Considered the elites of Beverly Hills society, Jack and Iris McKay had never reached a level elite enough to mingle with royalty.
Their son certainly never expected to mingle with royalty; if he had, he would have anticipated it to be one of the Windsors.
Not the daughter of a Plantagenet.
Dylan permitted Mackay to do most of the talking, utilizing Mackay's words to figure out the amount of vernacular that would allow him to get by in the situation.
The daughter of Edward I and Eleanor of Castile, the princess Eleanor had been all but thirteen years of age when she had stumbled upon the then-fifteen-year-old Brenda le Waleys caring for an injured Mackay following an attack by a monoceros. Already close with Mackay herself, Eleanor had come to think of Brenda as family, which made it all the more difficult at the start of the following decade when Eleanor's father, the king, issued an edict expelling all Jews from the country.
For Brenda le Waleys, the wife of Mackay, came from a long line of prominent Jews.
Eleanor had persuaded her father to make an exception for Brenda, on the king's condition that Brenda remain in the Tower of London.
Mackay had been forbidden from seeing her and, though he had tried to defy that rule several times over the past three years, he had failed each time.
On his last attempt, Mackay had been informed that Brenda would be put to her death if he continued to defy the king.
Despite her preoccupation with her upcoming nuptials to the Count of Bar, Henry III, Eleanor had devised a plan with Mackay to help Brenda escape the country. If their plan failed, it would result in grave consequences for both Brenda and Mackay.
Upset on their behalf, Dylan spoke not a word until Eleanor had left the room with a sweep of her dark blue camello sleeves and Mackay had been dismissed to his home.
Dylan barely looked where he walked as he took in the sight of what he called Trafalgar Square and Mackay corrected to the hamlet of Charing.
"Is that -" Dylan started to ask, but waved off Mackay's curious brow.
"Do you know the story of the Eleanor Crosses?" Brenda had asked as she stood bundled in Dylan's arms on a biting night of their second shared winter in London.
"Edward I, right?" he had asked in reply.
"Why am I not surprised you know?"
"I know they were put in place by a grieving husband and only three remain today. I don't know much beyond that."
Always pleased when she could inform Dylan of history she knew and he didn't, Brenda had walked them forward.
"There were twelve," she said. "This one isn't the original." She had pointed to the cross that towered over the square. "It was reconstructed by the Victorians because the original was destroyed during the Civil Wars in the sixteen hundreds. Can you imagine loving someone that much, Dylan? Marking every spot where their body rested with twelve elaborate crosses?"
"I can," Dylan had said, smoothing a hand along Brenda's hip.
She had closed her eyes in apologetic grimace and had shaken her head. "Of course you can. Because Ton - fuck, Dylan, I wasn't thinking. I got caught up in the moment. I didn't mean to be so insensitive."
"Baby." He had tilted her chin up to reassure her with his lips. "I wasn't thinking about Toni."
It stood before him now: the original Charing cross. Dark-hued marble proclaiming a king's unyielding love for his late wife.
He wished he could capture it in a photograph, for Brenda.
His wish was left unfulfilled as Mackay called out for Dylan to hurry along, noting that their time for preparation was limited.
With the king currently monitoring construction at Caernarfon Castle in northwest Wales, the younger Eleanor had told Mackay it might be his only opportunity.
Once in the privacy of Mackay's home, Dylan asked how the situation had been affected by his own actions.
It was simple, said Mackay behind the curtain where he stood changing. They had faced this same situation three times, all with different outcomes.
And, added an emerging Mackay no longer clad in steel armor, but rather in a loose-fit, long belted gown, he was fucking erked of their lives repeating.
In the first time, which Dylan gathered had been the original outcome, Mackay and his Brenda had successfully escaped to Spain, and then later to the newly formed Ottoman Empire. They had lived out their days with their children in what Dylan thought may have been Turkey.
The second round saw the same edict and the same help from Princess Eleanor. Nine years after their escape, Brenda le Waleys-Mackay had been accused of bringing sickness upon the child of a Spanish noble and had been burnt at the stake.
Mackay closed his eyes, swallowed down the baseball-sized lump in his throat, and continued speaking to the point that Dylan realized when the events would have occurred.
In the year of twelve hundred and ninety-nine.
Precisely seven hundred years later, Dylan had sat down with a bottle of wine and a game of Battleship.
"Fuck, man," said Dylan once Mackay had finished his story, "I didn't know. I swear I didn't know."
Perspiration clung to Dylan's palms. He wiped his hands on the edge of Mackay's oak table, which did little to help.
"Our words and actions ernen forse," said Mackay, "forse often left unseen. Oft and lome, they are after-clap."
"But if I had known," began Dylan, "maybe…"
"You nolde have of-saken us of our Brendas?" Bitterness displayed along the corners of Mackay's lips.
Dylan would have also been bitter, had he alone carried the memory of watching Brenda be murdered in cold blood.
He felt for Mackay.
"Yes," said Dylan. "I was angry with Bren and thought pretending we'd never had a connection would make it easier to get over her, make it easier to accept the fact that I'd fucked us up yet again. I had no idea it would destroy every life we ever had together. Had no idea we even had lives together, or that I made it easier for Anteros to come between us. How did you know what I said?"
