The stories he heard spoken around him intensified his appreciation that his inhibitions had remained intact.
A few were about the slammer. He'd been in there once himself. The experience had, to his gratitude, been brief. Though a short visit, it had stuck with him, creating his life's mission to avoid landing in there again.
When he was arrested a second time, it hadn't been for overconsumption of alcohol. It hadn't lasted nearly as long as the first.
Neither had lasted long in comparison to the individual wearing a studded dog collar.
Certainly not for five-year stints, or longer.
Others were about court-ordered rehab. He'd known a few people forced to enter rehab, himself not among them.
Still others were about overdoses that resulted in emergency trips to the hospital.
When Brandon heard that, he looked over at Dylan, who shuddered out a breath that fluttered into the crack on the wall.
"Thanks for coming, man," said Dylan, eyeing the individual discussing resuscitation as if the man were a poltergeist come to haunt Dylan.
"Couldn't let you and Silver drive with all your inevitable blubbering," said Brandon, grasping for lighter conversation. "You would've totalled the car and the rental place would've had your head."
"I hope Bren's okay." Barely acknowledging Brandon's ribbing, Dylan fiddled with his denim pockets. "I don't like not being there to pick her up."
"Clare and Val have got it," Brandon assured. "I told them both to suck it up and call Steve if Bren needs anything."
"I'm sure that went over well."
"Oh, you know. A bit of ranting and raving. Something about me being a chauvinist dickhead and thinking they can't take care of Bren themselves. Nothing I can't handle."
"So bottom line is, they won't call Steve."
"I'll keep the phone on."
"Thank you." Dylan glanced to the corner. "Wonder what Silver's talking about over there."
"Judging by his face, I'd say Val."
"Could be Mel."
"Might be both."
"Remember the first time I took you to one of these?" asked Dylan, snagging fried dough off of the table that had provided him with his presumably third cup of coffee for the day.
"Do I ever," said Brandon. "One meeting's enough to scare anyone off of alcohol."
"You'd think," said Dylan. "Yet somehow, I always end up right back where I started."
"What'd your therapist say?" asked Brandon, sure Dylan wouldn't want to discuss such things.
"That it's not gonna be an instant fix, which I already knew. But after the way K2 wrecked Bren and I; I'll go to however many sessions I need to to make sure I won't be screaming once my kid is born."
"I think last night is the first time I heard you scream," said Brandon.
"And I'm guessing it nearly drowned Bren out," said Dylan with a look of self-loathing.
"It happened before hers," Brandon assured. "I'd say if you need anyone to listen -"
"Thanks, but I think I ought to let the professionals handle it."
"Noted."
Brandon wouldn't pry. His imagination would instead fill in the gaps, thinking of all the ways Dylan's K2 expedition could have gone.
Wondering why the hell Dylan had decided to climb a mountain Brandon had seen in the papers was more dangerous than Everest.
Wondering why the hell Dylan had decided to climb any mountain like that at all, when Dylan had never climbed a single mountain in his life outside of Yosemite.
Brandon hadn't known about K2 previously. He hadn't known about the aftermath, or the way it had affected his sister.
And his…brother? Friend? Father of his sister's child?
Brandon couldn't put a label to his relationship with Dylan.
All he knew was that in taking care of Brenda, they were developing something they'd never had before, even in the days when they'd called each other brother.
Before they'd fought over Kelly Taylor, and damaged their relationship to a nearly irreparable extent.
Dylan and Brandon were cornered by a stranger, who tried to get them to open up.
Brandon joked that he was there as a controlaholic. He received the response that all 'holics were welcome as long as they contributed to the coffee fund.
Brandon assured he would.
Dylan couldn't stop staring.
"What?" asked Brandon.
"I think I heard wrong," said Dylan. "Did Brandon Walsh just admit, out loud, that he has a control problem?"
"McKay, when the two most important women in your life, the two women who know you better than anyone, both suffer from amnesia within a year of each other; one of them is shot and nearly dies and the other is crushed by furniture on a train run amuck and nearly dies, you realize you can't control shit."
"Unless you're trying to control whether your niece's father finds out about her."
"That aside."
They were joined by David before taking their seats to listen to two different languages.
Following the initial overview, attendees split into small groups based on their various addictions.
David told Brandon to support Dylan. Brandon said he would take turns between them.
He hadn't expected to hear Dylan speak up, and watched with a gaping mouth as Dylan stood without prompting.
Withdrawing his threadbare wallet from his pocket, Dylan extracted a folded article to hold up before the group.
