I feel a little better that someone is here, but I’d feel a lot better if it was Dylan. I go through the house, straightening up things, doing a load of laundry, and taking a shower. And he’s still not here. I turn on the TV but can’t concentrate, so I turn it back off.
Every car light that shines through the window as people pull into the parking lot, I jump up and peek through the blinds. Now it’s starting to get dark, and I find myself pacing the living room. Finally, another car pulls into the lot, and before I even see it, I know it’s him. I know it’s Dylan. I look out the window, and sure enough, he’s getting out of his rental car. He walks toward Charlie, who’s been sitting there all evening, and then starts walking toward the apartments. I open the door before he gets to it. As soon as his eyes meet mine, a rush of emotion hits me right in the chest. I don’t even let the poor man in before I’m bear-hugging him and sobbing against his chest.
His arms come around me, and his hands rub up and down my back soothingly. He walks me into the apartment, using one hand to lock the door behind us. He pushes the hair back, and with his hands cradling my face, he searches my face. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
I try to pull myself together, and he uses his thumbs to wipe the tears on my cheeks. “Hey. Don’t cry. I hate seeing you upset like this.”
“I was so worried.”
“Jenna, I’m not going to let anything happen to you. You have to know that.”
I shake my head. “I wasn’t worried about me. I was worried about you.”
He looks shocked at my claim. And it all starts to fall into place. He came from foster homes. The only family he’s ever known is probably the army and my brother and the rest of the guys. He doesn’t realize that if something happened to him, I’d be lost. I grip the front of his shirt in my hands. “I don’t want to lose you, Dylan.”
He seems at a loss for words, and he pulls me in, tucking my head under his chin. His voice is thick with emotion. “You’re not going to.”
I don’t know how long we stand here, but slowly his body starts to relax. I pull away reluctantly but reach for his hand because I don’t want to break all connection.
As soon as I do, he flinches, but he doesn’t pull away. I turn his hand in mine, and his knuckles are busted, with the skin torn. I gasp and reach for his other hand. Sure enough, it’s hurt too. “Dylan. You’re hurt.”
He laughs then. “You should see the other guy.”
I stomp my foot and walk toward the linen closet where I keep the first aid kit. “This isn’t funny. You’re bleeding.”
He’s following behind me. “Jenna, this is nothing.”
I stop with the kit in my hand. “You’re hurt. It’s something, all right. And it’s all because of me.”
I point to the kitchen table, and he sits down without any argument. I look at both his hands, shaking my head. “What happened?”
I use gauze and alcohol to clean out his cuts. The sting, and I know there is one, doesn’t even seem to faze him. His eyes are on me, but I’m concentrating on his hands. “Paul was arrested. I found enough to put him away for a long time.”
I lift his hand and point at his injuries. “And this?”
He shrugs. “I wasn’t going to let him go without knowing the mistake he made. He’ll never bother you again.”
I finish cleaning his hands and put liquid Band-Aid on the cuts that need it. “Can I ask you something?”
“You can ask me anything.”
I busy myself cleaning up the wrappers and getting up and throwing them away. “Why are you doing this?”
When he doesn’t answer right away, I turn to look at him. He’s watching me but doesn’t say anything. He points at the seat I just vacated. I go back and sit down. He pulls me toward him where my legs fit between his. He is leaning forward, his hands resting on the outsides of my thighs. “Why am I doing this?” He pauses. “Why am I helping you? Is that what you mean?”
I nod because talking is not an option right now. The intimacy of being this close to him is going to my head.
“Because your brother asked me to.”
I nod. I don’t know why I thought his answer would be any different than that.
He leans forward, his hands moving farther up my hips, and his fingers dig into my skin, holding me. The hold is a possessive one and makes ripples through my body. “Your brother asked me to help, but as soon as he showed me your picture, there was nothing that would have stopped me from coming here and meeting you.”