What was she thinking, dropping by like this? She should make up some excuse and take off—just ride the lift back down and text Dylan an apology.
But the lift is already coming to a stop.
What the hell is she going to text him? ‘Something came up’? What if he asks to reschedule? What if—
And she catches a glimpse of Dylan in the hallway as the lift’s doors slide open.
At the sight of him, years of suppressed emotions swell up inside, threatening to spill from her eyes.
“Neve,” his brows crease as he steps forward.
“No—” Neve backs away, pressing the button for the lobby. “No, no, no,” she keeps pressing it, but the damn doors won’t slide shut.
And then, she bursts into tears.
“Babe—” he steps into the lift.
“No, don’t you dare CALL ME THAT!” she shoves him back.
Dylan staggers out of the confines of the lift, his expression a blend of shock and hurt.
And instead of taking the ride back down, Neve steps out into the hallway and shoves him again, and again, until he is backed up against the wall.
With tears streaming down her burning cheeks, “I loved you,” she barely manages to get out, “and you just left… You left,” she heaves, “he left,” her anguish bending her at the waist, “everybody leaves…”
Dylan reaches out, but Neve swats his hand away. He goes to pull her into an embrace, but she pushes him away. And then her efforts are too feeble, and he is wrapped around her, warm and strong.
“I’m so mad at you,” she sobs into his chest. Her arms are folded, and her fists are too weak to pound onto him. “I am so mad at you,” she cries, her throat tight and throbbing.
“I’m sorry,” Dylan buries his face in her neck. “I’m sorry, Neve. I’m sorry,” he repeats over and over, his voice tainted with guilt and regret. And even when Neve’s knees give out from under her, his hold keeps her from falling to the floor. So she surrenders to the compulsion, and cries over what feels like a lifetime of heartbreak, longing, and loneliness.
“Come on,” Dylan whispers while gently stroking her hair. “Let’s go inside,” he starts to shift, and like a crutch she needs to keep her from crumbling, Neve lets him lead the way into his apartment.
Once within the confines of his home, Neve pries herself away, adamant to hold her ground.
“Can I get you something?” he asks.
“Don’t do that,” Neve looks at him, fury encasing her pain. “Don’t go acting like everything is okay. It’s not okay. You don’t get to walk back into my life and act like nothing’s happened.”
Dylan’s shoulders slacken, the sorrow in his eyes draining Neve of her intensity. And once again, she’s feeling vulnerable and defeated. The same goddamn feeling she’s been struggling to suppress all day.
“They all just stared at me like, ‘who’s this bitch’? ‘Why is she here’?” Neve shakes her head and diverts her gaze. “Just because they didn’t know me, it was like I didn’t have the right to be upset over their loss. Like what I was feeling wasn’t qualified.”
“People grieve in different ways,” Dylan says.
“They were judging me, Dylan. It was almost like they were blaming me.”
“For what?” concern twists his brows.
“I don’t know. Not being a good enough friend? Or maybe they thought I was his psychotic ex-girlfriend. That I drove him to it.”
Dylan squints, visibly perplexed by what she just said. And in that moment, Neve realizes she never explained in her text to Dylan how Elliot died... only that he did.
“He killed himself,” she practically whispers.
And silence swallows the room.
Dylan breaks eye-contact and slips his hands into his pockets—what he does when he feels defeated.
“God—I’m sorry,” he shakes his head. “I thought it was an accident, or something.”
“Oh, it was anything but,” Neve walks over to the window and leans against it, gazing out at the urban congestion—at the view she never thought she’d see again, at least not outside of her memories.
“I don’t know… Maybe they’re right,” she mutters as Dylan approaches her from behind. “Maybe it was my fault.”
“Don’t say that,” Dylan rests his hand on her back. “I know blaming yourself may seem comforting, but it’s just a way for you to feel like you’re in control.”
“I knew…” she says, oblivious to Dylan’s attempts at consoling her. “I knew… I must have.”
“Knew what?” Dylan sits down on the windowsill, looking up at her.
“I had a dream about it. About his death.”
“Neve. Hindsight is twenty-twenty. You look back and feel like the answers were right there in front of you, and start blaming yourself for not doing things differently. But you can’t think like that. You need to make peace with things that are out of your control.”
“What if it was?” Neve whispers as though telling him an ugly secret. “What if it was in my control?”
“How do you mean?”
“It wasn’t just some random dream. When the cop explained—” Neve’s heart skips a beat, “Jesus, it was like he was describing my own dream to me.”
Dylan’s gaze darts between Neve’s eyes as though searching for something. Does he think she’s lost it? That she’s crumbled under the stress of it all?
“People don’t have control over their dreams,” he finally speaks. “I wish they did, but—”
“Do you remember the nightmare I told you about a few days before you took off?”
He squints. “The one with the red river?”
Neve nods. “I was standing on an old, stony bridge all by myself. And the water running below was this deep, deep red. And it felt like everyone in the world was dead, and their blood was tainting the waters.”
“Right,” he nods. “What about it?”
