“No,” Dylan snaps.

Sydney stands up and gently moves my hand, inspecting the cuts. I let her. Because the alternative would’ve caused more problems. Or so I thought.

“Is that glass?” she says, but it’s not a question.

“Dylan?” Mal asks.

He pulls his hand away and hides it under the table. “It’s fine.”

“No it’s not, D. If it’s glass you need to get it taken out. Let me look at it.” Sydney’s waving her hand in front of him. “I’ve got a first aid kit. I can do it here.”

And Dylan loses it. Really, truly, loses it. “I said it’s fine, Sydney! Leave it the fuck alone!”

“Don’t fucking talk to her like that. She’s just trying to help you,” Eric yells. He’s on his feet now, walking around the table to Dylan. I look down at my plate, my heart hammering in my ears because I know what’s going to happen next. I can feel it.

“Fuck this,” Dylan spits, standing so quickly his chair tips and falls to the floor. “I don’t fucking need this shit! I knew I shouldn’t have come here!”

“What the fuck is your problem, man?”

I cringe at the loudness of both their voices.

“Fuck you, Eric!” Dylan roars.

And I don’t see what happens next. I don’t want to. I shut my eyes and keep them that way. Even when I hear the scuffle go on next to me. Even when I feel a body press to my side. Even when Mal and Sydney’s screams become louder than the pulse pounding in my ears.

“Enough!” Mal shouts so loud my ears ring.

I finally open my eyes and lift my gaze. Eric’s on the floor, leaning against the kitchen cabinets while Sydney attends to his bloody nose and cut lip. Dylan’s arms are being held back my Mal, his chest rising and falling, his eyes burning with the same anger that created the cuts on his knuckles.

Dylan shrugs out of his dad’s hold, his eyes still on Eric. “Let’s go, Riley,” he says, grabbing his keys from the table.

I look back down at my plate and stay silent. I do nothing. I feel nothing.

His voice is further away when he repeats his words, even angrier than he was.

I cringe, but I don’t move.

“Fuck this. You can fucking walk home!” He slams the front door and a second later, I hear his truck rev, tires screech, and then he’s gone.

Slowly, I stand up and pick up Bacon from his seat, feeling the intensity of three sets of eyes on me.

Eric gets up, going after me as I start to leave the room. “Riley,” he says, his hand on my arm freezing me to my spot.

With a gentle touch I crave from his brother, he turns me to him. His head moves from side to side, his eyes scanning me from head to toe. “Riley, if Dylan is hurting you… I mean, physically…” He doesn’t finish his sentence. He can’t. The thought itself is incomprehensible.

I shake my head quickly, hoping it’s enough to convince him that Dylan’s not. And then I drop my gaze, because I don’t want him to see the fear in my eyes—the one that says that even though he’s not… yet… it doesn’t mean that I’m not terrified he will.

“Sweetheart,” Mal says, “you’re always welcome to come here.”

Sydney adds, “You can always call me, or us, any of us. Anytime. No matter what.”

I bite my lip to stop the sob from escaping, but I can’t do the same with my tears. I force myself to look up at them. I want nothing more than to hug them, to kiss them, and to tell them how grateful I am that they’ve accepted me into their family. That they loved me like Dylan did… but I don’t. Because doing so would mean that I’m admitting it’s over. And it can’t be over.

He’s only been back for two days.

Two stupid days.

Keep faking it, Riley.

“Thank you for breakfast. I’ll see you soon.”

Dylan’s sitting on the couch in the living room with his buddies when I get back home. I don’t speak to any of them. I simply go to my room, shower and get to work early.

The work day goes by quickly, unfortunately, while I dodge the million text messages from Sydney asking if I’m okay. If I want to hang out after work. If I want to see a movie. If I want to have a good old fashioned slumber party. I don’t want any of those things. What I want is my fucking boyfriend back.

I want it so badly that I do something I’ve never done before. Something so extreme and stupid. I go to the store, pick out a cupcake and a single candle. I light it in the car with Bacon on my lap. And just like I did the last two times I’d done this—I wish for Dylan.

My Dylan.

I don’t get my wish because the house is exactly the way it was the day before. It’s a fucking mess. Only now the place smells like beer—maybe because of all the empty bottles around the room—some on the floor, spilled over and soaking into our brand new carpets. They’re all facing the TV playing a car racing game on a PlayStation. A PlayStation we didn’t have yesterday.

I greet them quickly and keep Bacon in my arms as I make my way into the kitchen. I make dinner for myself, happy they at least left me something, and eat alone in the bedroom, wishing for a moment that I’d taken up any one of Sydney’s offers. When I’m done, I go back out to the kitchen, ordering Bacon to sit and stay in his bed so I can start to clean the mess they’d created. I clear every surface I can see throughout the house, swiftly moving around their lazing bodies in the living room and trashing what I can. Three trash bags later, I roll up my sleeves and start on the dishes. I’ve started doing it by hand for some reason—maybe because I find it therapeutic. That’s when Dylan decides to walk in, leaning against the counter next to me, his arms crossed.