Resonance

  “When you open your eyes you’re supposed to have this moment where you realize it was all just a dream. It’s supposed to be a relief, knowing none of it was real.”

  “Right…” Neve says as a sense of unease washes over her.

  “Well, what if that wasn’t the case? What if your nightmare followed you back to reality?”

  Neve stares, unable to breathe. The sharp stench of chlorine is suddenly flooding her senses. What on earth does Dylan mean by that?

  Calm down. This has nothing to do with Elli.

  “That’s what it’s like for me,” he says. “What it’s been like for as far back as I can remember.”

  “Hold on,” Neve rests her hand on his lap, “what are you saying? That your dreams come true?”

  Dylan nods, his lips pressed together. “Sometimes right away, and sometimes it can take months. Even years.”

  Neve’s face darkens. “Like me,” she says, her voice completely devoid of emotion.

  Dylan drops his head, his face a portrait of guilt.

  A murky feeling is pooling in the pit of Neve’s stomach. If there’s any truth to what Dylan is saying, then her premonition about Elliot’s death was not a coincidence.

  And if she’d known it to be possible, she would’ve never been so quick to dismiss her nightmare. She could’ve intervened. She could’ve topped Elliot from downing that bottle of pills. Everything, everything would be different!

  “Why are you telling me this now? Why not when I told you about the red river dream? Or three years ago when we spent—oh I don’t know—every waking moment together?”

  “I didn’t want you to know,” he admits. “I didn’t want to give you a reason to leave.”

  “So you left instead?” her voice breaks. “You did to me, what you were so afraid I would do to you?”

  “That’s not what happened,” he shakes his head.

  “Then what? What, Dylan? Do I actually need to beat it out of you!?”

  “Look, it’s—” He starts to rub his face. “You were better off without me, anyway.”

  Neve cranes her neck back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Forget it.”

  He grabs his jacket and rises from the bed.

  “Dylan.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He makes his way towards the front door.

  “Dylan, what did you mean by that?”

  “That I don’t dream about rainbows and puppies, Neve!” he snaps in a way he’s never done before.

  And for a moment, Neve feels like she’s looking at a total stranger. “Then what do you dream about?” she asks and watches Dylan’s eyes fill with terror.

  With chaos.

  His lips are pressed together, damming the words he dares not utter. But then, like a crack in the dam’s foundation, the truth spills from his lips. “Have you ever wondered what it’s like to be choked to death? Doused in gasoline and set on fire? What it’s like to try and breathe with blood jetting out from a slit in your throat—”

  “Jesus, Dylan—”

  “I don’t have to,” his index finger jackhammers his chest. “I know exactly what it’s like.”

  “But—you said your dreams come true…”

  Dylan’s stiff posture slackens. “It’s just a matter of time.” He starts to put on his jacket.

  Neve’s heart sinks as she imagines herself across Dylan’s tombstone, sobbing with no end in sight.

  “Is that why you left? Were you in danger here?”

  “I never meant to leave,” he says dispassionately, like someone who’s already given up on defending himself. “It’s just how things played out.”

  He reaches for the knob and opens the door, but it slams shut under Neve’s hand.

  The world stops spinning with their eyes locked, Neve’s heart pounding so hard it’s making her entire body tremble.

  And suddenly she is pinned back against the wall with her wrists at the mercy of Dylan’s firm grasp.

  Her lips clasp onto his like a magnet, and he leans in and kisses her so hungrily, she can’t feel anything else but him.

  His soft, hot lips devour hers, the sensation equal parts pain and pleasure.

  She needs her hands free. She wants to touch him all over, but he pulls her arms up and crosses her wrists. He grips both of them with one hand as his other roams all over the contours of Neve’s body.

  The pleasure of his touch is over-whelming. She missed him so much. His voice. His smell.

  She savors his taste, the pressure and traction of his lips, wishing moments like this could be kept.

