Mr. Andrews was happy to see Dylan, and happy to see that I was happy. We also went to see Dr. Matthews, his friend’s dad, and got me on birth control.

We go to Dylan’s check ups together (I’m on my third notebook) and his doctors are happy with his progress. And even though we know the clock is ticking on our current time together… we don’t talk about it.

We don’t look at the clock.

We’re having too much fun.

My mom brings it up sometimes, but never to the point where she’s the one pushing the wrong buttons.

A few nights ago we drove down to UNC for “Operation Mayhem: Retaliation Edition.” I didn’t really know what this meant, but it involved me dressing in black, fishing wire, a fishing rod, sixteen cans of cat food, a crowbar, the High School Musical soundtrack, a shit ton of eggs, a blow up doll, and five huge black dildos. That’s just what was in the front seat. I don’t even want to list what was in the bed of his truck. Nor do I want to think about the dent this made on his credit card.

“Mo money, mo problems,” he said when I casually mentioned it, which made absolutely no sense but he’d been talking to Dave a lot more lately so I guess that might have something to do with it.

I beg him to leave Lucy alone since her and I had started texting a bit, mainly about books. Oh. I forgot to mention, the morning after I showed up at his house in the middle of the night, Dylan went out and got me a Kindle and had Lucy load it up with “her” types of books. He just kept saying, “Read, Riley. Read as much as you want, whenever you want.” So I did. And now Lucy and I read books together—something she loves because we’re both quick readers. Anyway, his response to my request to leave Lucy alone was quite disturbing. “But then what would I do with three of the dildos and the five feet of chains?” So… I left that alone.

I also left him to do most of the mayhem himself considering I already had a record for disorderly conduct. We left UNC as the sun was rising and headed back home. I asked why he didn’t stay to at least watch one of the reactions. He said it wasn’t the point. The point is to plant, not to witness. That’s rule number four.

Did I mention that I think I’m in love with him? Because I think am. Soul-crushing, heart-stealing, life-changing, guilt-free L.O.V.E in love with him.

“All right, babe,” he says, sticking his head out from under the hood of the Honda. “Turn her over.”

I put my Kindle on the seat next to me and reach for the keys in the ignition. Then I crank it. It starts first go, causing a giant grin to form across Dylan’s face. I start to celebrate but he presses a finger on his lips to silence me, then he closes his eyes and listens to the quiet roar of the engine for a minute. I guess hoping it doesn’t die.

I’d learned from our chats that he’s a 1342 Small Craft Mechanic. I’m sure I got my wording wrong but it basically means that that’s what he chose his job to be when he enlisted and while he was deployed. Besides, you know, saving the world and all that.

So I guess it’s safe to say that he’d be pretty disappointed in himself had he not connected the engine to the shell properly. But going off of the widening of his grin, he’s done all right.

He rubs his hands together as he makes his way to the passenger seat, carefully placing my Kindle in the glove box. Swear, he thinks that Kindle is made of unicorn leather or something. He handles it with more care than he handles me… but then again… the books I’ve read have taught me that not all lovemaking should be sensual. Sometimes, you just want a good, hard, rough spanking. True story.

“Let’s take her for a spin,” he tells me.

“You want me to drive?”

He looks at me like I’m stupid. “Of course you’re driving. It’s your car.”

“What?!” I shout.

“Why the hell do you think I’ve been working on it?”

“You can’t give me a car! Did Afghanistan give you brain damage?”

He rolls his eyes. “I have a car! What the hell am I going to do with this one?”

“You can’t buy me a car, Dylan!”

He scoffs. “Technically, I didn’t buy you a car. I made you one.” His smile widens as he pretends to write in the air. “Dear Jeremy,” he says, his voice high pitched. “Dylan made me a car and I love him so much.”

I laugh. I can’t help it. Because I know he’s not mocking me. He’s just being Dylan.

“Seriously,” he adds. “What am I going to do with this?”

“You didn’t buy it with the intention of giving it to me, though.”

“I beg to differ.”

“You got it a few weeks after you got home. We’d barely started dating.”

“Yeah, and I wanted to get in your pants back then. This was my go-to if all my other plans failed me.”

“What? Give me a car in the hopes I’d put out?”

“Yep.”

We argue about this for another five minutes before he finally gets sick of my nagging and tells me to shut up and be grateful. So… I shut up and be grateful.

We’re gone a couple of hours before we get back to our neighborhood, but he tells me to turn onto a street two before ours. He doesn’t tell me why. Just says it’ll be worth it. Then he tells me to stop in front of nowhere familiar and gets out of the car. I stay. Just in case this is one of his crazy Operation Mayhems and I need to bail quickly. He walks to my side of the car, opens my door, undoes my belt, and holds my hand, helping me to get out. “What’s going on?” I ask, looking around me.