Leather boots, check. Leather jacket, check. Skintight pants that hugged her ass, check. Sleeveless lavender bubble shirt displaying the perfect amount of her navel ring, check.
Tiny silver piercing in her nostril, check.
Right. Time to get hammered.
She'd drink and drink until she couldn't remember that tosser's name.
With one best friend unable to drink because of pregnancy and the other best friend's refusal to drink due to low tolerance, Valerie was glad to have re-connected with Clare.
"Great club!" shouted Val over the raucous music.
"Colleague told me about it!" Clare shouted back.
"Your colleague has excellent taste."
"Yes. I do like to think so."
Val spun around and flashed her most charming smile. "You're Clare's colleague?"
"Kai Lasko," he said. "I presume that you are Val?"
"That's what they tell me," said Val.
Fuck, she wanted a casual hookup. Badly. The club was littered with men, all of whom Val was sure would be willing to fuck her. She'd never had a problem with that. One tilt of her hips, one shot from their glass, one flutter of her lashes; they'd be putty in her hands.
Always had been, since her breasts had developed in the seventh grade and her classmates' eyes had become goggles larger than a gecko's.
To say Valerie had bloomed overnight would be inaccurate. She had, however, bloomed over the summer at gymnastics camp, her regulation T-shirt becoming tighter on her chest until the coach was forced to order a new one.
Val had then caught the wrath of Lorraine Elementary's original It Girl, Heidi Amber, when Val had caught the eye of Heidi's boyfriend, Marcus Alvarez.
The rumors that Val and Marcus had hooked up in the gym lockers were, of course, unsubstantiated, brought on by a fit of rage by Heidi when Marcus had dumped her at the winter dance.
It had resulted in Val's unintended intimidation to the other girls so that by the time Val arrived to begin freshman year at Leonardo da Vinci High, her only female friend in Buffalo had convinced Val that getting high was the best way to deal with her problems.
Ginger LaMonica had then turned out to be a raging bitch herself when she had stolen David from Val during their first go-around.
Had David's ploy been belated payback for selling him out to Ginger?
Val wanted to hook up with every guy in that room, whether or not she knew their names.
Casual sex was what she knew. Casual sex was what she loved. Sex in general was Val's therapy.
Her problem was that she couldn't casually hook up. Not anymore.
Not since that fucking twat Johnny and his fucking needles.
And David, the one person Val had trusted during that scare, had become the man she wanted to drink away.
David, Val told herself, was no better than every other person who had used her.
Which was a long-ass list, longer than the list of people she had used herself.
Maybe she was destined to be miserable.
Val couldn't hook up, but she could kiss.
A little kissing wouldn't hurt anything, would it?
Sandy hair. Stunning eyes. Lean. Tall.
Kai Lasko was the prettiest man Val thought she had ever come across, with a voice silkier than Lindor.
Clare, however, told Val she wasn't Kai's type.
"I'm everyone's type," said Val. "Everyone. I'm not picky. Ask the kids in Buffalo I grew up with. They'll tell you I'll make out with pretty much anyone."
"I won't deny that you're appealing to a lot of people, Val, but trust me, Kai is not interested."
"Oh," Valerie realized. "It's the brunette thing, isn't it? Kai's into blondes?"
"Kai's not picky on physical attributes. Except one, that is."
"Ah! I got it. You're dating him. Great catch, babe."
"I'm not his type, either," said Clare.
"Oh," Val dragged out the word. "Way to go, Kai."
"He definitely knows how to catch 'em much better than I do," said Clare.
"Have you dated anyone since you and Steve split?" asked Val.
"Here and there. Nothing serious. Do me a favor and don't tell him, or he'll gloat his ass off about it."
"How do you say mum's the word, gov'na in French?"
"I think it's better if that's not said by an American at all, in French or English."
"That's a page straight out of Bren's comebacks. Maybe you two will end up being great friends."
"Maybe we will."
Shot of tequila. Down the vodka. Glass of rum. One of those fancy, fruity drinks.
Val mixed so many drinks flirting with so many men, she almost forgot her own name.
"Da-lete!" Val dramatically pressed her finger against her phone. "Da-lete!" she sang again.
"Val," said Clare, finding Val at the bar, "what are you doing to your phone?"
"Deleting Gold off of it," said Val.
"I don't know a Gold," said Clare.
"That's 'cause he isn't gold," said Val. "He's a silverfucker. Da-lete!" she said a third time, erasing another text from David. "Take that, you tosser!"
She had deleted David's number from her phone in its entirety before Clare took the phone away.
