The bride had worn white.
That's what the magazines had written, anyway, which he would come to read in the group email had been incorrectly reported.
The bride, wrote one of two of his friends invited to the celebrity wedding of the year, had worn more of an off-white, perhaps a buttercream.
He would spot the tiny bump through her dress in the Facebook photos that popped up unwanted on his feed after his former best friend, a top journalist on Capitol Hill, accepted his friend request.
His former best friend, now Facebook acquaintance, who also served as his ex's twin brother.
His ex, who had wed another and awaited the birth of their child.
Their child, which should have been his, if he hadn't fucked up so badly.
And she should have been his wife, not the wife of some film producer.
Even if that producer was supposedly a good lad that allegedly made her supremely happy.
He could fall back on the blonde, if he wanted.
He didn't want.
Their last farcical attempt at a relationship had forever solidified their breakups with two individuals neither had wished to break up with in the first place.
His blonde ex was on her second husband, a decent fellow who treated her well. They were childless, friends more than lovers. He didn't know of the number of times she had cried on her ex's shoulder over her other ex, the man she could never have again.
The brother of the brunette he could never have again.
He clicked onto her page, the Add Friend button staring out of his screen.
Mocking him.
His request was left pending, sent after an evening of one too many beers when he made the horrible choice to stalk through her rarely updated page.
His one consolation was that the request hadn't been declined.
Missing Cork already, said her latest status of three months prior, but New York isn't half bad.
She'd finally made it to New York. Attended a Wicked performance, by the looks of it.
A mutual friend had liked the status, one out of four hundred and ninety-two people to do so.
Three hundred and forty-three comments, one of which demanded to Get your ass out west!
It was a comment from a second mutual friend, and had the most replies of the bunch.
But not one reply from her.
Because she never came out west, and neither did her brother.
Their entire group knew why.
He knew why.
She'd never forgiven him for lying about their time in London.
He still didn't know why the fuck he had done it.
Made it easier, he guessed.
Easier for whom? He had quit trying to figure out.
Certainly not for him.
Made it easier for her, maybe.
Easier for her to move on.
Easier for her to tell him to go to hell the last time she had ever initiated contact.
Easier for him to fuck so many girls, he'd stopped trying to remember their names.
He'd be a perpetual bachelor forever, with one wife long deceased and another wife only in his fantasies.
They taunted him, those fantasies.
Taunted with the images of a white dress headed in his direction, with his child growing underneath its folds.
Fucking Mark Zuckerberg and his fucking social media platform.
Fucking Steve Sanders for forcing him to be on it so he could see pictures of his goddaughter that Steve only shared to fucking Facebook.
His heart stopped, and then sped back up again, reading through the comments on Madeline Sanders' eighth grade graduation photo.
She'd commented.
Brenda Walsh.
That she now bore a new surname meant little to him, for she would always be his Brenda Walsh.
Or, his Brenda McKay, in his ongoing fantasies.
Oh, Steve, she's absolutely beautiful! Please tell Janet I say hello and to come for a visit soon. Connor and I would love to see all of you. How about in July? Brandon and Talia will be here. We can show Maddie the forty shades of green. Happy to help with any expenses. Just let me know!
Fucking Connor Monaghan.
Fucking Cork city.
Or you could come out west, Steve had replied, to no avail.
A finger clicked onto her name.
Add Friend, it said.
He checked his pending requests.
She wasn't on it.
She must have just seen the request, and declined it right away.
Fucking Facebook.
Breaking up was much easier in the nineties.
"What the fuck have I done?" he asked aloud. "I wish -"
He couldn't wish. He didn't have a right to wish. He'd made her miserable. He'd turned to drugs after a fucking K2 expedition that would forever haunt his dreams. She'd tried to help him. He'd told her he didn't need her. His second lie. It had driven her to the arms of another.
Even if all she had shared with Ernesto Manzano was a hug.