“A few days later—after you were already gone—I read about a group of Czech artists that had poured gallons of paint in the river to protest animal rights. Everyone thought it was such a brilliant idea,” Neve drops her head. “And I was fucking terrified.”
Dylan’s eyes lose focus, and then his sinking gaze is zigzagging through the air.
“I told you,” Neve diverts her focus back out onto the horizon. “It was my fault.”
“No,” Dylan shakes his head and rises. “It wasn’t.”
“It was, Dylan,” she insists. “I lied. I didn’t want to get locked up in a psych ward, so I told everyone the dreams were all made up!”
She heaves an exasperated sigh and rubs her face. But the tightness of the dry trail of tears remains.
“Maybe I should have just let them lock me up. Maybe if they’d done experiments on me they could have figured out what the hell is wrong with me,” she continues in spite of Dylan shaking his head. “I could have helped them. I could have helped prevent horrible shit like this from happening, and Elli—”
Dylan grips the back of her neck and pulls her in. And Neve loses her conviction as his body heat seeps into her. Though he still smells the same—like green apples—he feels infinitely stronger than he used to. So steady and unyielding.
Incredible, what time can do.
“It’s so easy to do away with things—or people—that you don’t understand,” he mutters. “To just cast them aside, so you don’t have to deal with them. But just because science can’t explain something, doesn’t mean it’s not real… and it sure as fuck doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”
Welling up, Neve pulls back and looks up at him. And her lids fall shut as he kisses the crease between her brows—just like he used to whenever she was upset. And surely enough, true and time-tested, her frown melts beneath the warmth of his kiss, and her soul is no longer heavy.
But when he pulls her back in, all Neve can think of is how she would dream about him almost every night like nothing’s happened. And how when she’d wake up and remember that he’s gone, it w
as like losing him all over again.
“It’s been three years for me too, you know,” he says, the gravity of his sincerity a complete shock to Neve’s system. And before she can wrap her head around what that really means, Dylan’s phone rings in his pocket, shattering the moment.
As their bodies part, Dylan rushes to silence the call, but hesitates at the sight of the caller’s name. He stares at his phone’s screen for a few moments, and then much to Neve’s disappointment, picks up.
“Alex, hey…”
Great, Neve thinks. What better excuse for Dylan to keep avoiding the giant elephant in the room.
She starts to pull away with her eyes on the front door, but Dylan’s hand clasps around her wrist.
“I’d really like that,” he says, “but actually, Alex—I need a favor.” He locks eyes with Neve. “And I’m not taking no for an answer.”
Chapter 10
Galen
The hidden sun has tinted the clouds a warm shade of gray. And although it’s hard to tell the exact time of day, it’s far too bright out for no other cars to be on the road. But Neve doesn’t mind. It’s been a long while since she’s had the road all to herself.
She cranes her left hand out the window of her white Fiat, relishing the sensation of cool air weaving through her fingers. And although she has no idea where she is, or where she’s going, she feels perfectly content. Peaceful even. That is until an exit sign from further up the road kindles her curiosity.
She squints to read it, but the letters seem garbled. So she flings her focus onto the exit number instead.
‘EXIT 6’ she reads as the sign approaches. And the moment it flies past her, Neve notices a young man sitting in her passenger’s seat.
He’s got a stunning profile: straight nose, high cheekbones, and a chiseled jaw line. And his slicked-back, dark brown hair is resting on his shoulders. He is wearing a loose, charcoal sweater and black fitted jeans. And although Neve can’t imagine how, she feels like she has met him before.
“Hi,” she says, but the young man doesn’t respond. So she directs her gaze back out onto the road.
Another highway sign is fast approaching.
‘EXIT 6’ she reads again as it swooshes past them. But this time, Neve feels like she has just missed a second opportunity.
“Merge,” the stranger’s steely voice beckons her attention.
Neve braces herself to apologize for missing their exit—or what she assumes to have been their exit—but the man’s indifference shatters her resolve.
This time when she looks out onto the road, she realizes she is speeding up a ramp—one she must have taken without even noticing.
She peeks over at the highway her path is converging into, and her jaw drops at the sight of thousands of white Fiats idling bumper to bumper. It’s like staring at a stream of white ladybugs in total gridlock.
“Merge,” the man repeats.
“There’s no room,” Neve feverishly scans the gaps between the vehicles as the two of them continue to speed into peril.
“Merge.”
“I can’t!” Neve stomps onto her brakes to no avail. “Oh my God—” she tries to pull the car over onto the side-road, but her steering wheel is stiff as a rock.
“OH MY GOD!”
Neve awakens to the sound of an early morning truck backing up. As the veil of her dream is slowly pulled from her heavy lids, she arches her back and stretches the fatigue from her veins.
It’s been two days since Elliot’s celebration of life. And since Neve had a meltdown in Dylan’s arms.
She’d hoped her spontaneous visit would put it all on the table. That by standing her ground, she could finally get some real answers and be one step closer to closure.
Instead, she unravelled and wept in the arms of the very person who hurt her. She spilled her closely guarded secrets as the walls she spent years building crumbled around her.
And to this very moment, she doesn’t know if her choice to leave was smart or stupid. Had she stayed, maybe they would’ve talked until all the kinks were ironed out. But would that have been the best time, given her state of mind?