"Okay, come on," said Clare. She had evidently handled her alcohol better than Val, who hadn't tried to handle it at all. "Let's get you back to yours before you end up doing something reckless."
"I can't go back to mine," slurred Val. "Bran and Bren will be worried about me and they already have more than enough to deal with. Bren will be waking up any minute now to scream about her late friends and here I am, drunk over my twice-ex, who doesn't give a shit about me."
"I've known you a long time, Val," said Clare. "You try to put on this mask, this persona that tells people you're a bitch to not be trifled with, but that's just on the surface. I know for a fact you've got plenty to sympathize about."
"I am a bitch," said Val. "I'm proud to be a bitch. I've got too many problems to name and too many people who never gave a damn. Or pretended to give a damn."
"Then I'll give a damn."
"I'm a master manipulator who's easily manipulated herself, Clare. You sure you want me around? You sure you want the girl who tried to turn you and Donna against Kelly around? Who took immense pleasure in reading Kel's diary and using it against her? Who's never gonna apologize about that, because she doesn't see the need?"
"Yes," said Clare. "I'm sure. Donna and I are still friends. Kel and I lost touch. It's no big; we drifted, things happen. But even if Kelly was my bestest best friend in the world, I can't let you leave like this. Too many people I know care about what happens to you. Me included." Clare helped Val up. "You're coming to mine, so Brandon and Brenda don't find you lying on the road somewhere, frozen. That's the last thing Brenda needs."
Clare turned to Kai, who had wandered over with his arm around an attractive blond.
Blond, Val thought as she giggled, it's always a blond.
"Kai," said Clare, "will you please give me a hand?"
Kai shot out his hand.
"I mean, will you please help me get Val to a cab?" clarified Clare.
Val awoke around four in the morning convinced her head was trying to kill her.
Shielding her eyes from the moon that seemed cruel even in its weakened state, Val questioned Clare about any conquests Val may have made.
She was both relieved and irritated that she had done nothing more than kiss.
"You deleted someone from your phone," said Clare as Val drank the vile potion Clare alleged would clear up Val's migraine. "Did you mean to do that?"
"Someone who?" asked Val.
"David, I think," said Clare. "Although you called him Gold and silverfucker, so I'm just guessing here."
"Then yes, I meant to do that."
"Brandon called while we were out," said Clare. "He says David's been calling, worried about you."
"He's just pretending," said Val. "That's what he does: pretends. Pretends to care. Pretended to love me, until I got too close. Until I opened up to him in a way I never have to anyone. I told him things even my twins don't know. And he couldn't handle it. No one can."
Clare remained silent whilst Val returned to some semblance of functionality.
"So, just to confirm," said Clare. "You and Brandon lie to Dylan, to Brenda, letting Dylan think you're the one who's pregnant, not telling Brenda otherwise when she thought her child's father couldn't care less, and then when Dylan and Steve figure out your lie, you're mad at David?"
"How much did I tell you last night?"
"Quite a bit. Don't ever let yourself get wasted if you're being interrogated."
"Fuck," said Val. "I'm not just mad at David. I'm mad at all of them. David for using me, for making me think he actually wanted me. I should've known better after our last breakup, but I let myself hope. And fucking Dylan and Steve had to show up when I was almost buck-ass naked."
That both Dylan and Steve had previously seen Val nude was beside the point.
"David was just helping them out, Val. Isn't it better for Dylan to know? You didn't have to put on a fake belly or stuff yourself with a pillow."
"Don't get me wrong. I'm glad Dylan knows. I'm glad I didn't have to fake a weight gain, or walk around wearing a whoopee cushion to force gas out of my ass. But the way they went about it -"
"Was wrong. Just as it was wrong what you did to Dylan."
"Thank you, Morality Police," said Val. "And Steve?"
"What about Steve?" Clare feigned nonchalance.
"You've defended David and Dylan, but said nothing about Steve."
"That's 'cause Steve is indefensible. Dylan had a reason, a pretty massive reason. Steve was in it for the fun, for the game. His life is about fun. Stealing my notes; that was fun for him. He hated when I tried to get him to take life more seriously. Hated when I asked him to think about the future, to consider that all his fun will eventually catch up with him. It turned me into a nag, like a nagging ex-wife. I didn't like being that way. I had to get out of there before it became a permanent part of my personality. Before I no longer recognized myself."
Clare began to tidy her desk, straightening stacks of papers and her little mug full of pens.
