylan looks unhappy.
"I know you wanted to get her settled in, Dylan, but I couldn't wait."
"Hello." Brenda lifts a hand, aware everyone is watching her with wide eyes. Expecting her to crumble any second. A sudden flush creeps its way onto her cheeks, angry at herself for not being able to place her face. "Good to meet you. Again, I guess."
Martha huffs with determination. "Alright." She hooks her arms through Marshall's who has finally made his way in from the scene outside. "We'll get out of your hair." Tugging him toward the door, she glances back at Dylan. "Don't you hide her away too long now, you hear? We missed her." She gives him a knowing look. "You too."
Then the door's shutting behind them. Shutting out the noise. Shutting out the strangers. Releasing a breath, Brenda raises her eyes around the foyer. The farmhouse is quaint and homey. A blend of vintage and contemporary charm. Leather and wood. A vintage feel but everything looks new. It smells of lemon, of cleaning supplies. It feels well lived in and well loved.
As Dylan says something in a low voice to Steve, Brenda drifts into the living area. The wood floors creak beneath her feet. She feels like she's forty feet up, looking down on herself. The sensation is strange, dreamlike.
Awards line an antique cabinet. At least six total. Best Actress…best supporting actress just to name a few. Brenda touches the glass of the cabinet, trembling fingers to her mouth, her fascination like a gravitational pull, this spot a much-needed lifeline to her past. She moves to the mantel of the fireplace, framed photos are lined up between chic farmhouse decor. One photo has her leaning closer. It's a photo of Brenda and Dylan, young…teens at least. They sit on what looks like a convertible. Brenda is in a white top and baby blue pants, Dylan wearing what looks like a Hawaiian shirt. Brenda has booth arms wrapped around Dylan's neck as he leans into her. They smile and pose, heads together. There is another, a black and white photo, some kind of formal dance, Brenda sitting her head turned into Dylan, as he leans in to kiss her. His mouth hovering not even an inch from hers. A more recent one of Brenda, Steve, David, Erica and Dylan. Brenda's in the middle, her arms looped around Dylan's neck, and she's laughing at a scowling Steve.
A wedding photo, Brenda and Dylan in the middle, arms around each other. A handsome guy, looks to be their age, flanked by an older couple. The woman with shoulder length hair smiles wide while cuddled into a balding man.
She feels Dylan behind her.
"Is that my family?" She asks quietly.
"Yes." Dylan reaches past her, "That's Brandon, your brother…and your parents."
Brenda stares at it.
The thought comes sudden. I was someone who laughed. Who was loved. Is loved. They love me. These people love me.
The last picture frame holds a silver CD. Scrawled across the top in black magic marker is Demo #1. Beneath it—HANDS OFF, STEVE!
Brenda squints. The handwriting is feminine. Messy. Familiar.
"You did that," the quiet voice cuts into her thoughts. She refocuses to see Dylan leaning against the wall, his hands in his pockets, his brown eyes pinned on her. "The first supposed song I wrote. It was a poem I had written you. You snuck it off to David, he put it to music and they made their demo. When the band first got going with music, you were right there with them. Helping us stuff envelopes and book gigs and label CDs."
"Don't forget the shitty T-shirts," Steve chimes in.
Dylan chuckles. "Yeah. Those too." He smiles and his eyes, his expression, turn serious. "Without you, Brenda, we'd be nothing…I'd be nothing." Dylan's words have her shivering.
Brenda tries to picture being that type of force. Throwing down longnecks with the band, unloading and loading, riding a bus. She can't. When she searches her memory, all she gets is a black wall. She can remember pop culture, math, but nothing about herself. Not even the acting skills she acquired in London needed to do her job. Erica was the one that explained that to her. She had lived in London at one point and studied at RADA, one of the UK's most prestigious drama schools.
All she knows is what she was told by Vince, and even that's a lie. Her life was so full. She was successful and…happy.
Hot tears of frustration fill her eyes. Her body feels like a volcano trembling for an active memory. If she doesn't get one soon, she'll explode.
"Lot to take in, huh?" Dylan's voice is gentle and understanding. "You wanna take a walk around?" Brenda nods. She keeps close to Dylan's side as she inspects the rest of the house. The first floor holds a kitchen, a guest bedroom, a powder room, and a sizable living room that opens to a formal dining room. Her fingers trace flowered wallpaper, knotted walls. She presses palms against doorknobs, kitchen countertops, feeling like she's searching for a wormhole into her past. She can tell the house is new, one of a kind. It's clear hard work was put into it, and personal touches from what she assumes is from her and Dylan.
After making a loop around, she is back in the living room. She taps the stone wall framing the fireplace. She looks at Dylan. He's been following her at a careful distance, waiting to help if asked.
"Did we do this?"
"We did," he says. "We spent one summer remodeling the stone. You had changed your mind from what you had originally picked out. David and Steve even pitched in."