"Us Dylans carpen amongst ourselves," said Mackay, adding that none of the Dylans were overly pleased with their Beverly Hills counterpart.
"Yeah, I got that," said Dylan. "This isn't gonna be like a Dickens-type thing where the Past Mes keep dropping in to yell at me about my bad choices, is it?"
"What is Dickens?" asked Mackay.
"It's more like who is - ah, never mind," said Dylan. "Just know I'm gonna do things right with my Bren this time, and hopefully that will help the rest of you get your lives back the way they were."
"I cannot wakien myne Brenda's mordre. Eft-sone," said Mackay, and Dylan found himself comforting the now hunched-over, broken man sobbing into his red-and-white pitcher.
"You won't," said Dylan. "I promise. Your third time's gonna be the charm. You'll get your Brenda out of the Tower and you'll live a long, happy life together."
"The charm?" Mackay's words were muffled. "You dabble in sorcery?"
"No," said Dylan. "It's a thing we say where I come from."
It was then when Mackay recalled his promise to Dylan to return him home.
First, Dylan asked Anteros' role in Mackay's tale.
Anteros, said Mackay, had been believed to have visited the noble who had then brought forth the accusations towards Brenda.
Dylan awoke gasping for air. His pillow was drenched, as if he had spent half the night bawling into it.
He was relieved to see Brenda sitting on the edge of his bed, alive and well.
"Nat let me in," she said, allowing him to cling to her. "In fact, he's the one who called me when he heard you crying. Was it the graveyard again?" She traced her hands along his arms. The movement brought Dylan an instant tranquility.
"It was worse," he said, "so much worse."
"One of our past lives?"
"One I really hope won't stay our past life."
"It's possible to change them?" asked Brenda.
"I hope so," said Dylan. "I have to believe it is."
His hand roamed over every exposed inch of her and then some, wanting to feel for himself that blood still coursed through her veins and breaths still expelled from her lungs.
"What would you say," he breathed against her neck, "if you knew that in one of our lives, there had been cheating?"
"Cheating?" she asked, combing her fingers through his hair. "One of our past selves cheated?"
"It's possible," he said. "With one of our best friends."
"Cheated with a best friend? Dylan, is this your way of telling me that you and Val -"
"God no," said Dylan.
"Then you and Donna?"
"No," he said, with greater emphasis. "I haven't been with anyone else this summer. You do know that, Bren; don't you?"
"Yes, I know that," she said. "So then it was possibly a Past You who possibly cheated on Past Me, and that's why you turned your pillow into a rain poncho?"
"That was a different reason entirely," said Dylan, "but if you ever found out about something like that?"
"Well," said Brenda, "I think it would depend on how long it took for my past self to know about it, how I was told, and what happened after I was told. Assuming I was told and assuming it wasn't a two-on-one kind of thing. But I hope this isn't your way of requesting permission to cheat on me, especially not with Donna or Val."
"Absolutely not," he assured. "You're the only one I want, and when I get you, I'm not gonna screw it up by doing something dumb like cheating."
"Good," said Brenda, "because I'm not sure I could ever forgive you for that."
Dylan held her a little closer, struggling with whether to tell her of their past and risk losing her, or to risk Kelly telling her and lose Brenda regardless.
If he lost Brenda again, it wouldn't be only their life affected.
If he lost Brenda again, would he break his promise to Mackay?
For once, Dylan remembered his dream in full. As honest as he wanted to be with Brenda, he couldn't; not if it would continue to destroy their past lives.
Not if Mackay would once more watch his Brenda killed in front of him.
"But," said Brenda as she stroked her palm along Dylan's jaw, "I don't need to know about the bad things that may or may not have happened in our previous lives. I love you the way you are now. It doesn't matter the way you were then."
"Yeah," said Dylan, "we don't have to repeat our pasts." He kissed her hairline. "We're each other's past, present, and future and all that matters is what we do in this life."
He hoped it did, anyway. Iris believed as much.
"Then come on, my little poet," said Brenda. "We promised to spend time with your mom and Nat before our shifts."
"Little?" asked Dylan. "How am I little when I'm in love with a pixie? And as I recall Bren, you're the one who made that promise. I never agreed to this double date."
"I'm not a pixie," she said. "It's not a double date. And you did agree to go to Iris' ceramics class."
"Only because you would've backed out on our car and clothes shopping plans if I didn't."
"I thought you and your mother were getting along."
"We are, but I don't have to go spin wet clay on a wheel to prove that."
"If I told you it would help me escape reality for a little bit and help me to not have to think of everything going on with my family?"
"I'd say that was unfair."
"But successful?"
"But successful," groused Dylan.
Brenda kissed his chin in her gratitude and instructed him to dress. She then scored her revenge by pointing out that she had left her house before he had even awoken.
Dylan blamed his dream for keeping him asleep, which Brenda laughed off.
He had to admit that he enjoyed the ceramics class more than he would have believed possible, though he thought that may have been due to Brenda's and Nat's reactions at his abysmal attempt at the pottery wheel.
An attempt Iris also thought hilarious. She, however, did a much better job at hiding her amusement.
"It would seem my son did not get my talents," she said with a small smile.
"He has plenty of other talents," said Brenda, patting Dylan's elbow in sympathy.