"Did he ever tell you I asked him to come with me?" said Clare. "To Paris? It was a ridiculous question, honestly. I should've predicted his answer. I just thought that maybe, since we'd graduated, since he had the summer free; well," she gave a humorless laugh, "it doesn't matter what I thought. Steve didn't choose me, and he resents me because I followed Daddy. So there's no reason that neither of us shouldn't be able to move on."
"I wish I'd had a dad who loved me the way it was always obvious your dad loves you," said Val. "Steve can't understand that. His dad is shit. Sure, Rush has his moments, but overall, Steve got a short end of the stick when it comes to dads. He forever feels like he has to impress Rush, because Rush has made it clear his love is conditional. Your dad; he's already impressed with you. Steve doesn't understand the bond someone can have with their father, because he never had it himself."
"I thought you were mad at him," said Clare with a slight smile.
"I am mad at him," said Val. "I plan to bug the hell out of him by pretending he's a flea buzzing about the room, but maybe you could see him. Talk to him. Tell him what you've told me."
"Will you talk to David?"
"Not in a hundred million years. I'd rather dance through flaming coals."
"I think you'll find he cares more than you think he does, Val."
"I don't think Steve's quite as over you as you think he is." Val drained the concoction. "It's too bad we didn't talk more like this when we both lived in the Hills."
"You mean, those plastic hills where all that matters is how much money you make and how many people you can crush with your stiletto heel on your way up to the top?" asked Clare. "Things change."
"People change," added Val, remembering a time Dylan had said that to her.
"They sure do."
"Maybe Steve can, as well," Val tried.
"If Steve needs to change for us to be together, then we shouldn't be together," said Clare.
"I think Steve's been changing, on his own. Maturing; to a point. Let him show you."
"If you'll agree to at least talk to David, I might consider seeing Steve."
"Then I guess you'll keep avoiding Steve."
"Don't give up on David, Val."
"He gave up on me."
Clare helped Val to stand. "It's insanely early, too early, but should I make us breakfast?"
"Actually," said Val, "I think I'll be getting on home."
"Home," said Clare. "What is that? I've spent my whole life trying to figure it out."
"For me, it's the Walshes," said Val. "Always has been. Since the day Abby and Cindy put us in the playpens together at the old church. Abby did it to get me to shut up and leave her alone, but in the process, I got my twins."
"Then I guess for me, it's with my father. And Steve will never understand that. He sees me as a coldhearted bitch who thinks I made a choice to leave him. Thing is; I never had a choice. Steve has parents. Brothers. Relatives. I just have my dad."
"I really think you need to talk to Steve."
"And I really think you should talk to David."
"Then I guess we're at an impasse," said Val. "I should head out. I still have a little over an hour before Bren wakes up. But thank you, Clare."
"Anytime," said Clare. "Just; next time we hang out, try to get a little less drunk, okay? I lost you in the crowd for, like, two hours and at one point, I found you trying to straddle Kai."
Valerie cackled. "How'd he take it?"
"He said he was flattered. He was a good sport about it, but don't be surprised if he has plans unexpectedly come up when we try to get together."
"You know, Bren's the only girl I've ever let get close enough to spill this kind of stuff to."
"Donna's the only girl I've ever let get close like that."
"Once upon a time, Bren and Donna were best friends."
"I don't know about best friends," said Clare, "but I could always use another friend. Especially one who doesn't mind the more sensitive stuff." She laughed. "I hang out with a lot of guys."
"So do I," said Val. "I think I'd like that." She looked at her empty glass. "This shit is fucking terrible, but it did clear up the migraine. I think I can function enough to help Bren today."
"It was my Grandma's recipe," said Clare. "Gotten me through many a hangover, especially after that breakup on the beach that crushed me far more than Steve will ever realize."
The women didn't embrace when Val left to stumble into her home and try to not wake the loudly snoring Dylan, but Val thought that in the future, they just might.
xx
He slumped over the coffeemaker. Poured in mocha-colored coffee beans. Unfocused. Drained.
He'd quickly come to understand the reason Brandon had waited to let him handle the nights.
Because Dylan couldn't handle them.
At all.
"How do you do it?" he asked, watching an exhausted Val pour her cereal. Dylan had heard Val drag in about half an hour before he'd gotten off of the sofa to check on Brenda, who he'd been pleased to see was sleeping soundly after her difficult night.
"How do you watch Bren hurt like that and not try to embrace her?" asked Dylan.
His body had threatened to shatter when Brenda, screaming at the top of her lungs, had once again looked straight through him.
Brandon had prevented Dylan from moving closer. Dylan had tried to fight Brandon off. Brandon had held firm.
He showed Dylan how to soothe Brenda through his words, gently spoken over and over in a rhythmic pattern until she came back to them and allowed her boys to tuck her back in bed.