"Yeah, and you paid us in beer," Steve adds. "Cheap bastards."
Smiling, Brenda points at a large door with a big star painted on it. "What's this? Basement?"
Dylan stiffens. "Studio."
Brenda tips up her chin, amazed. "You have a studio here?"
His throat bobs. "You…have a studio here. You tape yourself for auditions, rehearse lines."
"Do you write in there?"
Dylan looks down before meeting her gaze, "I did…but I haven't written in a while."
Brenda wants to ask him why, but something in his face stops her. There's a sadness there, a reluctance to get into it.
Steve peers at her. He can't help it. He's curious. "Anything coming back to you?"
Brenda pulls her eyes from Dylan and shakes her head. "No, nothing."
Dylan shoots Steve a hard look. "That's alright." Not for Brenda. She knew it would be difficult, but not this difficult. Brenda thought that maybe, seeing her home, it would all come rushing back like those amnesiacs from the movies. Instead, she's left with only blackness. More frustration than knowledge.
Is this how it'll always be? Living a blind life? Being unable to find the thing most precious to her—her memories? Hell, it's not like she lost her wallet. She's lost. Her.
"Bren?" Dylans leaning in, looking at her with concern. Brenda blinks away the tears and forces a brave smile at him. Knees trembling, she moves for the stairs, steadying herself for a moment on the wood banister.
"Show me the upstairs?"
"Of course." Dylan goes to reach for her hand, stops himself. He steps around her and extends an arm. "Why don't you head on up, and I'll get your bag?" His reaction confuses her.
Brenda frowns, puzzled, when she's hit with a hard thought. As Brenda watches Dylan head to the front door, her heart sinks in her chest. Maybe she was right. Maybe her memory isn't the only thing she's lost since being gone.
Upstairs, Brenda inspects two guest bedrooms and a study filled with books, finally settling inside the spacious master bedroom. The room's clean and tidy, smelling of cedar and a floral scent, with a king-sized bed and a dresser. White linens, blush throw pillows, a large window that overlooks the backyard. The room looks comfortable and cozy. Brenda longs for a nap on the bed. For unfettered sleep.
Moving to the dresser, Brenda dances fingers across a framed wedding photo showing her and Dylan on a beach, their eyes locked so intently on each other it's clear their lips are next. Breaking his watchful silence, Dylan volunteers, "We got married in Baja." He smiles. "Twenty-five people. Fireworks. Baja was a special place for us. It was a perfect day."
"Mexico?" She turns to look at Dylan briefly, then eyes the photo again.
Dylan smiles, "Yeah. We had visited many times together, it was our…getaway so to speak. It was our place, it still surprises me to this day you wanted to let our family and friends in on that secret of ours. But it turned out truly beautiful." Dylan's voice is lost in memory.
Brenda stares at the photo, at the ocean. "I loved the water."
Dylan's voice falls to a hush. "That's right, baby. You did."
How she craves a memory from that day. A slip of the ring, a taste of the cake—chocolate or vanilla—even the feel of Dylan's kiss, his mouth on hers. Brenda wonders if she stood on tiptoes to kiss him or if he came down to her level, a warm hand pressed on the small of her back.
Cheeks flushing, she steals a look at Dylan as he arranges her luggage. There's so much she doesn't know about him. She can see he's a good man. Intense. Protective. Handsome. But what about their marriage? Were they good? As a couple? She's been gone nine months. Brenda thinks about that phone call she overheard on the bus. What if Dylan had gotten over her death, was ready to live again, and now she's back, torpedoing his brand-new life? He hasn't moved to touch her, and Brenda isn't sure that's what she even wants, but . . . What if that's the reason he's kept his distance? Because he's moved on with someone else?
With a sigh, Brenda opens the closet. Her gaze swivels around the contents: lots of clothes, baskets, black and purple running shoes?
She looks up at Dylan curiously. He steps around the bed and leans back against the dresser. "You were a runner."
She wrinkles her nose. "Like exercise?"
He laughs, the first honest laugh she's heard from him, and Brenda's heart speeds up. He has a nice laugh. One that's easygoing and happy, one that has his deep brown eyes crinkling at the corners.
"David and Erica left. They said to rest and they'll see you tomorrow. I got you some things in case what's in the closet doesn't fit you." Dylan flips open the lid of the suitcase. He brings out of it a few changes of clothes—T-shirts, jeans, leggings, silk pajamas. Last, but not least, is a cell phone.
Brenda stares up at him. "You got me a phone?" After a life with Vince, the gesture screams freedom. Kindness, too.
"I did." Dylan shows her how to pull up the screen. "I plugged in the numbers you used the most. I'm number two, right behind the barbecue place." He winks with a smile.
Brenda laughs. Damn. He's funny too. She's a goner. She smiles. "Thank you."