"This is my reason," said Dylan, showing off the sonogram picture he'd had to wrestle back from Steve when Dylan had first shown the sonogram off to their own group. "This is my little girl. I'm here for her. For her mother. But moreover, for myself. To admit that I'm an addict. Admit that I need help. I've got the twelve steps memorized. Tried them many a time, always in half-assed attempts. This time, it won't be half-assed. This time, I'm gonna succeed."
Dylan inhaled, wiped at his cheek, and threw a look at Brandon before continuing.
"I missed a phone call," he said. "A fucking crucial phone call, one that'll haunt me for the rest of my life. Sure, I could blame the unrecognizable number. The thought that it was just another spam call. And while that isn't a lie, it ain't the truth, either. Truth is, I was probably high as the Eiffel Tower when that call tried to come through. High. Smashed. One of them. Both of them. Point is, I was trashed. I spiraled out of control, and I," Dylan's muscles spasmed as he tried to hold in his emotion, "I almost lost my girls. My reason for being. My everything. And I never would've known, if my lies hadn't come out in the open."
Straightening out his back, Dylan stood tall.
"I thought I could control it," he said. "The drinking. Thought if I had a beer here, a beer there, a couple beers, a few, I'd be fine. That was a lie of its own, just like the lies I spew when I drink. I'll admit it. I have a problem. Have since I was twelve. Young? Sure, but that's what happens when you've got an alcoholic for a father. You either stave off the drink, or you let it consume you. Maybe there's an in-between, maybe there ain't. Jack, though; he'd never admit he had a problem. Jack would tell you you're the one with the problem. I refuse to be Jack. I won't let my family walk in on me trashing the living room because we ran out of milk. I'm gonna control it. I'm gonna put in the effort to keep controlling it, so that my daughter will never turn around and give me the same face her uncle did when he thought I'd chosen to abandon her."
The look Dylan gave Brandon then and the words that lingered in the air caused a sucker-punch to Brandon's gut.
He hadn't wanted to accept the possibility of Dylan being a deadbeat, but he had. Brandon told himself it was to protect his sister, to protect the child within her.
He hadn't recognized the man Dylan had become. He still didn't, as Dylan slouched in his chair.
Because the man who sat beside Brandon now had blossomed into an even better version than the one Brandon had known when Dylan had put Brenda above everyone and everything.
Including Brandon.
He continued to mull over Dylan's words whilst he sat beside David in a different group.
There must be something in the air, Brandon thought when David also found the courage to stand.
"I'm an addict," said David. "Recovering addict. I haven't popped that kind of a pill in ages, but shit, is it tempting. Messes with the meds, though. Yeah, I still pop pills. The good kind, they tell me; if such a thing exists."
David slightly rolled his eyes, eliciting soft chuckles from the group.
"You see, I've got manic depression," he continued. "Bipolar, I've heard it called now. Fits. Two polarities living together, battling each other. When I was fifteen, my best friend killed himself. Accidentally. Seems stupid to say, accidentally, but it was. Scott would've never chosen to go out like that. He was the happiest guy I knew. The dorkiest, too. I used to tease him about a lot of shit that seems trivial now. I think about him a lot, especially when the episodes happen. Wonder why he was the one to go, instead of me."
Brandon didn't even think about it when he reached out to squeeze David's shaking hand.
David granted Brandon a look of immense gratitude, before continuing once more.
"My mom; she tried to kill herself. Unlike Scott, it wasn't accidentally. That makes me want to use, to become numb from those thoughts. But using makes me do things. Things that hurt people. And when I hurt them, I hurt myself. So yeah, I have a problem. There's no cure for it. No cure for the bipolar, either. But learning to live with it? To not let it control me? That's the goal."
Brandon clapped the shoulders of both men, at once.
"Can I just say how proud I am of both of you?" he asked as they headed to the parking lot.
"No need to get mushy, Walsh," said Dylan.
"I mean it," said Brandon. "Takes a lot of guts to do what you both just did."
"The only thing I didn't admit to was my sex addiction," said David. "And considering I want to end up with a sexy bombshell like Valerie Malone, I have no desire to control that. You know; assuming I can get her to acknowledge I'm alive and not stuck in whatever the hell the Styx is. Since it's now my home, or whatever, I assume Val wasn't talking about the '70s rock band that originated in Chicago."
"River of the dead," said Dylan. "Charon uses it to ferry souls into the Underworld."
"Fanfreakingtastic," said David. "Val's pretending I'm dead. Yippee. I'm officially worse off than Steve. Clare might be avoiding him, but at least she's not going around telling people he's dead."