"Because hugging Bren when she's lost; it's like trying to hug a crocodile. A beautiful crocodile you want to squeeze like a kitten." Val lifted a carton of milk from the fridge and closed the fridge with the edge of her sock. "Kittens; they bite. Scratch. Claw. Hiss. It's their defense mechanism as they warm up to you. While they're determining if they want to warm up to you; if they want to trust you. When Bren's on that train, she's a kitten with crocodile claws. Her defense mode takes control. She won't let you touch her. Period." Val poured out her cereal. "Brandon's been bruised that way. You have to ask her, or it makes Bren feel like she's still trapped on that train. Like she never got off. And you have to get her to listen to you ask her, which is next to impossible."
"I loathe that fucking train," said Dylan.
"I hate to say you get used to it, to seeing her that way, but," Valerie chewed her lip, "you do. You just calm her the best way you can, without touching her."
"I'm never gonna get used to it. I'll find a way to get her to listen when I ask her."
"If anyone can," Val opened the silverware drawer to grab a spoon and place it between her teeth, "you can."
"How nice of you to say that to the deadbeat tosser."
"Okay, I deserve that."
"What were you gonna do?" asked Dylan, pouring his fresh coffee. "Tie a sack of flour to your waist?"
"How would that even work?"
"Dunno. Saw it on my grandma's program once."
Valerie's hand stilled on the cupboard. "You've never mentioned your grandma before. I didn't think you had grandparents."
"I did. On Jack's side. They're long gone now, but damn, were they good people. I told Bren about them." Dylan busied himself with preparing the kettle for Brenda's tea to avoid becoming emotional. "She's the only one I ever told everything to, and now it's all gone. As if I'd never said any of it."
Well, almost everything.
Dylan reminded himself to look into therapy options when he took Brenda to occupational therapy that morning.
"We're fighting the long game, Dyl."
"It's hard, Val."
"But not impossible."
Brenda trudged into the kitchen, yawning under her hand.
"There's my sleepyhead," said Dylan, holding out Brenda's cup. "I figured ginger was appropriate today?"
"You figured right," said Brenda, taking a long whiff. "How you people won't drink this is beyond me."
"How you're able to drink that concoction is beyond me," said Val. "I'm perfectly happy to stick with my delicious, aromatic coffee."
Brenda's face showed her repulsion.
"You used to drink coffee, too," said Dylan.
He chuckled, thinking of the times Brenda would snatch his mug and drink it up before their morning fun.
"I saw the light," said Brenda.
"May I?" asked Dylan. His hand hovered over her waist.
"Please do. Maybe you can get her to settle down."
Dylan brushed his hand along Brenda's stomach, which he swore had enlarged overnight.
Yeah, he definitely would've noticed that - sweater or no sweater.
"Are you giving your Mummy a hard time?" he asked.
"I think it's hiccups," said Brenda.
Dylan looked at her. "What do we do for hiccups?"
"Have more tea," said Brenda smartly, as she took a sip.
"Well-played," said Val, rinsing out her mug.
"Your Mommy is one stubborn lady," said Dylan.
"Oh, your Daddy can be plenty stubborn," said Val. "I've got stories."
"Stories about Dylan?" asked Brenda, intrigued.
"Val," said Dylan in warning.
He didn't know what stories Valerie planned to share, but he was fairly certain he didn't want them spoken around his kid.
"How about Dylan, the Mexican cowboy?" said Val. "That's a classic."
"Do I know that one?" asked Brenda, setting her eyes on Dylan's.
God, he loved those eyes. They were ever-changing, closer to hazel, and as she looked at him, he saw flecks of green within those cloudy blues.
"You knew parts."
"So you didn't tell her everything," smirked Val.
Shit.
Val had on her I'm gonna pay you back, McKay look.
Maybe he shouldn't have agreed to Steve's plan, but if he hadn't, he wouldn't be standing in the twins' kitchen, watching Brenda stretch as she accepted the healthy breakfast Val set before her.
Or the way Brenda's belly peeked out of her shirt when she stretched.
"There's a child present," Dylan reminded Val, tipping his pinkie finger to point towards Brenda's abdomen.
"All the more reason to warn the kid of what they're getting into. So," Val clapped her hands, "where do I begin? Well, it all started when lover boy over here decided to grant access of his grandiose bank account to a pair of environmentally-conscious cons…"
Brenda was in such a fit of laughter, Dylan thought he would have to rid Brenda of her own hiccups.
"It wasn't that funny," he grumbled.
