Losing you

C H A P T E R N I N E

C H A P T E R       N I N E

Dylan's hands shook as he gripped the steering wheel.

He was running on adrenaline—that was the only reason he was still able to drive his car. Hell, he'd already stalled it four times. And he'd nearly flashed his middle finger at everyone who'd honked their horns at him.

They didn't have to deal with what he was. Self-pity wasn't something he let himself wallow in, but right now he felt like it. He was just glad he had a stubborn streak—it refused to let him give into the unwelcome emotion.

Besides, what would it achieve?

Nothing.

He wouldn't be any closer to finding the next letter—the next reason.

There was an easy way to do this—simply break in. He knew the way in. How to remain unseen.

But, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself to do it the easy way, he knew it was futile. It felt wrong. He wasn't breaking into his girlfriend's house—no way, no how. It felt wrong, like he was betraying her.

So, long story short, he wasn't breaking in.

That left him with a larger problem though. He had to walk to the front door and wait for it to open. Then he had to face her parents—who he hadn't seen in months, not since her death.

At the start they'd loved him—he'd asked to come over and they'd jumped at the chance . . .

But that was before. And this was now.

Which meant this was going to be Hell.

As he turned off the main road onto the back roads, he knew he was getting closer. The nervous energy increased, thrumming in his veins.

Times like this, he wished he smoked—then he'd have something to relax him, questionable or not. But then it wasn't worth the after effects.

The closer he got, the faster his heart raced. He was tempted to turn the car around completely, but he wasn't going to back out. It didn't matter what he had to face, he would. This was nothing.

At least that's what he told himself. Did he believe it? If he was lying to himself, then yeah. But bullshit got you nowhere. So he had to admit it—he was freaking out. And doing a piss poor effort to hide it.

There was some twisted irony in some of this. This was all based on Romeo and Juliet—where two lovers ended their relationship dead. Only it was just her. And Dylan wasn't passing over there any time soon.

Still, it had become fucked up. He wasn't ignorant enough to miss it.

But he wouldn't change it.

Well, maybe, he'd change this part—the backwards family reunion.

All too soon, he'd stopped the car outside of the house. Dylan undid his seatbelt. Then he just sagged back against the car seat, staring out at the window.

The house was still the same. Not overly large, but not small. Blue painted exterior that hadn't faded even though it had been years. There was no garden out the front—which sadly meant no privacy. There was only two large windows next to the wooden front door.