"Can't make any promises it'll work, but Dylan and I have an idea that might help you there," said Brandon.
"I'll take any ideas you have," said David eagerly.
"Hell fucking no," said Valerie when Dylan and Brandon told her of the plan they pretended was David's idea. "I'm not doing a single thing with that dipshit." She paused and added, "Unless it involves a shovel."
"Val," said Brandon in the tone Valerie only accepted from him, "you're the only one who can tell David all the names of those girl bands you and Bren used to listen to on repeat while Owen and I begged you to change the station."
"Shocking Blue is a classic that has since been covered by another classic, Bananarama," argued Val. "And The Bangles is one of the best bands of all-time. We would've made a killing at the After Dark if I'd been able to get them to perform. You were just annoyed it interfered with your country and western."
"Why am I not surprised Brandon was into country?" asked Dylan.
"He had Johnny Cash going nonstop," said Val. "Remind me how many times you shouted to a nonexistent porter for the time to cross the Mason-Dixon line, Bran?"
"Hey, at least I wasn't threatening the principal I would be going down to Liverpool if he told my parents about my grades, or telling Caleb I was his Venus," said Brandon. "And it's not my fault Johnny Cash has album upon album of epic songs."
"I was his Venus," said Val. "He was just too hung up on Bren to notice."
"I thought that was Jim Townsend," said Dylan, "or was it that Zachary kid?"
"Sweet, naive Dyl," said Val, patting Dylan's shoulder. "Bren was wanted by half the school. Did she notice? Of course not. She never does."
Brandon scrutinized Dylan for any reflection of jealousy or anger.
But Dylan only appeared wistful.
"Damn, I wish I'd grown up with you guys," he said.
"No you don't," said Val. "You would've gotten in a hell of a lot of trouble with Cindy for threatening whichever of the neighbor boys had his eye on Brenda that week."
"Good point."
Brandon tried to get the conversation back on track.
"See, Val?" he said. "This is exactly why David needs you to help him."
"I'm not doing anything for that lying turd," said Valerie.
"So don't do it for him," said Dylan. "Do it for Bren. For the girl you call your twin sister. For your niece."
"That's fucking rude, McKay," said Val, glaring at him with a hand on her hip. "Can't you get Clare to do it, instead? She's got taste. I'm sure she listened to the same stuff Bren and I did."
"Clare's crazy busy schedule aside, she's hung out with Bren twice," said Brandon. "How do we know Clare's choices won't set Bren off? You're the one who knows which songs she liked and which songs she would've hated for some reason or other."
Valerie continued to scowl at them, before throwing her hands up in the air.
"Fine!" she said. "I'll work with your stupid friend. But I'm only doing this for Bren, and I'm not talking to him for any reason that doesn't pertain to her."
"What are you doing for me?" asked Brenda, emerging from her room.
"Did we wake you?" asked Dylan.
"I wasn't sleeping," she said. "I was planning."
"Planning?" asked Val.
"Yes," said Brenda. "I'm sick of the hospital. My daughter and I have been in it too much lately. Most of her life thus far has been spent in some hospital or other."
"You don't want to give birth in a hospital?" asked Dylan, sidling up to Brenda to gather her to him.
"I was looking at our other options," said Brenda, handing Dylan a packet of pamphlets.
She was interrupted by the strident trill emitting from the zippered pocket of Brandon's laptop case, which was decorated with stickers of the Minnesota Twins and the Los Angeles Lakers.
"Sorry, sis," he said. "Got to take this. Might be work. I've got that big article about that potential mess on Capitol Hill that I'm trying to line up interviews for."
Ah, DC, thought Brandon. Always getting into some kind of mess of their own making.
"Go," said Brenda with a smile.
Unable to embrace Brenda with Dylan standing in the way, Brandon lightly touched his sister's shoulder before retreating to his own room.
"Walsh speaking," he said.
"Brandon?" said the voice filled to the brim with hesitation.
He decided that next time, he'd check the area code before assuming it had to do with work.
"Yeah," he said, trying to untie the balling knot in his throat enough to speak.
"Hi," she said.
"Hey," he said back.
"Is now a bad time?"
Yes. No. Technically. Didn't have to be. It was.
"I called you," he said, bowing his head. "Before Christmas."
"I know. I'm sorry. I meant to return the call," said Kelly. "Things have just been crazy with the store and Dylan coming back and leaving again and Gina trying to make Don's life hell for no explainable reason and then there's the whole thing with Matt and his wife -"
"Matt's married?"