"It was hella funny," Val corrected.
"You didn't think it was funny at the time."
"That's because I was shitting myself. But you, punching out a guy who tried to nail you with a sword? That's funny. Not to mention that shootout by Jonesy."
Alright. Two could play at that game.
"Bren, you wanna hear about the time Val faked a pregnancy?"
Valerie shot Dylan a frantic, almost imperceptible look.
"Steve said she left diapers with the poor guy's wife," said Dylan.
"Poor guy my ass," said Val, relaxing somewhat.
"His wife?" asked Brenda. "Damn, Val. That's cold." She swirled her finger across the counter. "I like this. Tell me more?"
"Maybe later." Dylan filled his mug with water and set it in the sink. "Time for you to get dressed so we can get you over to therapy, little lady." He looked Brenda over. "Or should I say, little ladies."
Brandon and Valerie had accompanied the expectant parents to their appointment, where Brenda's mother's intuition about their child had been confirmed.
The littlest McKay was pronounced a girl.
Brandon already had plans to turn his niece into a sports aficionado, unlike her mother. Val teased she would be the one to teach Baby Girl McKay how to flirt. Dylan said over his dead body.
Flirting, he could accept, to a point. His daughter being taught the art of flirtation by her aunt Val? Absolutely not.
Dylan had locked onto the screen of his sweet girl, and then the ultrasound picture he had asked to get a copy of for his wallet that he had promptly showed off to all of the guys.
Hearing the rhythm of her heart had filled him with indescribable joy, the kind he had only ever found with her mother.
By sheer willpower, he was able to restrain himself from kissing Brenda following that appointment. Dylan settled for thanking her profusely, and then tried his hand at an unfortunate attempt to make his family dinner.
The meal had to be salvaged by Brandon, who suggested that he and Dylan begin attending cooking classes.
Dylan had enrolled them shortly thereafter.
"After that," said Dylan, "we can go wherever you want, before the three of us meet up with Brandon to look at rental properties far away from the station."
"Do you think that will help the screams?" asked Brenda, washing out her teacup.
"We hope so," said Dylan. "Need me to help you?"
"I can do it," Brenda assured.
"You could help me."
"You're already dressed," she pointed out.
Dammit. He was.
"You could help me with my coat," he tried.
"You can help me with mine," she said.
Progress.
Slow, painstakingly slow progress.
He ensured his girls were snug in protective winter gear before he helped Brenda into the car, despite her protests that she could climb in herself.
"Stubborn," he said.
"Cowboy," she said, then giggled. "Stubborn Cowboy. The Stubborn Cowboy. That sounds like the title of a children's book."
"Maybe I'll write it for ours," said Dylan. "Set it in Baja."
He snuck a glance at Brenda and was disappointed to see mentioning Baja hadn't triggered recognition.
"She does love your play," said Brenda. "I've been reading it to her."
"She does?"
"Yes. She thinks her Daddy is an exceptionally talented writer. And so do I." Brenda reclined in her seat. "Mind if I turn on the radio?"
"Be my guest." Dylan waved to the dial. He wondered if Brenda had caught on to the reason for the play.
She loved it. That was a start.
Brenda hummed along with the radio, her hums becoming soft singing.
Brenda would practice her auditions in their flat, belting out songs for hours on end. Dylan would tell her the stars of the world's greatest stages had nothing on her. Brenda would say he told that to all the girls. Dylan would toss her over his shoulder and throw her down on their bed to kiss her senseless, telling Brenda she was the only songbird he wanted.
Dylan hurriedly blinked away his welling tears.
"Sorry," said Brenda. "Is it my voice? I don't have to sing. Or hum."
"Please don't stop," he croaked.
"Okay," she hesitantly replied.
Dylan parallel parked in front of the building, just in time for Brenda to break down.
"Turn it off!" she screamed. "Turn it off!"
Dylan quickly shut off the radio, puzzled how an REM song could affect Brenda that much.
He was none too fond of the song either, for his own reasons, but she was outright shaking.
"Bren?" He tried to touch her.
Brenda leapt back from his touch as if he had prodded her with a fire poker and began to rock in her seat.
"Brenda. It's okay," he said. He felt helpless, as he had that morning. "It's okay, baby," he soothed. "The radio's off. It's off."
"I hate that song," she said. "It made me cry. Twice."
"We don't have to listen to it," he told her. "Ever again." He turned towards her, waiting.
Brenda fell against his chest. Dylan engulfed her.
"I'm sorry," she repeated.
"Don't be." He rubbed his hands over her shoulders and kissed her hair. "I hate that song, too."