She rolls to her side and stares out her window, wondering why Dylan hasn’t reached out since. But then again, he did insist that she calls him after her session today with Alexander Galen. The emergency session he practically demanded of his own shrink, barely five seconds into receiving a call from him.
If that doesn’t show just how much he cares about her, then what will?
She sits up and sinks into a wilting posture, trying to think of what to wear to her first therapy session in years.
If Galen is indeed the best psychiatrist in the city as Dylan put it, then who knows… A quick visit just might prove to be worthwhile.
σ
Three hours since she woke up from her highway dream, Neve sits by herself on a Victorian loveseat in Alexander Galen’s office. She keeps tapping her foot as if it could shake off her anxiety.
What’s taking him so long? Is this his lunch break?
She scans his spacious office, which quite frankly, looks more like the lobby of a luxury hotel. The large floor tiles are a soft cream color, and a thin strip of black stone is offset from the ivory walls. The entire space is of a neutral color scheme.
She wonders if it’s intentional.
“Thank you for waiting,” a sophisticated African-American gentleman enters.
Neve’s eyes are immediately drawn to his graying curls and silver eyes. In his beige tweed vest, white shirt, and brown pants, he is reminiscent of a time long passed… when clothes were less about identity and more about character.
It’s odd, meeting him. It is rousing a deep sense of nostalgia. But for what?
A generation she never belonged to?
“Hi,” Neve rises to receive Galen’s hand. “Thank you so much for seeing me on such short notice.”
“It’s my pleasure. Any friend of Dylan’s is family,” Galen smiles as he shakes Neve’s hand. “Please,” he indicates the loveseat, and then takes his own seat in an off-white tufted armchair across from her.
Neve retakes her seat and crosses her hands on her lap. There is just something about Galen that makes her compelled to impress him.
“I’ve looked over your file,” Galen crosses his legs as he leans back in his chair. “It’s been a while since you sought out therapy.”
“Honestly, I sort of lost faith in the whole process after awhile,” Neve admits. “No offense.”
“It’s not for everyone,” he puts on his frameless glasses and jots something down on his notepad.
Neve cranes her neck up to sneak a glance at what he’s scribbling. What could he have possibly deduced about her already?
“So what brings you in today?” he looks up.
“Right,” Neve leans back, her posture stiff. “I know Dylan made it sound like an emergency, but it isn’t.” She drops her gaze and starts to scrape at her black nail polish. “The worst is already over.”
“Which was… what?”
And it’s like the words have wrapped around her tongue, holding on for dear life. “M—my best friend killed himself. A week ago.”
“My condolences,” he jots something else down.
Elliot’s somber words flood Neve’s mind, and the depth of his despair finally dawns on her.
Is this what you get when you finally summon the courage to seek out your last resort?
My condolences?
“Suicide is perhaps one of the most difficult issues to deal with,” Galen says without taking his eyes off his notepad. “Even the thought of ending one’s life is unfathomable for most people, which isn’t surprising given that death is the most universal fear known to man.”
“Right. Of course.”
“What do you fear about it?” he stops writing and looks up at her. His gaze is so deep and inquisitive, it makes Neve feel like she’s curled up at the base of a test tube.
“About death?” she
asks.
“Is it the pain? The fear of the unknown? Leaving everything behind?”
Neve ponders it. “I guess for me it’s about… time? Or lack thereof, I should say.”
Galen’s unblinking stare prompts her to go on.
“It scares me that one day I won’t exist anymore,” she says. “I keep imagining myself on my deathbed, all alone, with only a few seconds left. And it terrifies me that once I’m gone, I won’t even be able to know that I used to exist.”
“And how do you cope with these thoughts?”
“I don’t, I guess. It doesn’t matter how many times I think I’ve come to terms with it… after a while the thought creeps back and pounces on me like a cheap jump-scare.”
He laughs. “An interesting way of putting it.”
“Just to clarify, it isn’t my mortality I’m concerned about. I just need to come to terms with my friend’s suicide.”
“Yes. Of course,” he nods to himself. “Was there a note?” he glances at Neve over the rim of his glasses.
“No,” she shakes her head, and watches him jot something else down. “Does that mean anything?”
Galen raises his head slightly, but his eyes remain glued to what he’s writing. “There’s no formula, I’m afraid. Everyone is different in how they perceive, perform, and react to suicide.”
“But don’t people usually leave a note?”
“If they have something to say, yes. But for most people, suicide is simply a way out—a means to end their suffering.”
Suffering…
The back of Neve’s eyes sting as she wells up. She swallows the painful pill in her throat, brows knitted to combat her vulnerability.
“Are you angry?” Galen asks.
“No,” she says. “Not at him, anyway.”
Galen’s eyes narrow a bit, so Neve drops her gaze and starts to fiddle with her jacket’s zipper.
This is it. If she’s going to bring up her nightmare, now is the time.
“At yourself?” Galen asks with a voice completely devoid of empathy, and diverts his focus onto Neve’s history forms.
“I know people tend to blame themselves in these situations, but in my case it’s warranted.”