"Was married. It's a long story."
"I understand life gets busy and stressful. I don't expect you to drop everything to pick up the phone. It's just - I could've really used a call back, Kel. Or a text."
"I'm calling you now," she said.
Brandon deliberated on his response. It's too late to call now. Bren's fine; as fine as she can be, that is. She's no longer in the hospital. Which is why I called, Kel. I could've texted, I know that. But texts; they're too easy to hide behind. I was breaking. I was breaking apart, bit by bit, like if one of those marble sculptures at the Vatican were to be chiseled with a claw hammer. I didn't know if my sister was gonna live. I didn't know if there'd be complications. I kept it together on the outside, but inside, I was losing it. Pompeii 2.0. Bren couldn't assure me that she'd survive. I thought that if anyone could, it'd be you.
"Out of sight, outta -" Brandon began jokingly.
"Brandon, my boyfriend is living in your house. It's impossible for you to not linger everywhere."
"Boyfriend?" One of those damn chandeliers had swung onto Brandon, pinning him underneath its swaying crystalline lights.
"Or, ex-boyfriend. It's complicated," Kelly sighed.
"Not much to complicate, Kel. Is he your boyfriend or is he your ex?"
"Brandon, he got a divorce for me. I can't just ditch him."
"Do you love him?"
Kelly remained quieter for longer than Brandon preferred.
"Kel?"
"I could love him."
"So you don't."
"I could."
"You either do or you don't."
"What do you want me to say, Brandon?" Kelly burst out. "Want me to tell you that I could never love Matt because my heart is with someone else? That I think about him with each passing millisecond? That I frequently wonder if we made a huge mistake in splitting up?"
Dylan. Kelly had to be speaking of Dylan.
"You don't have to be miserable just because Matt decided to choose you," said Brandon.
"I'm so tired of choices, Bran."
"I never wanted to be the one to ask you to choose." Brandon threw himself back against his bed. "When Dylan offered you that world trip, I thought I'd lose you. So I made an offer of my own, as you're well aware. It was impulsive, dumb."
"It gave us our ring," said Kelly.
"Do you think about it?" asked Brandon.
Kelly said she did.
"Do you think about," Brandon hesitated.
"Our baby?" asked Kelly in a near-whisper.
Brandon nodded, and then spoke his nod aloud.
"Only every time I breathe," said Kelly.
Brandon had often thought of his unborn child with Kelly, a thought that had escalated into a whirlpool as he saw Brenda's own stomach transform.
His child would have been a toddler by that point, old enough to throw around a baseball. Maybe get a tiny basketball hoop for a birthday present.
"That's how I know you lied about the chandeliers," said Kelly. "And then I turned around and did the same."
"Those fucking chandeliers," said Brandon. "I'm sorry I cheated on you," he added. "I'm sorry I trivialized our history like that, our child."
"I'm sorry I made you make me choose when you were who I wanted all along," said Kelly. "I'm sorry I cheated on you. And I'm sorry how I acted when we all found out about Brenda. That's part of why I waited so long to call," she admitted. "I thought you'd for sure have heard how awful I was. Donna didn't talk to me for a whole week after that; when she did, it was only to discuss David. Dylan still won't talk to me. Steve has, but he's frostier than he's been to me in years. And he only did it when Donna called him."
"I haven't heard anything," said Brandon. "How did you act?"
Kelly told him every detail of what she had said.
"How could you say things like that about my sister?" asked Brandon, trying to remain collected.
He told himself Kelly hadn't known the details of Brenda's condition. That she wouldn't have been as cruel had she known.
He told himself the details didn't matter. That if Brenda hadn't been injured, if she hadn't been in the rail crash, Kelly still should have never spoken of her in that way.
It's fucking high school all over again, thought Brandon.
"Because I was angry," said Kelly. "I was angry with Dylan, angry that he always lies to me whenever he's trying to let go of Brenda. Just like he lied about writing his manuscript for me. I knew he didn't. I knew I wasn't the woman in there. I knew I wasn't his soulmate, his wife in another life, or whatever. I knew it was all just words, without meaning. And I was angry that I thought Brenda had lost contact with everyone, when it turns out she only lost contact with me. And I was angry at myself for letting us get to that point. I was just angry, Brandon. Angry and jealous. I realized after Donna yelled at me that I have a problem. I'm my mother. The way Jackie would always go off about the other models that drew my father's attention. Still, all these years later, I'm jealous of Brenda." Kelly gave a short, sardonic laugh. "Of the bonds she has with everyone. And I'm trying to work through that, because I don't want to be like this. I don't want to be my mother."