"Like when we're," Dylan began, only to be abruptly cut off by Brenda.
He had been joking, as he had not a bit of desire to discuss their sex life in front of either his mother or Nat.
Brenda walked Nat to the car. Dylan dawdled behind to gain an understanding of what was going on between Iris and Nat.
"As of right now," said Iris in response to Dylan's inquiry, "we are just two adults who more or less share a son and enjoy each other's company."
"You two are spending a hell of a lot of time together for just enjoying each other's company," said Dylan. "C'mon, Mom, you know you can tell me the truth. I can take it. Do you like Nat?"
"Honestly, Dylan, I cannot be sure of how I feel. When I do know, I'll tell you. Will that suffice?"
Dylan said it would. He then asked Iris if she was avoiding her potential feelings out of nerves.
Iris said that to the world, Dylan was still sixteen, and there were subjects that a mother should not discuss with her sixteen-year-old son. Dylan reminded her that he was bordering on seventeen. Iris said when he was nineteen, then they could readdress the matter.
"Is Dylan holding you up back there?" called out Brenda, who had her arm looped around Nat's back.
"Oh, look who's talking," said Dylan. "How late were we to the spring dance again, Bren?"
"You can't be late to dances, Dylan. People show up fashionably late to those things all the time."
"Is that why we were also late to the luau?" he asked.
"Okay, in my defense, one of my best friends was in the freaking hospital recovering from her near-death experience," she said.
"And Steve's party?"
"Brandon said Steve showed up late to his own party!"
"Are they often like this?" smiled Iris.
"Oh yeah." Nat gave a boisterous laugh, complete with quaking shoulders. "Frequently. They sure know how to keep you entertained."
"It would seem we amuse people, Bren," said Dylan.
"Maybe we should both go into acting, Dyl. We could be the next Lucy and Desi. You can be Lucy."
"I think I'll stick to writing the media you star in."
"Speaking of writing," said Nat, "how is that play of yours coming along, Dylan, my boy?"
"You didn't tell me you're writing a play." Iris granted her son a questioning glance.
"I would've, eventually," said Dylan. "Just wanted it to be something before I said anything. Suiter hasn't even approved it yet."
"He will," said Brenda. "You're getting closer to your final draft. I can feel it."
"I hope so," said Dylan, "or I won't have it done in time for your audition."
That reminded Brenda to ask if Dylan still planned to take her to Ruthann Simmons' house later that week for a meeting of the West Beverly thespian society. Deciding it was better to not ask if the thespian society was, in fact, a drama club, Dylan again agreed that he would go with Brenda to the first meeting.
At his offer to attend future meetings, Brenda said she would likely be fine on her own after the first one.
"My kids, starting their walk down the road to fame," said Nat, hugging one arm around Dylan and his other arm around Brenda. "Did I ever tell you about the time a young, up-and-coming theatre actor looking to break into other mediums came into the diner for a good cup of Pop's Joe before his first television audition?"
"James Dean?" guessed Dylan.
"Oh, James frequented the diner, but nah," said Nat. "This one was Gene Wilder."
"As in, the Gene Wilder of Willy Wonka and Bonnie and Clyde?" asked a gaping Brenda.
"Bonnie and Clyde?" asked an internally smug Dylan.
Perhaps Nat's comment would lead to Brenda's choice of Halloween costume.
"Brandon had this phase where he decided he'd be in the CIA, so he used to have me watch all kinds of those things," said Brenda. "I think all those old movies are what led to his Frank Capra obsession. You know about that, right?"
"May have heard of it," said Dylan.
"Hey now, what are you calling old?" asked Nat.
"Surely not a movie released when Nathaniel and I were young," said Iris.
"Approaching classical," Brenda corrected.
"A worthy save, dear. I recall when a group of us went to the theater to see Warren Beatty star in that masterpiece of a film." Iris set her hand along Nat's arm. "Do you remember that, Nathaniel?"
"Warren Beatty?" asked Nat. "I remember the gals being into Warren."
"Ah, yes. Your crush on Faye Dunaway. I almost forgot."
"You did forget. Billy was the one with the crush on Faye. I was always more of a Frances Fisher kind of guy."
"Well, we know our next movie night," Dylan told his girl.
"Only if you want me to start crushing on Warren Beatty." Brenda sidled up to Dylan, allowing him to tuck himself around her.
"Now, you kids know I don't like to pry," began Nat, "but by chance are you two -"
"Not yet," said Dylan.
"We agreed to figure out our schedules first," added Brenda. "But don't worry, Nat; I don't have any plans to date anyone else. Dylan knows how I feel about him."
"Hell yeah, I do."
"Have to say I'm relieved about that, Bren. You had me worried there when you were picked up outside the diner by -"
"By whom?" Dylan cut in. "Who picked you up?"
"It was just Emilio," said Brenda. "He'd heard about the Pit from Tony Miller and wanted to check it out. I made up some lame excuse to change his mind in case you walked in and saw us in there."
"Thanks for not making me see you hang out in the Pit with him," said Dylan.
Hypocrite, he thought. You're a fucking hypocrite. Did you or did you not hang all over Kelly at the Pit?
I know. I know. But Bren doesn't want to know that stuff. And I don't know how the fuck I can tell her anyway now that I know losing her puts her Middle Ages counterpart in danger.