It had made him see scarlet. He'd said things he didn't mean. She'd said things, too.
And then, he flew back to Beverly Hills, where he pretended he had left her two years before.
So he wouldn't have to admit how he had fucked up, how he had gotten her to kick him out.
It was the second and final time he saw her turn her back and walk away from him.
He was so enraged, he pretended they'd never connected.
She found out, of course.
She found out about it all, directly before she was to fly to the wedding of David Silver and Donna Martin.
They all knew it was his fault that Brenda had suddenly been called away on a tour; or so she had claimed.
She hadn't attended the wedding.
Neither had Brandon, though his excuse truly was work related.
It had been a week since he last spoke to Brandon, a quick greeting over Facebook Messenger that had more to do with their mutual friend Steve and less to do with the brotherhood they used to share.
It had been fourteen years since he had spoken to Brenda.
Thirteen if he counted the email forwarded to him by a confused Steve that said Steve was one of the few she still felt connected to from Beverly Hills.
The other was David.
Donna had once been on that list.
He knew why he wasn't.
He knew exactly why she had felt the need to share that painful detail.
Because he'd hurt her first, in the same way.
Twelve years if he counted the note she'd sent with the Angels jersey he didn't realize he'd left behind, the note that wished him a journey into hell.
"I wish," he said again, the words falling like acid into his empty glass, "I wish -"
He must have dozed off.
Fairies didn't exist.
Connor Fucking Monaghan might think they existed, but out in the real world where Dylan McKay lived, fairies were only in the imaginations of children.
No matter what fucking fairy garden Maddie said her uncle had set up in his backyard.
He wouldn't think of it as Brenda's.
Connor Fucking Monaghan did not automatically become Maddie's uncle just because he had married her auntie Brenda and would soon be giving her a cousin.
Or, two cousins, if Brandon's recent post was to be believed.
Those should have been his twins.
Brenda had always believed in the supernatural, in an unseen magical place beyond their world.
He used to tease her about it, under their covers in their London flat.
"Fuck, how much did I drink?" asked Dylan, blinking at the radiant fairy in front of him.
"Enough," said the fairy in a melodious voice, an accent he was fairly certain didn't exist. "There was a time you wanted to be sober."
"What's the point of sobriety in a life like mine?" Dylan asked.
Even he and David weren't the same, after David learnt of the real reason Brenda hadn't attended the Silver wedding.
Steve, Kelly, and to some extent Donna, were the only friends Dylan had left from his old gang.
If he could call Kelly a friend.
"It wasn't supposed to be like this, you know," said the fairy.
"What?" asked Dylan.
"Your life. It was supposed to be different. Strings were pulled in the wrong direction."
The fairy had to be more drunk than he.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" asked Dylan.
"Let's start with Kelly Taylor," said the fairy. "Is she married to Brandon Walsh?"
"No," said Dylan. "Brandon's married to some woman he met abroad. Talia, I think. He and Kel hardly speak."
"Kelly should be having her second child with Brandon by now," said the fairy, looking over a long scroll. "And David Silver, is he with Valerie Malone?"
Dylan blinked. "No. Donna Silver. We heard Val ended up with some Italian guy."
"Ah yes," said the fairy, "I think someone's wishful thinking infiltrated David's future. Steve Sanders. Did he go to Paris with Clare Arnold?"
"No. Separated from Janet," Dylan answered. "Wait, no, I forgot. They got back together. I think. It's confusing as hell with those two."
"Andrea Zuckerman. Yale graduate?"
It had been years since he had spoken to Andrea.
Even longer since he had spoken to Val, whom he heard through Steve had reignited her former close friendship with Brenda.
Steve was close with both.
Dylan was close to neither.
"Dropped out." He hesitated. "Your scroll. What does it say about -"
"You?" asked the fairy.
Dylan nodded, slowly.
"Married," said the fairy. "Four kids and a fifth on the way."