He watched Brenda's backside as she entered her occupational therapy, longing to go in with her. He reluctantly accepted Brenda's sessions were all things she had to do on her own.
But he didn't have to like it.
Dylan spoke to the front desk, giving the staff the signed papers he had received from Brandon in order to receive updates on the sessions.
He called Alina, telling her about the incident in the car and asking for her advice.
Patience, Alina told him, just as Brandon had. Patience.
Dylan was not a patient man. In fact, he was as impatient as one could be, with the exception of Steve.
But he would learn, for Brenda.
Brenda raised her book out of her bag as they waited for Brandon and asked Dylan if he would read to her.
He delightedly complied, throwing out different voices in the event that their daughter could pick up on his inflection.
"I've decided I want to know our story," said Brenda as Dylan finished a chapter. "The wonderful, the abhorrent, and everything in-between. First, the abhorrent."
"You want me to tell you all the bad stuff?" Dylan's chin jerked as he swallowed down his fears that Brenda would grow to hate him when he had just begun getting her to let him in.
"In increments," said Brenda. "One story at a time. Two or three stories a week. Tell me every time you hurt me, and any ways I hurt you. Once we get the abhorrent out of the way, then you can tell me the wonderful."
"I'm not gonna lie, Bren; there will be times you'll want nothing to do with me. There will be times when I'll want nothing to do with me."
"That's why I want you to read to me. Every night, no matter how angry I am with you." Brenda curled into his shoulder. "If we're going to be parents together, I have to figure out how to manage my hurt and anger towards you so that it won't affect our child's perception. And if I give you the cold shoulder or try to shut you out, it won't be good for her. I won't make our child the middleman between us, even in the womb."
"You've always been better at managing your emotions than I have." Rubbing at her back, Dylan was glad to see Brenda didn't flinch at his touch. "Sometimes too good at it."
"My emotions are amplified now," said Brenda. "I can't control them. I can't let them hold power over me. I have to relearn." Brenda tucked her head into Dylan's neck and looped her arms around his torso. "Will you help me relearn?"
"It'll be hard, but of course I will."
They sat like that, Dylan holding Brenda like she would vanish if he let go, Brenda claiming the spot on his neck that she had always loved, until Brandon drove up an hour after they had planned to meet.
"You're late," said Dylan, walking around to Brenda's side of the car.
"I tried to call you multiple times to tell you the agency pushed it back an hour," said Brandon. "Might want to clean out your inbox, McKay. Says it's full."
"It is?" Dylan pulled out his phone to look at his voicemails.
Brandon peeked over Dylan's shoulder. "No wonder it's full. You have unplayed voicemails going back all the way to last year."
"I don't take calls from unknown numbers, and I don't check voicemails from them, either," said Dylan. "All the important numbers are in my contacts."
Except Brenda's old number, but he would at least recognize it.
"Then you might want to at least delete them," said Brandon. "What if I have to leave a voicemail about Bren and can't get through? What if I have to call you from a different number?"
"I'll recognize the area code."
"Will you?"
Dylan thought over what Brandon had said whilst he paid attention to Brenda's reactions to the various houses.
He'd get the one she fell in love with. They'd rent it for the time being, as they figured out where they would live in a more permanent sense.
She hadn't fallen in love with any of them, so Dylan said no to all of them.
He dropped Brenda off for memory training. He drove over to the library, where he proceeded to borrow a stack of books Brenda either loved or had never read.
And a mound of books for himself, too, mostly on parenting.
Returning to the apartment, Dylan pulled out his phone to clean up voicemail after voicemail from desperate solicitors.
At least it would pass the time.
Fucking spam calls clogged his inbox, the precise reason he never paid attention to unknown numbers.
"Dylan."
He removed his finger from the delete button, where it had automatically landed.
Her voice climbed up his spine, crushing him in its ivory chokehold.
"It's me, on Cass' mobile. Mine; don't ask, just know it's Shane's fault."
"It is not!" said Shane in the background.
"It is," said Mina. "Bren's mobile wouldn't've ended up in the harbor if you hadn't decided to go deep sea diving in the middle of the night."
"Oi, mate! Wasn't me who -"
"Lads, shush!" said Brenda. "You told me to give him a ring, so I am!"
Their friends quieted and allowed Brenda to continue speaking.
"I've loved you since we were sixteen, Dylan. Known you since both of us were still figuring out which routes our lives were gonna take. Just; God, I don't want it to end like this."
That fucking train steamrolled right over him.
"I sent you a letter. Enclosed a postcard, from Melbourne. Couldn't help myself. Reminded me too much of you."