You don't know that.
Oh really? Then why the fuck did Mackay have to watch her die like that? They'd already had their great love story, happy ending included. His life didn't need to repeat. I did that to him and I sure as fuck am not doing that to him again. Guy deserves to be just as happy with his Bren as I'm gonna be with mine.
"Though I did tell you I'd be okay if you needed to see other people," Dylan added for precautionary measures. "If you needed to see them in the Pit, I would've grudgingly learned to accept it."
"I wouldn't've been okay with it." Brenda hooked her fingers through the belt loops of Dylan's shorts. "Even if I'd started dating Emilio, I wouldn't show up to the same diner you've eaten at since you were little with another guy. I couldn't do that to you. It's not like we ended on bad terms. Well, not really. Well, I guess if -"
"No," said Dylan. "We didn't. You just needed time."
"Darling," Iris looked from her son to Nat, with a quick glance thrown to Brenda so that it was difficult to determine for whom she had meant the endearment. "I do believe there was a question you had for my instructor, wasn't there?"
"Oh yes!" said Nat, his hand waving about. "That question I had for your instructor. Thank you for the reminder. I better go ask it. Kids, you be safe getting to work."
"I expect we will be seeing you later?" asked Iris as she embraced Brenda.
"Actually," said Brenda, "Mom approved a woman's conference between Donna and I tonight, so I won't be home until tomorrow."
"A woman's conference?"
"It's what our girl calls a sleepover," said Dylan. "A slumber party, if you will."
"It is not a sleepover," said Brenda. "We have to strategize. Bonnie and Emily are both coming. We're going to go over the choreography for Hello Day. I want Val to do it with us, but since I don't know how that will work out, we were thinking of asking Ruthann."
"Ruthann could be good." Dylan tried for a casual tone on his next question, though he felt anything but. "Emily's coming to your sleepover?"
"Woman's conference," Brenda repeated. "And Sherice will be there, too, so she can show us what costumes she has in mind."
"In Steve's house," came from Dylan's lips.
I better check there ain't any fucking gasoline.
"It's not like Steve will be peeking or anything. He's probably gonna crash at Casa Walsh tonight."
"Well now, that just won't do," said Nat. "Dylan, how about you invite the other guys over? We can get the grill fired up and enjoy this beautiful weather."
"Oh, now who's having a sleepover?" Brenda giggled.
"It's not a sleepover," said Dylan as he internally debated over whether to invite Silver and Scanlon in addition. "It's a convening of the minds."
"Oh sure, a convening of the minds." Brenda's head bopped in a sarcastic nod. "With action movies, I'm guessing. Assuming Steve gets to pick and not you or my brother. Otherwise you'll be watching Westerns and black-and-white films emphasizing the Hays code all night."
"I didn't hear you complaining when you watched film noir with us. Or the screwball comedies."
"Barbara Stanwyck is a legend, what can I say?"
"Our children watch films older than us, and they want to call the films from our younger days old." A smile danced across Iris' lips. "I do think you both need to be heading out, don't you?"
"See?" said Dylan. "Brenda's gonna make us -"
"I am not gonna make us late." Brenda placed a kiss upon Nat's cheek and jumped towards the Porsche. "Now who's running late?" she asked Dylan.
"Yeah yeah." Dylan unlocked the passenger door, earning a cheeky smile from Brenda.
"You're really itching for me to kiss that smile right off of your bewitching face; aren't you, dear?"
"Why Mr. McKay, if that's your method of flirting, it needs work."
"Oh, I can show you flirting."
"I know you can. But then we really will be late to work."
"Sounds like someone has more than just a harmless bit of flirting on the brain."
"Get in the car," said Brenda, attempting to maintain a straight face.
"Yes, dear," said Dylan. "Or would you prefer myne owne hertis rote?"
"My own heart's root? Now, that's something you don't hear every day. Although I personally like mo shíorghrá."
Lips parting in stunned silence, Dylan hurriedly followed Brenda into the car to inquire how she knew both phrases.
Why, from Geoffrey Chaucher's The Canterbury Tales, of course, she answered for the former, as if the sentences in the old story were common knowledge.
The latter had been in a book of Irish tales that had once belonged to her late grandfather. It had been one of her favorite books as a child and had somehow become lost before she began junior high.
Dylan made a mental note to ask Jim the title of the book.
"There was something Dad said his dad would say to my Grandma," Brenda continued. "Is ceol mo chroí thú. I probably butchered it. I always thought it was so beautiful, but never could get the pronunciation right. Maybe I can find a college class around here that teaches Irish and enroll in it senior year."
"You are the music of my heart."
"Hang on; you speak Irish?"
"No," said Dylan, and then switched to discussing the next time they would go for a surf.
Growing up a loner, a person who both defied authority and secretly craved the approval of authority, Dylan never anticipated that he would enjoy being a figure of authority himself.
As he watched Petey Scanlon's swimming skills improve to the point that Petey had acquired an admirer or two, Dylan wondered how he had never before considered the idea of teaching kids to swim.
It brought him a feeling even better than being inside the Greenroom.
Adam had nodded knowingly the first time Dylan had expressed precisely how much he enjoyed coaching.