Kelly told Brandon that she had begun attending regular therapy sessions to tackle her anger, jealousy, cocaine addiction, and slew of other mental concerns that built up when one was shot, burnt in a fire, stalked, nearly poisoned by carbon dioxide, had anorexia, joined a cult, and whatever else.
Brandon told Kelly he was glad she was getting help.
"But however much love I have for you, Kel, if you can't figure out how to treat my sister like a person rather than someone to belittle out of petty jealousy, then don't call here again," said Brandon before hanging up on the one woman with whom he had ever been in love.
And still was.
Even if Kelly Taylor's heart had been claimed by Dylan McKay, instead of the man she had almost married.
Whose child had once rested within her, for the glimpse of a second.
The same glimpse of a second when Brandon Walsh had known the kind of pure joy he had seen bubbling in Dylan since the moment his wayfaring ex-brother had wandered back into their lives.
xx
It'd been an impulsive decision.
The liquidation signs had caught his interest.
The CD's had beckoned.
"You bought me a store?" asked David in disbelief.
"If you're gonna be hangin' around here 'til who knows when, you need something to do," said Dylan.
"You actually bought me a store," said David.
"I bought Bren the record shop," corrected Dylan. "I'm just putting you in charge of it."
"Can I even work here?" asked David.
"My lawyers are looking into it. If we can't get you a work visa, I'll pay you with American money. Kinda like what Brandon does with the online freelancing."
"I'm not accepting money from you."
"Look, Silver, you're the best person to run that shop. And this gives us access to all the music we want. Which helps Bren."
"You're really milking this 'for Bren' thing," said David.
"If you ran a club like the After Dark, you can run a shop. You could even use the shop to get into the local music industry and help to set up concerts in Helsinki."
"Think I could get The Cranberries?"
"Don't think I know them, but I'm sure it's a possibility."
"Oh, you know them," said David. "Everyone knows The Cranberries."
He took the keys from Dylan and unlocked the door to the shop.
Steve was exultant Dylan had found a way to get David out of the apartment more.
"He just mopes around," said Steve. "Cries about Val a lot, though he won't admit it."
"How's that any different from you crying over Clare?" asked Dylan, tapping his knee.
"I don't cry over Clare," said Steve.
"I just saw you crying over her the other day."
"That is an abnominale lie."
"Abominable."
"That's what I said. Abnominale."
Valerie walked out of the fitting room. "How do I look?" she asked, spinning around in her vintage dress.
"Like you just stepped out of a party thrown by the servants of a Romanov," said Dylan.
"Thanks," said Val. "I think."
"Okay, if Val's in on this play thing now, then why do I still have to be in it?" asked Steve.
"Val took Hannah's spot," said Dylan. "Hannah kept trying to eat her dress."
"And my daughter won't be going around eating borrowed dresses," said Andrea, walking in. "Or any dresses, for that matter." She embraced all three, holding onto Steve for a bit longer than the rest. "You're looking well, Dylan. Much better than the last time I saw you."
"I am well," said Dylan, proudly grinning as he brought out his wallet. "Better than well."
"Do you have to show that to everyone?" asked Steve.
"When you get a kid of your own, Sanders, you'll understand."
"So you know about the baby," said Andrea, visibly relieved.
"Wait," said Valerie and Dylan in unison.
"You knew?" asked Steve.
Andrea explained to them that she had overheard Valerie and Brandon discussing Brenda's pregnancy following Dylan's discovery of the prenatals.
"Hang on," said Val. "So they found out from you?"
"I couldn't do that to Brandon," said Andrea. "But I also couldn't lie to Dylan about an event of such impact. Not when I know how remarkable the parenting experience has been for me. I can't imagine life without my daughter, even if I have been making a number of wrong choices since I found out about her. Or well before that."
Valerie rounded on the men standing beside her.
"How did you figure it out?" she asked.
"Andrea said that," Steve began, drifting off as he noticed Andrea's expression. "Val wasn't drinking, was she?"
"You told Steve I was drinking?" asked Val.
"I told Steve I had seen you and Clare at the club, having drinks," said Andrea. "I had seen you both at the club. Clare did have a drink. You, however, didn't. As Grandma Rose would say, sometimes a little fib is necessary to prevent the ones you care about from excruciating pain. And in this situation, I cared about every side."
"Andrea out-maneuvered Val," said Steve. "Damn! See, Val; that's my girl." He gave the giggling Andrea a high-five.
