Oh fuck. What have I done? It had been such a horrible string of days—the discovery of Dylan’s secret at the play, then the message about the crisis on the training mission. It was his worst nightmare, the sort of scenario that kept him awake at night and alert to every detail in mission planning.
He’d been happy—no, relieved—to work the long hours the admiral wanted from them. Keeping busy was the only way to avoid drowning in what-ifs. After spending all Friday night at the hospital, a great deal of it with Luciana Lopez awaiting word that her young husband was out of surgery, there had been an early morning trip out to the crash site with the admiral to pore over the wreckage. Some sort of catastrophic mechanical failure was the working theory, but that didn’t make Apollo rest any easier. His job was to prevent failure of any kind, and he hadn’t done that, and it didn’t much matter if it was a mechanic who’d missed something or a faulty manufacturing job. Being a leader meant taking responsibility, but some days, responsibility frankly sucked.
Apollo hadn’t gone this many hours without more than an hour or two of shut-eye since the last time he was overseas on a mission, and his body was protesting. He turned on the sink, splashing cold water on his face and neck. Maybe Chloe was right and he did need a nap.
But that wasn’t happening now. No way could he sleep after the fight with Dylan. The things I said...
Had he really meant to blow up like that? Over bikes?
The wreckage at the crash site had turned even his well-seasoned stomach. And not surprisingly, the mangled metal had him thinking about Neal all weekend, visions of that crash too playing through his head even as he tried to focus on the task at hand. Then he’d seen the girls on the bikes, happy as the gulls down by the water, and all he could think about was how he couldn’t lose them too, wouldn’t know how to keep living if anything happened to them.
And he knew deep down that Dylan would never let anything happen to the girls, would die first himself, but that hadn’t been enough to counter the icy spikes of dread coursing through his body at the sight of them on the bikes Neal had so lovingly picked out, every assumption in the world that he’d be around to teach them.
He took off his uniform shirt, hung it on the hook on the back of the door, then opened the door wide enough to call to the girls that he was taking a shower. He stepped under the water before it had a chance to fully heat, welcoming the bite of the cold. Hell, he deserved to freeze after how he’d treated Dylan.
And yes, now under the water, sanity gradually restoring, he could see that his anger about Dylan’s job had been fueling his harsh words. Because he did feel duped, like Dylan had yanked his nice cozy comforter out from under Apollo, cast him onto the floor. Knowing they had only a few days before goodbye had felt safe. Secure. Like he could enjoy every second with Dylan and not have to think.
Was that so wrong? To want to not think, just for a little while?
It’s not fair to Dylan. He rinsed the soap off his body, giving one of the sighs that Chloe had complained about. It wasn’t fair to him. Dylan was a great guy, and no matter that he’d lied, he was about to get majorly hurt that Apollo couldn’t give him what he wanted. What he deserved. And maybe their fight didn’t have to be so ugly, but it did have to happen because no way was this ending the way Dylan hoped.
What about the way you wanted? Did you really want to say goodbye? Fuck. Apollo didn’t know any longer. No, he hadn’t wanted to say goodbye, but damn it what choice did he have?
He shut off the water with more force than necessary, scrambling for a towel but there wasn’t one on the hook. Oh crap. He remembered them using the last towel and opened the cupboard with growing dread only to find...
A nice big stack of fluffy white towels, neatly folded.
Dylan. Yet again making Apollo’s life easier even in ways Apollo resisted. And how did you treat him?
He fished his phone out of the pocket of his pants on the floor, finger hovering over Dylan’s name in his contacts. The need to know Dylan was safe bubbled up, that he hadn’t gone storming off only for something unthinkable to happen, and before Apollo could stop himself, he sent a text.
Are you safe?
While he waited for the reply, he tried to rehearse what he should say next. Should he apologize? Did he want to apologize? And if so, for what? He couldn’t give Dylan false hope, right? But still, the need to say sorry made his throat burn with words he couldn’t even whisper to the mirror.