"They get to you," Adam had said. "The kids. They get to you. Just make sure you don't get too attached. In this job, they can be here one day and gone the next. And you'll never know where they went or why they left, but you'll know whatever happened couldn't be good."
Dylan didn't tell Adam that he was used to being left behind.
"Hi!" came the cheerful voice that interrupted Dylan's concentration on the chlorinated water.
"Donna, hey." Dylan accepted her warm hug. "What brings you over to the Y?" he asked with one eye trained on his aspiring athletes in the pool. "Here to see Brandon? Think his shift should be done soon."
Donna didn't take the bait. Dylan took it as a sign to lessen his teasing about her crush.
"Scott asked Bonnie if she could pick up his siblings today since Scott has an interview, so I said I'd go with her. You've met Bonnie, right?"
"Sort of." Dylan nodded towards the brunette with the kind brown eyes similar to Donna's. "How's it going, Bonnie?"
"Going good, McKay," said Bonnie. "How's Petey coming along? Scotty says he practices every night in the bath, though I doubt Petey wants anyone to know that."
Dylan, too, had practiced nightly in his large, almost pool-sized bathtub when he had first begun learning to swim. He would remain in the tub for hours, until his nanny found the key Dylan had hidden to the locked bathroom and brought him out for a toweling-off that included a warning against pruning.
He never cared about the pruning.
When his mother left, the water offered a tender embrace badly needed by a little boy searching for comfort amidst significant change.
"His technique's gotten a lot better," Dylan replied. "Though between you and me, I think Dawn has a lot to do with it. Dawn and maybe Mason."
Dylan slightly tilted his head in the direction of Petey. The third youngest Scanlon child and his new friends had decided to explore the middle section of the pool, the part that curved towards the deeper end.
"Scotty's really grateful to you," said Bonnie. "He doesn't think he's ever seen Petey so happy. Since Petey started the class, he's already been invited to two birthday parties."
"Kid's had it rough," said Dylan. "Least I can do."
Sensing Dylan's impending squirming at her gratitude, Bonnie smoothly transitioned into a different topic.
"Just wait until you see Bren perform," she said. "Ems joked they could quit school and form a girl band to tour with Nirvana."
"Emily's a fan of Nirvana?" asked Dylan.
"Bonnie's the Nirvana fan," answered Donna with a smile to her friend. "Ems is more of a fan of New Edition."
"And you, Don. What's the name of that band you love? Color Me Sad?"
"Color Me Badd," Donna corrected, before asking how Dylan knew.
Ah fuck, here we go again.
"When Bren and I were helping you move into Casa Walsh," lied Dylan. "Don't you have a poster of them or something?"
"Oh, that's right," said Donna. "You probably saw my poster."
"Did you hear Color Me Badd are giving a concert at the Troubador in April?" asked Bonnie. "We should go see them. I can probably get tickets from my dad."
"Oh my God," said Donna, "I will love your family forever if you can get us tickets."
"Dad's a big name in the music industry. Shouldn't be a problem. We'll make it a girls night with Bren. Sherice, if she wants to come. Maybe Ems and Marianne."
"That would be incredible," Donna gushed. "Do you think we could get VIP passes? I wouldn't ask, but I think I'd just die if I could meet Kevin."
"Wait." Realizing Donna's earlier comment, Dylan backtracked. "Sorry to interrupt, but did I hear you right? Scanlon has an interview?"
"Over at the Pit," said Donna. "Nat didn't tell you?"
"I guess it's not something I'd need to know," said Dylan. "Scanlon getting the job would really ease the pressure off of Nat and Brandon. Their shifts have been crazy since Courtney went off to college."
Dylan had made it a nightly conversation to coax Nat into working less, as Nat had begun doing over the summer.
He had yet to convince Nat, but didn't have any plans to give up on the attempt.
Donna looked at Bonnie. "Nat is Dylan's," she paused, searching for the appropriate word.
"Dad," said Dylan. "He's my dad."
"But I thought Jack McKay…" Bonnie trailed off in her perplexity.
"Yes," said Donna, "Nat Bussichio is Dylan's dad."
"Cool," said Bonnie. "Then maybe you can get your dad to hire my boyfriend."
"I think Scanlon can do that all on his own," said Dylan. "If you'll excuse me ladies, we have a couple more techniques to practice before today's lesson ends."
"Of course." Donna nodded. "We'll just be over there." She pointed to the bleachers.
Dylan noted the good form of Sierra Phillips, the areas in which Gabriel Acosta-DeLeon had greatly improved, and the ones in which Derek Edwards still needed to.
It was the consistent fear of Daisy McCoy that Dylan discussed with Adam following the lesson.
"I'm not sure Daisy wants to be in the class," said Dylan as he accepted Adam's offered cup of coffee. Just one taste cast shame upon the Peach Pit's recipe. "I can barely get her in the water. She seems to think some kind of water demon lives in there. She might enjoy Bren's class more."
"Daisy's family moved here from Connecticut about a year ago," said Adam. "She was three when Gloria struck. Completely trashed her neighbor's place."
"Damn," said Dylan. "That'll do it. Are her parents making her learn to swim?"
Adam shook his head. "Daisy wants to learn. Mrs. McCoy said Daisy saw her older brother struggling under the water. That's likely where Daisy got the water demon idea from. Didn't you believe in those?"
