Until Ashlyn (Until Her 3)

“Why did you cut your hair?”

His eyes come to me over his shoulder, and the look on his face makes my stomach twist with unease. “Is that really what you want to ask me right now?”

Actually, it isn’t. But I’m not sure I want to know the answer to my real question, since that would make this thing between us even more real.

“I’ve been wondering.” I shrug, and he mutters something I don’t catch then pulls a pair of his dark slacks off a hanger and steps into them, grabbing a dark gray button-down shirt and shrugging it on.

“Are you mad?”

“Nope.”

“You seem mad,” I mutter as he buttons up his shirt, then grabs his belt that is hanging over the back of the chair in the corner of my room before he loops it through his waistband, tucks in his shirt, and buckles his belt. Taking a seat, I watch him put on his shoes without sparing me a glance then watch him stand and grab his wallet off the dresser near the door, I’m at a loss. This would be the moment in any of my previous relationships where I would say, ‘Fuck you,’ and never talk to the guy again. But Dillon was right. I can’t do that with him now, not without a crap-ton of paperwork and maybe even a broken heart.

“I’ll be at the office. Your pills are there; take one and try to get some rest.” He nods to the bedside table, where he left me a bottle of water and pills, then heads for the door. My stomach twists uncomfortably as I watch him turn to leave.

“When are we going to tell your parents about us?” I blurt without thinking, and he turns to face me, the pain in his eyes catching me off guard.

“Both my parents are dead,” he states evenly, and before my brain catches up and his words register, he’s gone.

Feeling the bed shift, I blink my eyes open and find Dillon sitting in the crook of my lap, softly gazing at me. I called him multiple times after he left, but he didn’t answer his cell. And when I called the office, Matt, our new receptionist, told me he was with patients, but always made sure to ask if I was okay or if it was an emergency. I knew that was Dillon, not Matt. I knew if I played the ‘it’s an emergency’ card, Dillon would have rushed back to the house.

“Hey.” He lifts his hand and slides his fingers softly across my forehead as his eyes follow the path of his touch.

“Hey,” I reply softly, studying him. He doesn’t look angry anymore; he looks apprehensive, making me wonder what he’s thinking. Scooting back, his hand drops to rest on the bed near my hip, and his eyes scan my face before meeting my gaze once more.

“I didn’t know about your parents. I’m really sorry for being insensitive,” I whisper, and his face softens.

“You weren’t being insensitive. You didn’t know, and I don’t talk about them often… to anyone,” he confesses gently and I nod, chewing the inside of my cheek.

“Will you tell me about them?” I question delicately when he doesn’t say more. His face softens further, and he kicks off his shoes and climbs up next to me on the bed, tucking me into his side.

“My moms name was Lacey and my dad was Paul, they met at summer camp when my mom was fourteen and my dad was sixteen. They disliked each other from the moment they met. My mom was outgoing, happy, and the center of attention, while my dad was uptight, high-strung, and slightly antisocial.” I hear the smile in his tone, and I smile a little myself, thinking they sound a lot like us. “Both their parents sent them back to the same camp every summer, and every summer, the animosity between my mom and dad grew a little more.”

“And then they fell in love?” I tilt my head back and look at him, and he shakes his head.

“No, they eventually got too old for summer camp and forgot about each other.”

“Oh,” I mutter, thinking that’s a total letdown. His arms give me a squeeze and I hear him chuckle before his lips touch the top of my head.

“When my mom was twenty-two and my dad was twenty-four, they met again at a party. My mom was going to Wellesley, and my dad was going to Harvard, when they ran into each other. Mom was drunk and spilt her drink on him,” he says, and I giggle, pressing my forehead to his chest, picturing his dad’s face and imagining it looked a lot like Dillon’s. “My dad hadn’t changed at all. He was pissed and demanded my mom pay for his shirt to be dry-cleaned.”