"I can't believe you outplayed me," said Val. "There might be a manipulative mean girl streak in you yet, Andrea Zuckerman."
"I cannot thank you enough," said Dylan, throwing one arm around Andrea. "I'd ask Bren to make you our daughter's godmother, but -"
"But that title has been claimed by me since forever," Val cut in. "You know Brandon is going to be told about this," she added to Andrea.
"And I'll remind Brandon why he shouldn't try to play Adonai with others' lives," said Andrea, unruffled with the exception of her flyaway hairs.
Valerie appeared as impressed as Steve.
"I'm rooting for Dylan to end up with Brenda, what can I say?" asked Andrea.
Dylan grinned at her.
"I think we all are, at this point," said Steve.
"Speak for yourself," said Val. "I'm still on the fence."
"You're just saying that to counter me," said Steve.
"So what if I am?" asked Val. "You're lucky I'm even talking to you again, Sanders."
"No one can stay mad at me," said Steve, flexing his biceps.
"Don't flatter yourself," said Val. "I'm only talking to you for Bren's sake."
"And I'm a sucker for Brandon's happiness," said Andrea. "I always thought he was at his happiest with Kelly."
"Oh, he was plenty happy with Susan," scoffed Val.
"Did you even like Susan?" asked Steve.
"That's not the point," said Val.
"If you two don't stop your squabbling, we're never gonna get these costumes worked out," said Dylan. "And I've gotta get Bren soon."
They barely made it two seconds before Steve whooped at a passerby.
"Smoking hot strawberry blonde at ten o'clock!"
"Oh for the love of God." Clare began to turn on her heel back towards the shop entrance.
"Not so fast," said Steve, stepping out of his dress. "Put this on." He held it out with two fingers as if it had been plunged in the scent of a skunk.
"Why should I?" asked Clare, crossing her arms over her chest.
"Because Dylan over here is recreating Chevosky and he needs a third sister. And this dress isn't my color."
"Chekov," corrected Dylan and Clare.
"Clearly you know the boring library dude, so obviously this dress was intended for you," said Steve.
"Are you just saying that because I'm a woman?" asked Clare.
"Am I just saying that because you're a ridiculously attractive woman who still looks hella ravishing when she's glaring at the guy whose heart she stomped all over on like a dog's chew toy?" elaborated Steve. "No. It's because you know that one guy."
"Chekov," Clare repeated, aiming her eyes at the ceiling. "He was one of the -"
"Greatest playwrights of all time. Yada yada yada," said Steve. "What'd you and Dylan do; memorize the same textbook?"
"Why do you need a third sister?" Clare stood on her tiptoes to look over Steve's broad shoulders at Dylan.
Dylan told Clare the story of the first time he had found Brenda after a separation, leaving out certain details he thought unessential.
Dylan had been strolling the streets of London, searching for a place to eat before he caught the train to Glasgow, when he had heard the words of Anton Chekov streaming out of a pub.
He had been struggling after Toni's murder, bumming around mainland Europe at whichever beach allowed him to park his ass out there for the night, when he'd had the idea to stop in London.
He told himself he wouldn't call Brenda, as tempting as it had been. She had her own life. She didn't need his mess around.
Tony Marchette had still been on the loose at the time. Despite their seeming closure at Toni's grave, Dylan couldn't fathom Tony finding out about Brenda, or what she meant to Dylan.
It had been Howard's pub, and a group of friends had put on a small production on its stage as a teaser for their academy's new theatrical season.
Dylan thought he would collapse against the tables when he heard Brenda's voice.
He still remembered the taste of the blackcurrant Ribena that sat upon his tongue as Brenda's gaze directed towards him, just another person in a congested audience.
She'd held his gaze until Shane hinted for the second time at Brenda's cue.
"You're recreating a moment Brenda and you had?" asked Clare, putting a hand on her chest in a swoon. "Damn, that might be the sweetest thing I ever heard. You literally stumbled on her, in London, of all places." Clare snatched the dress. "I'm in."
"I did plenty of sweet things for you," said Steve. "Maybe not in London, or in fucking Paris -"
"Sorry, what was that?" asked Clare, cupping her quadruple-pierced ear. "I can't hear you over," her voice grew a bit louder, though quiet enough to avoid unwanted attention from other customers, "stealing my notes!"
"Oh, would you let it go already?" Steve bit back. "Again, if you'd just said hello, I wouldn't've needed to borrow your notes."
"Hello," said Clare. "And goodbye." She looked at Dylan. "Email me the details."
"Got a hot date?" asked Val.