"Well sure," said Dylan. "I told my fourth grade teacher I was going to move to Sicily to track down Charybdis. Was pretty confident I could defeat her better than Odysseus."
"How'd that go?"
"It didn't. The teach told my father, who told me Charybdis didn't exist and he wasn't going to allow me to fly over to Sicily to prove him wrong."
"Well it's up to you if you want to tell Daisy that water demons don't exist."
"I'll tell her they aren't in the pool," said Dylan. "Maybe also tell her that they aren't here, in California. But not that they aren't real. Not gonna kill a kid's imagination like that."
"I knew you were the right guy for this job, McKay."
Dylan talked it over with Brenda after her own lesson. She agreed with Dylan and shared her appreciation that he would not interfere with Daisy's imagination.
"You know, you really are so great with kids," she said. "You must've had a younger sister or brother in one of our lives."
"Yeah." The words dug into Dylan as would a pickaxe into quartzite. "Must've."
"Hey." Brenda spread her arm out across the back of his neck. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Dylan smiled. "Nothing's wrong."
"Dylan."
"Well, I was just thinking."
"About?"
"About," Dylan grasped for a subject, "about our first date. You remember that, right?"
"The one when you stood me up, the one that was technically just two friends hanging out, or our real first date?"
"The one when we ditched the movies to go to the condo."
"So the one where you released your frustration on an innocent potted plant."
"Yeah, that one." Dylan brought her hand down from his neck to his back and joined his hand with hers. "I told you I only drink at family reunions? That wasn't exactly honest."
"I figured as much. Are you going to tell me you've been drinking?"
"No," Dylan said in one of the few truths he could. "But I'm pretty damn sure my drinking came between us in one of our lives, so I'd like to do everything possible to stay sober in this one. And I was wondering; if it's too much to ask, I get it -"
"Dylan, I love you."
"I know, but -"
"No." Brenda splayed herself against him until Dylan had nowhere to look but in her earnest eyes. "I love you," she said with greater emphasis. "It isn't a conditional love. You don't have to strive to be perfect or be afraid of telling me things. I'm not gonna make you open up to me, but I do want you to feel and know that you can."
Dylan's throat threatened to close. "Will you," he expelled a slight cough and tried again, "will you go with me? To my AA meetings? I stopped going after - after our scare and, I mean, we're both planning on this being a lifelong commitment, so before you sign up to that, I think you should know the sides of me I don't like people to see."
His nerves didn't typically reach the point where he began to ramble, but when they did, it always had something to do with Brenda.
"Baby." She calmed him with just the brush of her hand over his shoulder. "I'm honored you'd trust me enough to tell me about this and to ask me to go with you. When are the meetings?"
Every day, he told her, and then said he had considered Thursday evenings.
Thursdays were perfect for her schedule, said Brenda, adding that she would make the time work if it began to conflict with rehearsals.
Dylan kissed both of Brenda's eyebrows, the tip of her nose, and the curve of her jaw before she slid out of his car to walk up Steve's driveway with a cheery goodbye.
"I can't do it," Dylan said to his steering wheel. "I can't let myself kiss her again if I'm just gonna lose her. But dammit, I can't not kiss her, either."
It's been so fucking long.
How soon will she start doing that thing with her -
"Thinking you're gonna lose Bren?"
Dylan jumped in his seat. "Shit, Sanders. You trying to make a guy spend the night in the ER?"
"Talking to your steering wheel is never a good sign, bro." Readjusting the overhead mirror to check over his curls, Steve spread out on the seat Brenda had just vacated. "So what's the deal? You guys have basically been inseparable since at least Yosemite. We all thought you were either back together, or getting back together. What's this about losing her? Is it Reina? Bren changed her mind about dating him?"
"Sanders, you know I don't talk about this kind of stuff."
"You'd rather talk it out with Brando? You gotta talk to one of us, man. 'Cause if the steering wheel starts to answer you, we're in trouble."
"It's not Reina. Doesn't have anything to do with Reina. It's just -" Dylan glanced towards the window of the mansion, where the jiggle of Brenda's hips indicated she had found her rhythm with Donna. "It's me, you know? I don't exactly have the best luck with relationships and I've hit the jackpot with Bren. Really don't wanna screw it up."
"I don't think you can," said Steve. "I've seen the other girls you dated. Glimpses, you know; we'd drifted, so it wasn't a fully insider perspective, but I still saw it around school. And brother, you never looked at any of those chicks the way I've seen you look at Bren. Do you look at her and hear wedding bells? I always thought if I found the chick I was supposed to marry, I'd hear wedding bells."
Dylan tilted his head at Steve, who answered the question Dylan didn't feel the need to ask.
"I thought I heard them with Kelly," said Steve. "But I don't know how we can ever be a thing again. Not after how she was with Stace. Maybe I could've brushed that off as Kelly's unrecognized jealousy over me having another girl, but I can't brush off the things she's told Donna or the rumors she's telling people about Bren."
"Wait just a damn minute. Kelly's spreading rumors about Bren? What's she saying?"
"You haven't heard them?"
"I don't listen to the grapevine."
"Well, maybe you should."
"You gonna tell me what they're saying or?"