He hadn't received a letter.
He'd had his mail forwarded from London.
Had it been lost in the process?
Could he get the post office to track it down and send it there?
"I just thought I'd call because; well, can we talk? When I get back? Or before? I -"
She what? What? Damn voicemail limits!
He scoured other missed calls and unplayed voicemails, looking for a matching number.
Matching area code.
That would do.
"Me again."
Her voice had changed. Filled with enough steel to build a car from scratch.
Or perhaps a whole lineup of cars.
The timestamp had a date that made Dylan violently nauseous.
"So. Me or the drugs, huh? You chose door number three. Congrats. Had to hear it from Holly. Guess you couldn't tell me yourself that you left. Fucking coward. God, I wish I could hate you. You have no idea how much I want to hate you."
Dylan's eyes closed. He threw his arm up across his forehead.
He'd thought a call would be impersonal. He never expected Brenda wouldn't arrive home to read his own letter.
If he'd sent an email or text, it would have been frosty as an Antarctic exploration, but at least Brenda would have been able to read it.
"Not that you'll give a damn, but I'm late. Weeks late. It might not mean anything. Might be pointless telling you, like last time. Mina says we'll buy the test as soon as we pull into our next stop. Maybe; maybe you'd want to be on the line when I find out one way or the other. It's probably a no. But if it's a yes; Dylan, I'm keeping it. Our mates - my mates, I guess - say they'll be there, if you aren't. Am I wrong to think you would be? You were for Erica. We - we were. I miss her. I miss - I miss you."
A torrential downpour crashed down his face. He stood on a zipline, ready to soar without a harness.
Brenda continued in a second voicemail.
"Sorry, got cut off. Anyway. It doesn't matter. You made your choice; once again, it wasn't me. Don't think much of this. It's guaranteed to be negative. If it's not, you're off the hook - if you want to be. I'm guessing by now there's a few oceans between us. Probably includes the Atlantic, since I bet your ass went back to LA. Why not; the blonde's no longer with Bran, so she's fair game, right? And yet, no matter how much this hurts, no matter how much I want to forget about you, I will never regret us. Guess this is our final goodbye, but I still want you to know," her voice cracked, and he just knew that she had begun to cry, "even with all these oceans between us, and the whole fucking globe, I - I will always -"
A horrible, gut-wrenching, mind-numbing noise cut her off.
"Mina!" Brenda yelled. "Mina, we need to get off! Grab my hand!"
A clunk of the phone.
The thunderous crash of falling furniture.
Screams.
Silence.
Tears. So many fucking tears, he convinced himself he would weep out an eighth sea.
Brenda had known. Sort of. She'd had the feeling. An inkling. Tried to tell him. She'd planned to take the test as soon as she got off the train, the one that would've told her about their daughter instead of Kempsey medical personnel.
The train she had to be removed from.
She'd wanted to forget him, and she had.
But she didn't regret being with him, as Dylan had feared she would. She hadn't hated him. She'd wanted to, but she hadn't.
If she hadn't hated him when she knew everything, then she wouldn't hate him after learning it all over again.
Brenda had thought he would have wanted to be part of it. She wanted him to be part of it, to know from the beginning.
Damn, his Bren knew him well.
Too well. She'd even figured out LA.
He hurled his guts out in the bathroom, as he would have had he broken his sobriety and plowed himself with alcohol. Washing his hands and face, Dylan stared at himself in the mirror.
Then he replayed the messages on a loop, until he was sure they were gorilla glued to his brain. It was self-inflicted torture, but a necessary torture.
On his last replay of Brenda's final message, Dylan realized the song that played in the background.
Whilst Brenda had been crying.
He shot an email to Clare, who sent back pages of research confirming Dylan's theory.
"It's music. Music can help her." Excitement sambaed through Dylan's veins. "Bren; her memories have a soundtrack. Of course they do! The tour was a string of musicals!"
Paganini, the song Brenda had hummed in her terror, first heard at a concert with Dylan. The Rave-Ups. Dylan and Brenda had danced to the band's live music when Dylan had first told Brenda that he loved her.
And REM, the song from her final voicemail.
When she had told him goodbye.
As she had when it had played over the radio during a beach breakup Dylan had believed would be the end of him.
"Slow down, McKay," said Brandon. "What are you on about?"
"Bren left me a voicemail," said Dylan. "Before everything happened; literally. It has the same song she heard today, one we heard together years ago. Bren freaked out when it came on the radio. Said it made her cry. She was, Brandon. She was crying! It played right before that fucking train derailed!"