He'd only had one wife. No children.
He was young, thirty-seven next month.
It could still happen.
Maybe.
"Her name," asked Dylan. "What's her name?"
"Doesn't say," said the fairy.
Fuck, thought Dylan, they'd all had alternate realities lined up, except for him.
"Just has a letter," the fairy continued. "B." The fairy peered closer. "Ah. They're new symbols. I haven't seen these before. I need to brush up on my Novelese, but looks like, Brunette?"
Brenda.
"If Brenda and I are supposed to be married with four kids and a fifth on the way, then why the fuck is she married to fucking Connor Monaghan?" Dylan yelled.
He missed his best friend, both of his best friends.
They didn't miss him.
They had moved on.
There was a time he thought he could do the same.
He'd been wrong.
"Things happened," said the fairy. "The wrong people played racquetball with Fate. Petty jealousies. Seeking out drama. Wanting to be the star. Asking to work with others. Getting people fired."
"I'm not even gonna pretend to know what you're talking about," said Dylan. "I just want to know one thing. I know I don't have the right to know, but if you could tell me, just for my peace of mind." He fidgeted with his elbows. "Bren, is she happy? Or is it all a façade?"
Social media was full of those.
"She's happy."
His gaze dropped to the ground.
She should be happy, he thought. He shouldn't care who she had found that happiness with.
"But not half as happy as she would've been with you," continued the high-pitched voice.
Hope. The tiniest sliver of hope.
"Is there a chance -" Dylan swallowed and squeaked out, "is there a chance we can try again?"
"Not in this life," said the fairy. "Brenda Monaghan will never divorce. She might go back to California for a visit one day, perhaps for Madeline Sanders' high school graduation. The details are murky."
"So we can't ever be together," said Dylan morosely. "Thanks for the pep talk."
"You can't ever be together, in this life," the fairy corrected.
"I thought my past persona is madly in love with Kelly's past persona," said Dylan, perplexed.
"He wasn't," said the fairy. "You changed that when you underwent the hypnotherapy. If you hadn't done that, it would have been you and the Brunette, in every life."
"But that can't be right," said Dylan. "Bren and I were together in London. That was after the hypnotherapy."
"Eros decided to give you another chance," said the fairy. "How long were you together?"
"Three years," said Dylan. He backtracked. "Well, almost three."
"How many years did you tell people you were together?"
"A year," said Dylan, exhaling heavily. "Less than."
"Why did you lie?"
"Ernesto Manzano," he said, on autopilot.
"Try again."
"Because I fucked up," said Dylan. "Then I moved back to Beverly Hills, fucked up even more and my life's never been the same."
"When you decided to get back together with Kelly Taylor."
"We've known each other since kindergarten," said Dylan robotically. "I guess it was bound to happen."
"Did you block out your entire childhood when your parents split?" asked the fairy.
"I don't think so. Why?"
"Then Kelly Taylor also attended kindergarten in Seattle?"
Fuck, thought Dylan. Seattle. He'd completely forgotten about the two years his father had moved them to Seattle.
Two years before Jack had forced Dylan's mother away and brought Dylan back to Beverly Hills.
In first grade.
He'd attended kindergarten in fucking Seattle?
"Was it the first time you screwed up things with the Brunette?" asked the fairy.
"You know it wasn't."
He was still reeling over the fact that he and Kelly had never attended kindergarten together at all.
It would explain why she thought he had tried to look up her skirt.
He'd never tried to look up his classmates' skirts.
Not at age five, anyway.
"What if I told you there was a way you could change your fate?"
"I'd say Madster got that Merida chick stuck in my head for the fifth time this week."
That was the last time he would let Maddie choose the movie for their biweekly godfather-goddaughter dinner date.
"Possible," said the fairy, "but they don't call me Itero for nothing."