"You know Miller, right? Tony Miller, the quarterback we've known since kindergarten?"
"You've known since kindergarten."
"Huh?"
"Nothing. What about Miller? He's spreading the rumors?"
"Tony's the one who overheard and told me. Supposedly Bren's a boyfriend snatcher or something?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Kelly's telling people Brenda stole her Minneapolis best friend's boyfriend."
If Dylan could have cursed, he would have done so audibly and quite loudly.
"Dammit!" he said instead, as a plethora of curses set up a scrolling marquee in his brain.
"Miller seemed confident no one took any stock in the rumor," said Steve, "but he thought we should know. He thinks this might only be the start of what he thinks is Kelly's plan to tear down Brenda. Make the other girls at West Bev think she's out to steal their boyfriends so no one will want to be her friend."
"Miller's right. There's no telling what Kelly will say or do."
"Then you believe she had something to do with what happened to Zosha?"
"What do you think? You've known Kelly longer," Dylan said, not wanting to get into their false kindergarten memories.
"Bro, I don't know what to think." Steve fiddled with his thumbs. "It doesn't help that the last time anyone saw Zosha before she disappeared, she was heading over to Kelly's. I mean, I dated the girl. I loved the girl - first girl I've ever loved. I'd like to believe she wouldn't be involved in something like that, but do I truly know her at all?"
"That's the million dollar question, isn't it. We both know Kelly has a temper when things aren't going her way."
"As long as that temper keeps her away from my favorite girls," said Steve. "When's Val coming?"
"You're including Val amongst your favorite girls?"
"Don't know her well enough for her to be up there with Donna, Andrea and Brenda, but what I saw of her for the time she was here, I think she could be."
"Does Sanders have a little crush?"
"How would anyone not have a crush on Val? The chick is smoking hot! She makes half the girls at West Bev look like Plain Janes. I swear you could drown in those blue eyes of hers and you wouldn't even care. Well maybe you would, since you're already planning out your vows to Bren."
"You gonna go for it? Ask Val out?"
"No way. Not gonna do Silver wrong like that. He's got it bad for her, didn't you notice?"
"Oh yeah, I noticed. Too bad he sent his first letter right when shit hit the fan. Hope Val receives it."
"That's why letters are gonna become obsolete. I'm telling ya; email is where it's at. And one day, we're all gonna have phones we can hold in our hands, put in our pockets, and check email on."
Dylan almost asked if Steve had travelled from or into the future.
That, he realized, was just the inventive brain of Steve Sanders.
"Call me old-fashioned," said Dylan. "I like getting letters."
"Old-fashioned?" asked Steve. "Dude, you're antiquated!"
Steve inquired of Dylan's plans for the evening. Becoming enthused when Dylan mentioned Nat's idea, Steve chose to follow behind the Porsche in his Corvette. Both cars were left outside Casa Walsh when Brandon, grateful for the chance at distraction, suggested a carpool in his Mustang.
The boys dropped into the grocery store nearest to Roxbury Park without being close enough for Dylan to pass by the dreaded park.
When Brandon nearly broke down looking at a packet of frosted animal crackers, Dylan let Steve take the lead on the rest of the groceries and ushered Brandon back to the car.
"You know he's gonna buy out the chips aisle," said Brandon.
"I know," said Dylan. "Look, man. You've let me talk out all kinds of shit with you that most guys our age prefer to avoid. If you need -"
"I need," said Brandon.
Dylan waited for him to continue.
Earlier in the day, Donna had filed the paperwork to take Felice to court for emancipation.
"It should have been a great day," said Brandon. "Donna's almost free of Felice's clutches. I took her out for ice-cream to celebrate, but then I - I don't know how to say this -"
"Just say it."
"I felt something. My twin connection; it was going berserk, like Bren was in trouble and needed me. But when I stopped by to check on her at work, she was fine. Had been fine all day. I think I'm losing it."
"In trouble?" asked Dylan. "In trouble like how?"
"In trouble like she's trapped somewhere," said Brandon. His eyes lacked their usual luster. "Somewhere I can't go. Maybe the connection's out of whack with all this worrying over Val."
"Maybe." Dylan projected far more certainty than he felt.
Trapped? What do you mean, trapped? he mentally yelled. Trapped like Kelly's plotting something? Trapped like - can Bran feel the Past Brendas?
Or - fuck, is he feeling my other Bren? Trapped like - trapped like in a marriage to Monaghan she's regretting?
Or trapped like Monaghan putting her in a psych ward?
Um, where the fuck did that thought come from?
Wait…Brandon, are you feeling the Brenda Itero said is out of her time?
Which one is it, man? Tell me which one!
"I didn't mean to scare you." Brandon cut into Dylan's frantic reverie. "I know there's nothing up with my sister. I'm sure we're just out of sorts waiting for news on Val. Probably gonna feel all sorts of weird stuff 'til that gets resolved."
"If you feel anything else like that, tell me," Dylan demanded. "With this Zosha thing, we can't be too careful," he added.
"You're right," said Brandon. "Okay, I'll keep you in the loop of any weird feelings. But I'm sure they'll abate when I have both of my sisters around."
"Any update on Val?"