As she takes the phone from his hand, they brush fingertips, and Brenda shivers. Every nerve ending is lit and electric, leaping to life at Dylan's touch, unspooling something in her that's been dormant far too long.
That's when the memory hits like an icy blast. A similar phone in her hand, the glow of light on her face, and a text, a cruel text that said…
He doesn't love you.
The phone slips from her hand. Brenda goes dizzy at the memory, and her knees nearly buckle, but Dylan shoots an arm out to catch her. The world blurs as he holds her up, helps her sit at the edge of the bed. He kneels in front of her, wrapping a large palm around her knee. She is silent closing her eyes, disoriented, trying to capture the memory.
"You're exhausted." Dylan reaches out, tucking a long lock of hair behind her ear. Brenda can't help it, she leans into his warm touch, his gentle hand. But before she can get too comfortable, he's drawing away.
"How about you shower and I'll fix some dinner?"
"That sounds great." Dylan stands, hesitates before he exits. As if he hates to leave her. "You'll be okay?"
Brenda's lips thin. She's already sick of the are-you-okay, of the watchful and worried eyes. She lets out a breath and forces a smile. "I'll be okay, Dylan."
Sure, her mind is a fucking tilt-a-whirl. Overcome by everything and everyone. But she's not afraid. She's spent too long in the dark. She wants back everything she can't remember. She wants the light to shine on in.
Inside the bathroom, Brenda starts a shower in the clawfoot tub. She's relieved at the silence. At finally being away from prying eyes, from worried glances. The photographers made her jumpy, and as much as she wants to be all ballsy bravado, she's crawling out of her skin. As she lets the pipes heat up, Brenda goes to the vanity and unpacks the meager belongings she's been sent home with. A variety of pill bottles. Nutritional supplements and migraine meds. Slowly, Brenda undresses. It feels as if her body has been to the impound lot and back. She's sore and stiff and, frankly, fucking exhausted. She wants nothing more than a nice hot shower and a plush bed. She's even ready to skip dinner, she's so tired. Although that's probably a bad idea.
Brenda inspects her bony form in the mirror. She runs shaky hands over jutting hip bones, bony ribs, a hollow stomach. She knows she's too thin, it'll take ages for the clothes in her closet to fit her again. Her lips kick up at the corners. Or at the very least a few hearty breakfasts.
Brenda angles her body, thinking of the woman she saw beaming back at her in those photos. Someone with curves, with a smile for days, with eyes that still sparkled. Her nipples tighten at the draft of chilly air, her pale breasts swaying—the only part of her body still packing some weight. What Brenda sees next in the mirror makes her breath catch. It always has. The entire left side of her torso ravaged by ripples of ugly scar tissue. She's always wondered where she got the scars on her body. And now she knows. A plane crash. She frowns at her reflection. She wonders what Dylan sees when he looks at her. His wife or a hot mess of a woman?
When the shower's so hot its steaming, Brenda steps inside, letting out a little moan of satisfaction. God, it feels good. She relishes the warmth, the water cutting hard against her skin like a Brillo pad, ready to scrub her raw, ready to erase her past with Vince. Brenda would give anything to delete every single memory of Vince and replace them with her lost memories of Dylan. She wonders if she was the type who showered or bathed. Maybe she took a bath alone and showered with Dylan? Soaping up, sudsing, those lean, chiseled hands holding her close. Making her—Covering her face, Brenda lets out a laugh.
One thing's for certain—at least she's been left with her imagination intact. Hell, she doesn't even know if Dylan's hers anymore. Still, she can't help smiling at her mind-in-the-gutter thought. Preoccupied with her daydream, Brenda dips to pick up a washrag, and when she rises, she cracks her head on the porcelain soap holder.
"Shit," she swears, watching the floor beneath her dip and bob. Small splotches of red begin to appear between her toes. She touches her temple and it comes away bloody. As black spots pepper her vision, Brenda reaches out to grab onto the filmy shower curtain.
Sit, Brenda, sit. Before you fall over.
Slowly, she lowers herself to the bottom of the tub, tucking knees to her chest. Bowing her face into her knees, Brenda grips the side of her aching head, begging for Vince, for the dizzy spells, for her old, awful life to be washed away forever.
Poor Bren. Don't worry Brenda is strong. I know you all have so many questions about the phone call and that memory! Let me at least put your mind at ease a little. Dylan has been a devoted husband. In my mind we have to assume, after the series finale for these two to end up together and be end game…he was done with his old life. That being said, obviously something happened before the crash, and it will come out soon. If not next chapter the following. Rest assured Dylan is a good man now lol doesn't mean other people are though. Next up, Steve and Dylan have a little chat. Dylan and Brenda have a tender and important moment and two people are coming over in a BIG way. Guess away! Oh yeah and review pretty please with a promised sex scene later on :)