"So every time Bren hears a song she associates with a memory, she'll regain a piece of that memory?" asked Brandon.
"I don't know," said Dylan. "I don't know if it'll work on all her memories, or even most of them. It might just help a few, but it's worth a shot to try. That must be the reason she wanted to go to the opera so badly. She must associate opera with a memory."
"Aunt Sheila," said Brandon, shell-shocked.
"Excuse me?"
"Aunt Sheila. Fuck, I should've realized it before! She'd take Bren to the opera. Once a year, just the two of them. Usually in the Twin Cities, but also Chicago. St. Louis. I was usually away at sports camp, or hanging out with Bobby." Brandon began rummaging through Brenda's sparse CD collection. "Yep, her newest CD. I wondered why she chose Miles Davis. It's this song." Brandon pointed to the title. "This song played during Grandma and Grandpa's fiftieth, when Grandma swung Grandpa all over the dance floor."
"Bren always said she wanted her marriage to last as long as theirs," said Dylan.
Brandon appeared chipper than Dylan had seen in who knew how long.
"Damn, D. You might be onto something."
Brandon hadn't called him by that old nickname in years.
Dylan tried to not dwell on the implication.
"Then looks like Silver has a job to do," said Dylan.
David gave a vehement shake of his head as he stretched out on the bar stool of his new apartment.
"You aren't seriously asking me for another favor after what happened last time."
"It's not for me." Dylan stood by the muted television. "It's for Bren. You know, my pregnant future wife."
"Bold of you to assume she'll marry you," said Brandon.
"Not bold," said Dylan. "Just hopeful. And before you say anything; yeah, I know I shouldn't hope. But that won't keep me from doin' it. Especially with my kid's veins forming in her."
"I'm not gonna officiate your wedding," said David.
"That's not the favor," said Dylan.
Besides, he added, that offer would go to none other than Nat Bussichio.
Shoving over the printouts Clare had emailed, Dylan explained his theory.
"It's brilliant," said David after an elongated pause. "Could actually work. But there's a problem."
"What's that?" asked Brandon.
"Contrary to what you all think, I'm not a walking music encyclopedia."
"Bren met you in a record shop," said Dylan. "That doesn't just happen. Clare living in the same place as Bren; Donna getting you to visit Clare? Doesn't just happen. Think about it, Silver. You're the one who chose to visit Val when you and Donna went out to New York. Val's the one who got you to call Brandon, isn't she? Donna's the one who told us about Bren, so I could track the twins down and be here for Bren and our daughter. None of that just happened."
Brandon caught a glass jar that had toppled over as a result of Dylan swinging his arms out in emphasis.
"You've been working on a fucking radio show on and off since high school, Silver," continued Dylan. "You toured with Baby Face. You know more about music than any of us. You got your fucking degree in it!"
"You think I was brought here by some unseen force to help Bren?" queried David.
"You know I'm an agnostic and don't have much of an opinion on that, but your family does. Brandon's family does. Andrea's. Donna's. Nat, the best guy I know. So maybe. Possibly. At this point, it wouldn't surprise me." Dylan's head angled towards David's laptop. "Something tells me you're on a few forums and chatrooms for music lovers."
"I will neither deny nor confirm that," said David.
He didn't have to. His face said it all.
It took some convincing before David agreed to help. The men began compiling a list of every song they could think of. Brandon said he would pester Val for the songs that made up her childhood with Brenda. His growing popularity in LA having introduced him to several prominent DJ's in the US, David was tasked with discovering more.
Certain songs would bring Brenda immense pain and torture her fragile mind. Those songs would be immediately crossed off the list if they noticed a poor reaction. Other songs would remind her of happier times, and perhaps give her back the complete or partial memory of that time.
Dylan didn't know whether their plan would work. He loathed the idea of adding to Brenda's pain. But it was the closest solution they had found to help Brenda return to herself.
And he would begin implementing it as soon as he picked her up from memory training.
He knew exactly which song he would start with, too.
Perhaps it would lead to Brenda remembering a sliver of Baja. If that happened, there was a chance she would start to remember him.
A tiny, barely visible chance.
But a chance all the same, one that would be foolish to not take.
Maybe, just maybe, if Brenda started to remember, then she would allow herself to return to him.
And Dylan would be that much closer to securing his family.
To hell with Brandon's warning.
Hope exploded in Dylan, as heat lightning does over a quiet farm in the midst of a warm summer.
This time, he didn't try to knock it down.
-x
Sources: Google + the websites for Baby Centre, Greatist, HelpGuide.
Thanks a million! x