"We only get one life," said Dylan. "I fucked mine up long ago. I'll just have to accept it and try to be glad Bren's happy, because I'm sure fucking not. I'm passed out, talking to a fucking fairy because my ex rejected my fucking friend request that I never meant to send in the first place."
He had clearly hit rock bottom.
Again.
Fucking social media.
They should have all stayed unplugged.
"A life that wasn't supposed to be yours," said Itero. "If you wanted the life that was meant for you, it's still possible. With conditions."
"You just said Bren will always be the wife of that goddamn Monaghan."
Unless -
Doubtful.
"Unless," he murmured, "unless she'll cheat on Connor?" He inhaled a jagged breath. "With me?"
"Do you think Brenda would do that?"
No. He knew better.
Brenda wouldn't have an affair.
Not even with him, her first love.
"You're fucking with my head," said Dylan. "Can I just wake up already? Forget you told me any of this?"
"Yes," said Itero, "but you'd be giving up your last shot with Brenda. Is that what you want?"
"She won't divorce Connor. She won't cheat with me. What kind of shot is that?"
To say he was baffled would be putting it mildly.
"In this life," Itero repeated.
"I'm not really lookin' to be a cowboy again," said Dylan. "You said that fucked things up."
"You don't have to be a cowboy," said Itero. "Think back. The first time you messed things up for you and Brenda. When was it?"
"That summer," said Dylan unhesitatingly. "When she was in Paris."
"Not quite," said Itero. "That was the match that lit the explosion, but what created the powder keg?"
A pink dress, chasing after him on a lawn.
"Casa Walsh," said Dylan. "The backyard. I got pissed after Jim said he didn't want me to see her anymore. Threw the drink. Scared the shit out of Jim. It changed everything."
"Very good," said Itero. "But you had a reason. Jim Walsh treated you horribly. Why?"
"He was angry. About Baja."
"Would you take back Baja?"
"No," Dylan rushed out.
Baja was one of the few good memories he had left of their thrice-failed relationship.
He'd even take the fight with Brenda if it meant Baja stayed intact.
Although they wouldn't have had anything to fight about, as he wouldn't bring that one girl to Baja at all.
Shit, what was her name?
"Why was Jim angry?" Itero asked.
"Because Bren lied."
"Why did she lie?"
"What is this?" asked Dylan irritably. "Twenty questions about my fucked-up life?"
"Why did she lie?" Itero repeated.
Because Jim hadn't let her go, because she'd fallen asleep during Grapes of Wrath, because she'd broken curfew one too many times, because Dylan wasn't willing to let her leave.
But she had.
She had left his life.
Permanently.
"And when did your tension with Jim start?"
"From the beginning," said Dylan. "He always hated me."
"That's not true, is it?"
"It is. Jim Walsh never wanted me with his daughter."
Itero unfurled an even longer scroll.
"If you want another shot with Brenda, you'll have to answer the question truthfully."
"I guess," said Dylan, "I guess Jim got to be alright with me sophomore year. So," he paused.
A memory slammed into him.
"Don Juan," he said. "Bren and I, making out on the couch. Jim walked in. But I wouldn't really take that back, either."
God, his Bren had known how to kiss.
Connor Fucking Monaghan likely knew all about that.
He'd have to, since he'd gotten Dylan's girl knocked up. Those babies hadn't just appeared out of thin air.
"Would you take back any part of that summer?"
"Maybe," Dylan began, and then cut himself off. "No. Never mind."
He refused to erase the spring dance from his past, which would lead to their pregnancy scare, which would lead to their first breakup.
Their first pregnancy scare.
The second would occur whilst he climbed K2, though he wouldn't know until years later, when he overheard David asking Steve if the third test Brenda had taken in her life had come out positive.
Dylan assumed the second scare had been with Connor, until Steve assured David that there really was a baby, unlike in nineteen ninety and seven.
He wondered how the fuck Steve Sanders and David Silver knew something Brenda had never told him.
He wondered when the fuck all three had become so buddy-buddy.