"Just going out with Kai," said Clare.
Steve took on the form of an abruptly awoken minotaur.
"Have fun!" said Val. "Tell Kai I said hi!"
Steve complained about Clare and Kai for the rest of the fitting, despite his joy that he would no longer play a sister.
"What do you know about Kai?" asked Steve to Valerie, who had become weirdly talkative with the man she had claimed she would never speak with again.
"I know he's hot; like, mega hot. Possibly the hottest guy I've ever seen," said Val. "He's pretty enough to be a supermodel. He can definitely hold his liquor, which means Clare doesn't have to pull his head out of a keg. And he's rich, 'cause of the whole neurosurgeon thing."
"I'm rich," muttered Steve.
Dylan curved his scarred brow.
"Well, I will be rich," said Steve. "Once the inheritance comes through."
"Won't that only happen when your father," Dylan began.
"Semantics," said Steve.
"And he makes Clare insanely happy," finished Val. "Between you and me, Sanders, I wouldn't be surprised if they get engaged soon."
"We'll see about that," huffed Steve.
Dylan wondered if Steve noticed the mischievous glint in Valerie's eye that said there was more to the story than she was letting on.
Dylan refused to become involved.
He brought Brenda to the shop. As he showed her the blueprints he had drawn up with David and the hired architect for expansion, he told Brenda about their plan. He asked her for input. Brenda said above all, she would prefer different paint on the walls, as the putrid green made her nauseous.
Dylan resolved to start shopping for paint colors.
"Will I have to listen to music all the time?" asked Brenda. "I might get a searing headache."
"We'll start slow," said Dylan. "Just as we are with the stories."
"Will you tell me one now?" she asked.
"Now?" he asked, looking to Brenda for affirmation.
He told her of shattered potted plants, of infuriating family reunions, of chases down the street in front of Jack's old condo, of missed dates and missed calls.
"You'd always say I stood you up," said Dylan. "I didn't stand you up. It was a family thing. Had nothing to do with you."
"I got all dressed up and you never showed," said Brenda.
"Is that - is that a memory?" Dylan pressed his finger against the skin of his thumb to avoid curling Brenda's hair around her ear.
"Isn't that what one does for dates?" asked Brenda.
"Yes, I suppose it is." Dylan worked to hide his disappointment. "Especially with friends like yours."
"I wrote Val that evening," said Brenda. "Told her all about our date. And our missed date."
"That's a memory." Dylan offered a watery smile as he bent his head down to kiss Brenda's hand.
"I couldn't tell you anything about either of those nights, though," she said. "Only what you've told me."
"You remembered writing Val," he said. "That's something. She's gonna be thrilled."
He walked them into the shop's back office, sitting down and waiting to see if Brenda joined him.
She took a seat on his lap. Dylan wrapped his arms around her shoulders, breathing in the fruity fragrance that was purely Brenda.
Brenda shifted in his lap and made a noise in her throat that put him on high alert.
"It's nothing," she said. "I'm just not used to her kicking this powerfully yet. She must have your surfer legs."
"May -"
"You don't have to ask to touch her," Brenda interrupted.
"I don't want it to be uncomfortable for you," said Dylan, slightly taken aback.
"This spot right here," Brenda took Dylan's hand to set it on her lower belly, "is the one spot I can always be touched, assuming it's not by a creepy stranger. I know that if there's a hand there, it's shielding our daughter. That the person who put their hand there loves our daughter. I know that more than anything with you, because she always responds when you're near. And feeling her move around calms me, like a glimmer of radiant hope in all this consistent gloom. So you don't ever have to ask." She laced her other hand through his free hand. "Just like you don't have to ask to hold my hand. I like your hand being in mine."
"Careful," said Dylan with a smile that blinded to the point that he could see it reflected in Brenda's eyes, "give me unlimited permission to put my hand on your belly and I might go overboard."
"She's your daughter, too," said Brenda. "You can love on her whenever and wherever you want. Well, maybe not wherever. You should keep it somewhat polite."
"Does that mean my lips can move to your belly, as well?" Dylan's heart waltzed with his throat.
Brenda's yes was all Dylan needed to lift her shirt and plant tiny kisses all over her stretched abdomen.
Habit told him to keep kissing, to kiss up Brenda's chest until he got to her neck, or down her stomach until he got to her thighs, but Dylan resisted.
It'd be too easy for him to scare her with his intense craving for intimacy.
He turned on the small television that sat in the corner. A quickened, lively beat indicative of the 1980s and early '90s began to play.