"Silver's called every day hoping for one. All I know is we're supposed to hear a court ruling sometime this week. My sisters have never needed anyone to rescue them, but that doesn't stop me from wanting to fly over to Buffalo to use my Model UN skills on the Judge, or wanting to track down Harry Wilson to find out what exactly he did to Zosha and how Kelly was involved so I can prevent the same thing happening to Bren. I can't remember the last time I felt this useless. It friggin' sucks."
"I hear ya," said Dylan in a quieter tone.
Steve popped his head into the open car window and asked if Dylan would be paying for their purchases.
Dylan placed most of Steve's choices back on the shelves.
Delighted to see all three boys, Nat told them that he had invited David along when he had seen the boy that afternoon.
"I don't know him well enough," said Nat, "but he seems like a good kid."
"He is," said Dylan and Brandon in unison.
"If you forget the fact that he's King of the Geeks," said Steve.
"Now Steve, would you call me a geek?" asked Nat.
"Of course not." Steve's brows knit together in bemusement. "You're Nat. King of the Cool Cats."
"How is young Mr. Silver a geek, then?"
"Well, he - the way he dresses, the things he says, listens to -"
"If I were to tell you that the way I dressed when I was your age; the things I said and listened to were considered strange by my peers, would you also think of me as a geek?"
"You'd still be Nat."
"Then I suggest you reconsider the attitude you have toward David Silver," said Nat, "and remember that we all have our peculiarities."
Dylan and Brandon burst out laughing. "Oh, Stevie, he got you," said Brandon.
"Well played," said Dylan.
Dinner began as a lively affair. They savored their grilled chicken, thanking Nat for preparing the meal. Dylan took pleasure in roasting Steve over his own peculiarities, with Brandon soon joining in.
Halfway through dinner, Nat disappeared to answer the incessant ringing of the telephone.
He returned bearing a gaze absent of its constant joy. A warning siren hurtled through Dylan.
"Nat?" He struggled to find his voice. "What is it?"
"You should take this," said Nat, his tone more somberly than was his custom. "You too, Brando."
Dylan and Brandon rushed towards the phone.
David spoke on the other end, words that to Dylan sounded more like mumbo-jumbo than coherent sentences.
Bonnie had called Scott. Why had Bonnie called Scott, asked the boys.
Because Scott lived down the block from Tony Miller, whose house sat the closest to Steve's.
Dylan wanted to tell David to cut the bullshit and get down to the reason for his call.
Brandon beat him to it.
"Silver, look, just tell us if something happened to my sister and Donna. And if they're in the hospital, tell us which one, now."
Dylan gratefully accepted the arm Brandon threw around his shoulder.
"There was an alter - alter; Sherice, what word did you use again?" asked David.
"Altercation!" they heard Sherice Ashe call out.
"Right," said David, "there was an altercation between - oh, here, you just tell them, Bonnie."
"Brandon?" asked Bonnie.
"Bonnie, just tell us what happened," said Brandon.
"And then I want to talk to Bren." Dylan didn't bother to disguise the urgency in his tone.
Harry Wilson had been found, said Bonnie, skulking in Steve's backyard. Tony and Harry had been involved in an altercation that had resulted in both boys being brought downtown.
Steve had been accused of housing a wanted fugitive. Emily had injured her wrist trying to pull Harry off of Tony, who had gained a bruised lip in their fight.
"So Bren's downtown with all of you?" asked Dylan.
"And Donna, she's with Bren?" asked Steve, momentarily possessing more concern over his friends than his legal trouble.
It was the first time Dylan had known Steve's troubles to have been incurred by someone other than Steve. Dylan clung to his certitude that Steve had been as clueless to Harry Wilson's whereabouts as the rest of them.
"They're both fine, right?" Brandon chimed in.
"Seriously," said Dylan. His fear had begun to bleed into his intonation. "Put Bren on the phone."
"I can't," said Bonnie.
"Then put Donna on the phone so she can tell us about my twin," said Brandon, as Dylan shouted, "Why the hell not?"
For the reason they had been in the backyard to stumble across Harry Wilson, said Bonnie.
They had been searching for Donna and Brenda.
And, added David, Jackie Taylor had expressed to David's father her concern that Kelly had not been seen that weekend.
Not since Kelly had received a mysterious phone call from the person she had referred to as an old friend.
-x
Middle Ages glossary - ernen: to earn .. forse: matter, consequence .. oft and lome: frequently .. after-clap: an evil consequence, result .. nolde: would not .. of-saken: to deny .. carpen: to talk, speak, say .. wakien: to watch .. myne: my .. mordre: murder .. eft-sone: again .. myne owne hertis rote: my own heart's root .. as found in: A Concise Dictionary of Middle English by A.L. Mayhew and Walter W. Skeat on the website for the Universität Innsbruck.
Irish glossary - mo shíorghrá: my eternal love
Other sources: the All Things Medieval blog; edwardthesecond on Blogspot; the English Heritage website; "Exile from England: The Expulsion of the Jews in 1290" by Gregg Delgadillo on the website for Eastern Illinois University; the Fashion-Era website; HiSoUR; IMDB; JStor; the website for Westminster Abbey.
As always, thanks a million for the readership, reviews, follows, favourites, alerts, discourse, plot ideas, etc. Stay healthy and safe out there. x