He initially became angered that she hadn't told him, until he realized exactly what happened in January nineteen ninety and eight.
He had returned to London after two months away.
He had found a dealer.
It had all spiraled from there.
If she had been pregnant, he wondered - would've been four months along when he returned - would she have told him? Would he have noticed, a drug addict refusing to seek help?
Or would Manzano have raised Dylan's child?
Would Monaghan?
He didn't want to know the answer to that.
Itero gave a knowing nod. "If you were meant to be together, then -"
"Fuck," said Dylan. "That fucking busted clock. I wish I'd never said that fucking sentence."
"Your wish," said Itero, bearing a mischievous smile, "is my command. With conditions."
Itero rubbed its wings together.
The ground gave out from under Dylan.
He'd done it, he thought. He'd officially drank enough to imagine a talking fairy, and then enough to end his life.
Would Brenda care? Would Brandon?
He doubted it.
He didn't think Kelly would even care.
She'd blamed him for years, the reason she'd never be with Brandon.
She hadn't said as much, but they both knew she thought it.
It didn't help that the one time Brandon had flown out to see Kelly, Dylan had answered her door.
In his boxers.
They had just mutually broken up earlier that week. Dylan had started to gather his belongings. He'd gotten sweaty. Kelly wasn't around.
He'd planned to head to London, back to his Brenda.
Kelly had booked a ticket to Washington.
Brandon showing up and finding Dylan rummaging around Kelly's in his boxers had shat on any plans he and Kelly had to fix things with the Walsh twins.
He'd headed to London regardless.
She'd moved.
Changed tour companies.
He'd stumbled onto her in a town of fifteen million before, if one counted the outlying areas, but to London, Brenda Walsh had become a fond memory.
He checked the other city he thought she might have begun calling home.
Paris.
She wasn't there, either.
They'd talked about Italy once; Greece, too.
Scotland. She'd enjoyed Scotland.
All three were empty of Brenda Walsh.
He'd returned home, disconsolate. Resigned to the fact that she'd disappeared.
Willingly. He couldn't hire a PI to track down the woman who didn't want to be found.
That was stalker behavior. Dylan McKay was many things; a stalker he was not.
He never thought to check Dublin.
Fucking Ireland.
Fucking land of Connor Monaghan.
There was Maddie. Maddie would care. He hoped Steve would.
Erica? Would she?
Possibly, though his little sister had never forgiven him for fucking it up with the girl she always longed to call her older sister.
The ground resealed.
He didn't understand. Hadn't he died? Gone to hell like Brenda had suggested, if such a place existed?
Why was he here, of all buildings?
Blinking, he stared out into the harsh lights of his old high school.
The hallways appeared smaller than they used to.
Dylan looked around, doing a double-take when he saw himself.
And his Brenda.
In a pink shirt.
She'd been crying; yet, she still looked stunning.
He knew the moment well.
They'd just had their first pregnancy scare. He'd sat, listening to her break up with him in his Porsche, refusing to accept it after he'd only just gotten confirmation that she would stick around Beverly Hills.
He'd feared he'd lose her to Minnesota.
He did, once.
She'd come back.
Then he'd lost her to London.
He hadn't accepted that defeat. He'd ended up following her there, unintentionally.
He'd sought out a shoulder.
She'd offered it. Allowed him to grieve over the brutal death of his wife.
They'd managed to start over, create a life where it seemed like they'd finally gotten it right.
Until he lost her for good.
And the ring he'd bought before K2 never made it to her finger.
She never knew he'd bought one, just like he'd never known she'd thought he'd given her a child.
Fucking Connor Monaghan would be giving her two.
"You know, I thought if we ever broke up, I would feel this…tremendous sense of relief; I could go back to being myself."
He'd thought that the last time, too.
He'd been just as incorrect at twenty-three as he had been at sixteen.
"But something happened; I fell in love with you, or somethin'."