"I know this song," said Brenda in her faraway voice that she got whenever something struck a chord in the muddled recesses of her brain.
"You do," Dylan nodded enthusiastically.
"Did we dance to it?"
"We did." He gently lifted Brenda off of his lap and stood. "At a Halloween party. Back when we were just two kids, in love for the first time." He flattened out his arm towards her. "May I have this dance?"
She accepted his hand. Dylan pulled her into him. One hand cupped her lower back. The other hand remained in hers.
They danced in a significantly slower rhythm than they had at that party.
"I'm glad you're my baby's father," said Brenda against his shirt. "And not Steve."
"I'm glad for it, too," said Dylan. "So's Steve. I would've killed him. And sold his beloved car to the junkyard."
Brenda's laughter ingrained itself under Dylan's skin.
In the morning, when Brenda awoke for her habitual scream, Dylan was already awake.
He jogged to her side before Brandon, ready to put his theory into motion.
"D," said Brandon in a harsh whisper. "Get back here."
"Trust me, B. I know what I'm doing."
"If she lashes out at you, don't say I didn't warn you." Brandon pointed to the fading, sallowed bruise on his upper arm.
Dylan crossed over to the nightstand beside Brenda's bed, opened the case held in his hands, and inserted the CD into the CD player that sat atop the nightstand.
The mellifluous notes of Paganini infiltrated the room.
Dylan seized his chance.
He hurried back over to Brenda, moving closer than had been advised. It was a risk, one that could end in bruises for him or a vicious shove against the unforgiving wall, but he didn't care.
All he cared about was providing Brenda a sense of security to help minimize her screams until they dissipated completely.
"Bren," he said in the voice of a lullaby. He inched his hand into hers, and moved his other hand to rest on her lower belly. "Bren," he repeated.
Brenda's screaming stopped. She continued to look at an invisible point beyond the apartment, somewhere Dylan couldn't see and wouldn't be able to visit.
Nor did he want to visit.
"Even with all these oceans between us," said Dylan, keeping his voice as a lullaby, "and the whole fucking globe," he added with a quick glance to where his hand rested against her lingerie slip, "I will always -"
"Love you," said Brenda in a whisper, half-asleep. "Dylan?"
"It's me, baby."
He doubted Brenda would recall any of their interaction in the true morning, but just hearing her say that some part of her still loved him, still knew what would have been her final words to him, would last Dylan through the more difficult moments.
"I couldn't save her, Dylan," Brenda blubbered. "She didn't let me."
"Mina pushed you aside to take the most of the impact herself, didn't she?" Dylan fought to maintain a level tone whilst he himself wanted to break. "Because of the baby?"
"She thought the test would be positive," said Brenda. "I told her we didn't know that. She said we didn't not know that. I couldn't stop her. I couldn't save her. Mina's dead because of me, Dyl."
"No," said Dylan, his voice firmer than a gymaholic's eight-pack. "Mina made a choice, Bren. A choice I'm gonna be forever grateful for. Mina wants you to get off the train. And our daughter, our precious baby girl," he applied a bit more pressure to Brenda's stomach, "wants you to let me help you off. Will you let me?"
Brenda seemed to consider it before caving into Dylan's arms.
"I tried to call you," she said.
"I know." He pressed her against him, dropping kisses atop her crown. "I'm sorry I missed your call."
"We always do that."
"Always used to do that," Dylan corrected, peering over Brenda's shoulder to see Brandon's glassy-eyed shock. "Never again, Bren. Never again."
"Don't go." She clung to the collar of his athletic tank top.
"They'll have to drag me away," said Dylan, sliding his hands under Brenda's freezing legs to lift her into his arms.
He carried her back to her bed. She refused to release his shirt.
Dylan looked at Brandon, who gave a tiny jerk of his head.
Murmuring to Brenda that she was safe, that she was loved, that he would protect his beloved girls from the train and anything else that came along, Dylan slipped under the covers.
He continued to hold onto Brenda as they both returned to an eventless sleep, the symphonic music of Paganini still gushing beside them as if the strings were the waves of a calming ocean.
-x
It is my understanding that AA and NA groups tend to be separated. As this story is fiction and they are in a small town, it seemed entirely plausible that the groups would form one.
Sources: Google and YouTube + the websites for Eighties Kids, Sleep Foundation, and HelpGuide.
(Shout-out to rogers . saundra, who had the idea for David and Val to work together. I simply forced Val into it. Second shout-out to KJ to express my gratitude and appreciation, as I cannot reply to you directly.)
Thanks a million! x