I should’ve known.

*     *     *

I sit on Dylan’s lap as he sits with the guys from his unit and a couple of their girls drinking beers around the hotel pool. They tell stories about Dave, relive memories he’d created and celebrate the life of the fallen.

The others talk.

Dylan doesn’t.

He simply sips on his beer, his jaw tense as he listens to their stories. His knee begins to bounce, his breaths becoming harsher with each minute that passes.

Then he taps my leg, hinting for me to move. And even though I can already feel the anger emitting from him, feel the rage from his shaking body beneath me, I get up quickly and stand by his chair. “This is fucking bullshit,” he mumbles, throwing his beer behind him and walking away.

“What was that?” Leroy asks.

Dylan’s fists ball at his sides, the anger raging in his eyes again. I count the number of empty bottles by his chair. He’s only had three. “You heard me, Leroy. Don’t fucking talk about him like you knew him. You didn’t fucking know him.” He eyes everyone before adding, “None of you did. You didn’t give him the time of day when he was breathing, don’t act like you give a shit now when he’s dead.”

“Banks, he was in our unit! We spent every fucking day with the kid,” Leroy says, his eyes narrowed in disgust. “You think we’d all fucking be here if we didn’t give a shit?!”

Two steps.

That’s all it takes for Dylan to get to Leroy, fisting his collar and pushing him up against the chain-link fence behind him. “How old was he?” Dylan snaps, his forehead pressed against Leroy’s.

Leroy grabs Dylan’s wrists, trying to push him away. Dylan doesn’t budge. “What?”

“How fucking old was he? What were his brothers’ names?” Dylan yells, spit flying from his mouth. “Answer me!”

“Fuck you!” Leroy shouts.

The other guys are on their feet now. But it’s like they’re waiting for a reason to break it up, as if what’s happening isn’t reason enough. My heart’s pounding in my ears now, tears streaking down my cheek caused by fear. Sob after sob, after fucking sob escaping me. No one sees me. No one hears me.

“Dylan!” I shout, moving toward them.

“You didn’t fucking know him!” Dylan yells.

Leroy’s eyes narrow more, his anger matching Dylan’s as he tries again, in vain, to get out of Dylan’s grasp. “And you’re such a fucking hero, Banks, you couldn’t—”

I’ve never heard what a punch to someone’s jaw sounds like. I never want to again. But I do. Again and again, all while the guys shout, trying to get between them. I scream. Conway yells. We all try to calm him down but the rage inside Dylan is too strong, too loud. He doesn’t hear. Or maybe he chooses not to.

I step forward, holding my breath to stop the cries. My vision blurred, I grab his arm right before he goes for the fourth punch. His strength is unmatched when he pushes me back, his palm finding my chest as his eyes stay on Leroy. “Fuck off!” he shouts, and I stumble on my feet, my hands in front of me, reaching for something. Anything. Conway shouts my name. Dylan turns, his mouth open, his eyes on mine. Right before I fall.

My back hits the water, my lungs instantly filling with it. So do my ears. My nose.

I shut my eyes and close my mouth, then I hold my breath, listening to the water whirl around me. It feels like an eternity before my feet find the tiled floor, and for a moment, I want to stay down here. Because being underwater—the source of my nightmares—seems safer than being up there… where my reality is my nightmare. Then I remember Dylan, I remember his eyes. The rage first, then the shock. I find the courage to push off my feet and I gasp for air the moment I feel it hit my face, my head spinning. I blink back the water as I search for Dylan. He’s standing by the edge, his arms held back by three men. “Riley,” Conway says, and I tear my gaze away from Dylan to see Conway squatting by the edge of the pool, his hand out for me. I swim toward him, gripping his hand when I reach him. He helps me out of the pool, his hands instantly on me. One on my shoulder, the other on my cheek as he forces me to look at him. “You okay?” he asks, his dark eyes penetrating mine.

I try to calm my breaths, try to soothe the ache in my chest. I glance at Dylan, looking for some form of remorse. There is none. The rage is back. “Get your fucking hands off her!” he yells, trying to get loose.

“Stop!” I shout at him, my hand up between us. “Just stop.” I look at Conway. “I’m fine.”

Someone hands him a towel; one he wraps around my shoulders. “I’ll walk you up to your room.” He turns me away from Dylan, from my love, my heart, from my hurt, and with Conway’s words meant only for me, he says, “We’re going to clear out and give Banks some time to settle down. He’s had it rough.”

I glance over my shoulder, my body shaking from the cold. Dylan’s watching me, his jaw set, his eyes on mine. There’s still no remorse. But there’s no longer rage. There’s nothing.

And I don’t know what I fear most.

*     *     *

I watch him from the hotel room window, alone, sitting in the same chair we’d been in hours ago. Besides reaching for the numerous beers, he doesn’t move. He keeps his head down, his eyes on the pool, taking sip after sip, drowning in heartbreak.