He'd never fallen out of it, either.
God, had he tried.
First with the blonde, then with his wife of a day, then the blonde again, then with woman after woman after woman.
He shouted out to his sixteen-year-old self that he would always be in love with Brenda Walsh, but no sound came from his lips.
He was trapped, reliving a moment that would include a sentence he wished he could erase from their history.
"And I stopped being a loner."
"Dylan, I think that's wonderful."
Her voice was just as sweet as he remembered, an aria unto his ears.
If he could just reach out and touch her, just once; remember how it was before London, before Paris, before the lawn…
His arms grasped air.
"I think it's terrible. The only person in this world that I have to depend on is me? And I always have to remember it?"
He'd made sure of that, when every bridge he'd burnt had lit Brenda's way to Connor Fucking Monaghan.
"Dylan, that's not true. You can depend on me."
A scoff.
"Really?"
"Dylan, just because I need some time and a break doesn't mean that I still don't love you or that this isn't painful for me, too."
Why the fuck couldn't he touch her? This was a dream, right? If he was dreaming, he should be able to touch her.
Air. Fucking air.
"Well maybe that's what they mean when they say love hurts."
"Dylan! I got so close, it scared me. I don't wanna be scared with you."
A shuddering breath, from both versions of Dylan.
"I know," they said in sync.
"If we're meant to be together, then -"
"Don't say it!" Dylan yelled. "Don't you fucking say it!"
The room froze.
The Dylan and Brenda that stood before him froze with it.
Itero appeared.
"Tell me what to do," Dylan begged, tears dangling from his long lashes. "Tell me what I can do to keep Brenda from ever leaving my life."
Itero smiled. Another snap of its wings.
Dylan felt the sensation of a headrush and then, he was right in front of Brenda.
"Dylan?" she asked.
He looked around.
The hallway was empty.
"Dylan?" she prodded.
"Yeah?" he squeaked.
"Are you okay? You just kinda froze there."
He gawked at her. That wasn't what she'd said before.
"I'm…alright?" he chanced.
"Lost your train of thought?" she gave a tiny smile.
God, he'd missed her smile.
"Something like that," he breathed. "What was I saying?"
She raised an eyebrow in concern. "If we're meant to be together, then."
"Then what?"
"Idunno. You tell me."
He hadn't said it.
"Then -"
His eyes flickered over the halls, searching for a guarantee.
Fuck, what had they done in junior year?
"Then you'll appear before me in a tight black dress, shimmying in my direction, and we'll end the school year in Baja."
Shit, had he talked like that at sixteen?
Probably not.
Fucking hell, was he really sixteen again?
Crap, he'd have to taper the F-bombs, too. That was something he'd picked up in London.
Something they'd both picked up in London.
She looked surprised.
"That's very specific."
It was. Too specific.
What had he said next?
"Can I take you home?"
"No," she hesitated. "I think I should walk."
Shit, he remembered this part. She'd tell him goodbye. He'd sadly walk off, then turn around at the end of the hallway to give her doe eyes she wouldn't see.
Fuck that.
If this was their second chance, he was going all in.
"In LA? In June? It's ninety degrees out there, Bren. Look, I won't fight your decision. Just let me take you home." He paused and added, "Please."
"As a friend?" she asked.
He'd take it.
"If that's what you want."
"I don't know what I want, Dylan," she admitted. "It's just all been too much. But I do know one thing. I'll never regret giving my heart to you."
She said that now.
Brenda of the future would disagree.
"I'll keep it safe, Bren," he promised. "And when you're ready, I'll be waiting."
"Then yeah," she smiled, "a ride would be great."
He granted her a smile of his own, but when he began to walk her down the hall, the room froze again.
She froze.
And so did his heart.
"No!" he shouted at Itero. "You can't give me another shot with her and take it away already."
"You're a thirty-six year old trapped in a sixteen-year old's body. Is that what you want?"
