Rehab, Actors & Love

Returning the Gesture

Della's POV

Dylan's been acting weird lately. It's hard to ignore the looks, the hesitating before walking away, and the times he walks by my bedroom door before walking away.

I was eating lunch outside when someone decided to block my sun. My breath got caught in my throat when I saw it was Dylan standing above me.

"Hi," I said softly.

"Hey."

I waited for him to say something else, but he didn't. I watched as he ran his fingers through his hair. He cleared his throat before sighing.

"I'm sorry," he blurted out. "For the other day. I didn't mean to come across. . . I was just trying. . . I was a jerk and I'm sorry."

He bit his bottom lip, waiting for me to respond. A smile slowly spread across my lips as I saw how nervous he was.

"It's okay," I said with a small laugh. He smiled, letting out a sigh of relief.

"Can I sit?" He asked tentatively.

"Sure," I shrugged. He sat across from me, sending me a smile before sitting across from me. We ate in silence, neither one of us daring to break it.

I looked up when he cleared his throat. "Did I ever tell you why I'm here?" He asked. I shook my head, slightly biting my lip. He cleared his throat again as he prepared himself to tell me.

"I kind of like to party." He looked up when I failed to cover my laugh. He sent me a playful glare before continuing, "Anyway, one night a few months ago my friend and I went to this club. They pass around these powerful drugs and we usually don't take it, but we were really drunk."

I tried to ignore the redness on his cheeks as he told this story. "We were drunk and high. We had no idea what was going on. Next thing we knew, we had crashed our car. We were arrested for driving under the influence and having alcohol in the car. This was our third strike. We're lucky my friend's dad is a lawyer because he reduced our sentence. My friend had to do community service and, since I was the driver, I had a choice– either go to rehab or serve five years."

"Serve?" I whispered, not meaning to say it out loud.

"Yeah," he sighed. My heart sank when I saw the regret in his eyes. I reached over and grabbed his hand in mine. "I messed up, Della. Big time. I didn't just ruin my life. I ruined. . . The accident. . ."

I squeezed his hand when his voice broke. He looked up at me, tears threatening to spill. He took a shaky breath. "Please don't look at me differently," he whispered.

"I promise," I said softly. I sent him a smile, encouraging him to finish.

"I almost killed a family, Della." He let go of my hand and put his head in his hands. "If it wasn't for my PR manager, Charles, I would've gone to prison. I should've gone to prison."

"Dylan. . ." My voice got caught in my throat. I stood up and quickly walked around the table, sitting next to him. I wrapped my arm around his waist, my breath getting caught in my throat when he leaned his forehead on my shoulder.

"I deserve it," he said, quickly pulling away from me. "Did you not hear me, Della? I almost killed a family. If it wasn't for my career, I would've gone to prison. Willingly. And the worse thing is. . ."

I cut him off by putting my hand over his mouth. "Almost," I whispered. "That's the keyword. Almost."

I lowered my hand from his mouth and grabbed his hand, intertwining our fingers. "Dylan," I started, "you screwed up. That's no secret. But that also doesn't matter. What matters is what you do next. Think of the center as a place to help you start over. Trust me. The doctors here have your best interest in mind. Trust them and you'll leave a better person than you were when you arrived."

"Thank you," he said softly.

"For what?" I laughed.

"For not judging me for the asshole I am," he sighed, looking away from me. I reached up and grabbed his chin, making him look at me.

"You're not an asshole, Dylan. At least, not to me. I don't care about the kind of guy you were before. I care about who you are now and who you become."

I sucked in a breath when I noticed his eyes drift down to my lips. Before he could do anything, I quickly looked away. I grabbed my lunch, not moving from beside him. We ate in silence for a little while longer until he broke the silence again.

"How did you end up here?" He asked.

"I umm. . . I already told you," I stuttered.

"No," he said teasingly, making me smile. "You told me about the accident a year ago, not about how you got to the center."

I tried to ignore the look on his face as I gathered my courage to continue telling my story. "After I went through the physical therapy I needed for my legs and they had done as much as the hospital could for my vocal cords, I was sent home."

"How long have you been in PT?"

"The past six months."

"Wow," he mumbled. "Then how long were you in the hospital?"

"Little over four months before I was able to finally go home," I said, biting my lip.

I looked up at him to see his eyes soft. They weren't filled with judgment or disgust. They weren't even filled with pity. I'm not sure what they were filled with, but it wasn't anything anyone else here has looked at me with.

"What all could they do for your vocal cords?" He asked finally.

I let out a scoff, trying not to roll my eyes. "They didn't do anything. They were focused on strengthening my legs. All they did for my voice was have me drink this weird tea with medicine in it to soothe the scars."

"Seriously?" Dylan said, laughing slightly.

"Seriously," I laughed, turning towards him. The way he was looking at me made my cheeks burn. "Anyway," I said, pulling my gaze away from him. "When I got home, I wasn't able to go back to school since my legs were still messed up. I went to physical therapy and that's it for two months. It was. . . Horrible. I couldn't go anywhere. I couldn't do anything. I could barely walk and I couldn't. . . I couldn't sing. I was miserable and I couldn't take it anymore."

I looked back at Dylan to see the realization flash across his face. "You couldn't take it, so you. . ."

"My mom was picking up my brothers from school and I was home alone. . . I went into the bathroom and took a handful of my painkillers. One of my brothers found me when they got home."

I stopped talking when Dylan reached over and grabbed my hand, intertwining our fingers. I took a shaky breath as a tear escaped and slid down my cheek. Dylan reached up and caught it with his thumb, his hand lingering on my cheek.

I looked away from him, causing his hand to fall away from my cheek.

"I went to the hospital but was only there for like a week before they sent me here. . . It may have been different if I had faced them," I said, still not looking at him.

"Faced who?" He asked, his voice soft.

"The group of boys who caused the accident." I looked back at him, tears streaming down my cheeks. "It was a group of about four college guys. They were drunk, leaving a party when they hit me."

Suddenly, Dylan paled. "You okay?" I asked, clearing my throat.

"Four drunk guys? A little over a year ago?"

"Yeah," I elongated. "Dylan, are you sure you're okay? You look really weird."

"I'm fine," he said, clearing his throat. He looked away from me, taking deep breaths. "What do you know about the guys who hit you?"

"Nothing really," I said slowly, caught off-guard by his sudden change. "Just that whoever they were, they got away with it. Something to do with knowing the judge or knowing someone to help them get out of it."

He nodded, still not looking at me. I jumped when he suddenly stood up. "I umm," he stuttered. "I have to go, Della. I'm sorry."

My heart sank as he quickly walked away from me, not sending me a second look.

Again.