Was it?
"If Bren and I can make it work this time?" He barely deliberated. "Then yes. In a heartbeat."
He looked at Brenda.
Still frozen.
"Will she know?" he asked. "Our future. Will she know what we become?" He swallowed air. "Will she know what I become, how I hurt her?"
"She won't," said Itero.
Relief.
"You will," Itero added. "You'll remember it all."
Fuck.
"I don't want to," said Dylan. "I don't want to remember Bren becoming a Monaghan. I don't want to remember our fight in London. I don't want to remember cheating on her with Kelly."
"Conditions," said Itero. "You get to do it over with Brenda, but you have to remember it all."
"Okay," Dylan said slowly. "Then I'll accept that condition. Can you make me cuss a little less, though? They'll all know something's up if I start throwing fucks around."
"I can make it to where your expletives will be said only in your head," said Itero.
"Thank you," said Dylan.
"I'll leave you to your task," said Itero, beginning to disappear. "Oh, and Dylan?"
"Yes?"
"Make one move on the blonde and all of this," Itero waved around, "will disappear. Brenda Walsh will remain Connor Monaghan's and you two will go back to radio silence."
Never cheat on Brenda with Kelly and Brenda would be his forever?
He could do that. No problem.
The Kelly Taylor of the future, pining over Brandon, would thank him.
Besides, he thought, hadn't Kelly Taylor of junior year had something going on with Steve?
Steve.
Maddie.
Fuck, could his goddaughter still exist in a world where Steve Sanders might have his second chance with Kelly?
"A move on either blonde and Brenda will still be a Monaghan," said Itero, vanishing.
Either blonde? There had been another?
He scrunched up his face in concentration.
"Dylan, you're starting to worry me. Did you hit your head surfing?"
He'd hit his head on something, alright. He was sure of it.
Sixteen meant he'd have to take the fucking SAT all over again the next year.
Watching a repeat of his father's murder at eighteen was not something he would accept, even if he'd know it had been staged.
He knew now who had been behind the bomb: Anthony Marchette.
Maybe he could stop him.
Maybe he could keep Jack from going into Witness Protection.
And then when he got to the following spring, he would ask Brenda Walsh, his girlfriend, to prom.
He held onto that hope.
But some things, like being the Clyde to her Bonnie and their attendance at orchestral concerts, he hoped would stay very much intact.
He just had to remember the good of junior year to ensure it happened again, and avoid the bad at all costs.
Then he'd have to rewrite all of senior year.
College would take care of itself.
They didn't need to go to CU.
Hell, they could avoid CU altogether.
They could still get to London; together, perhaps.
"No, Bren. I'm good. C'mon." He placed his hand on her back - upper back, despite the pull his hand felt towards her lower back. "I'll take you home."
God, he hoped she would still perform on Hello Day.
And that they would still make it to Baja; this time with Jim's permission, if Dylan could help it.
If she didn't, if they didn't, then he'd fucked up again already.
Breaking up may have been easier in the nineties, but nineteen ninety and one would be the last breakup he and Brenda would ever have.
He'd make damn sure of it.
One thing he knew?
He really needed to remember how he used to talk, because Brenda Walsh's sailor mouth still waited years down the road.
And by that point, maybe she would be Brenda McKay.
Take that, Connor Fucking Monaghan.
xx
What is this? No idea. It's been gnawing at me. I have zero clue of where it will lead, even less of a clue whether I will finish, but I bet the journey will be a hell of a lot of fun.
DLB requested I do a story off of Sam Hunt's Breaking Up Was Easy in the 90's; the lyrics of that song combined with this idea to make some kind of plot, although I don't think this is quite what DLB had in mind!
It's the first time I've tackled Dylan's point-of-view, which absolutely makes me nervous.
I'm guessing Brenda's will show up at some point? Maybe Brandon's?
I haven't written teens since I was a teen.
Here goes nothing.