  That they weren’t as fleeting as a thought.

  Dylan slides his hand under her thigh and pulls her leg up against his hip. He releases her wrists, and with his other hand, lifts her up against the wall until they’re both navel to navel.

  Neve grips the back of his neck to steady herself, gasping a small moan when his hand slips up under her shirt. With her free hand, she starts to unbuckle his belt. And he gazes deep into her eyes, letting her know how long he’s been waiting for this.

  It’s happening, Neve’s heart flutters. After all this time. And suddenly there is blood gushing from a slit in Dylan’s throat.

  Neve screams and grips his neck, trying to contain the crimson spurt.

  “Neve—” Dylan’s strangled voice barely makes it out.

  Neve looks up into his eyes to find confusion and not fear. And when she drops her terrified gaze back down to his neck, the blood that was spilling through her fingers—wet and slippery—is gone.

  Gone… she stares with wide eyes.

  Dylan rests his hand onto hers and taps lightly for her to let go, and in a state of shock and disbelief, she gently releases her grip to find his skin unscathed.

  Nothing..? She pants, incapable of taking her eyes off Dylan’s neck.

  “I’m s-sorry,” she stammers as he lowers her back down. And once she wills her gaze back up to meet his, all she sees is a pained frown weighing down on his brows.

  “I don’t know what came over me. The things you said probably put all these images in my head,” she tries to make light of it, but Dylan just averts his eyes and starts to buckle his belt.

  “It’s not you,” she approaches, but he shifts past her and grabs the doorknob.

  “Don’t go,” she says, ego be damned. “Please.”

  “You should get some rest.”

  “Then stay,” Neve’s brows rise as she smiles. “Just come and lie down with me. We don’t even have to talk. There’s plenty of time for that.”

  Dylan gives her a look.

  “Hey—nothing is going to happen to you, okay?”

  Dylan nods, though his mind is clearly elsewhere. “There’s something I need to do,” he turns the knob and opens the door.

  Neve’s hand slides off his arm and she steps back, feeling smaller than she’s ever felt before.

  “Okay,” she says softly, and he turns to face her in the door frame. “Do what you gotta do.”

  Chapter 14

  Redemption

  The workshop’s buzzer blends into the disc-sander’s scratchy screech. Romer shuts off the machine, pulls his goggles up onto his hairline, and heads towards the entry. On his way, he takes a peek out the window and notices a seaweed-green vintage Porsche parked across the street.

  At the sight of it, he stops dead in his tracks and bites down on the bitter smile creeping onto his lips.

  He knew this day would come. He’s been counting every waking moment. But now that it’s here…

  With a slight shake of his head, he makes his way back to his work station, pulls down his goggles, and turns the disc-sander back on.

  He waits for the machine to gain momentum, but even once it has reached maximum speed, he finds himself just standing there, staring at it.

  A few more agonizing moments of stagnation pass and he can no longer take it. He exhales a sharp huff and bangs his gloved fist against the power butt
on.

  He pulls his goggles off and casts them aside, then marches to the nearest window and sneaks a peek at the street.

  The Porsche is still there.

  He unlocks the window and pushes onto it, then sticks out his head to peek down at the entrance one floor below.

  Where did he—

  A loud creak startles him from the supply room.

  He grabs a pipe wrench off the wall and marches towards the back of the shop, turning the corner just as Dylan jumps down from the clerestory window.

  Romer drops the wrench and strides over.

  Dylan rises to his feet, only for his jaw to be met with Romer’s powerful fist. The punch propels him against the shelves, making them rattle.

  “Ro—”

  Romer grabs his collar and punches him again.

  “Just let me explai—” Dylan chokes on the words as Romer knees him in the gut.

  “YOU, SON OF A BITCH!” Romer grabs the back of Dylan’s neck and shoves him down. “He then wraps his arm around Dylan’s neck and pulls him back into a tight chokehold.

  Dylan’s hand creeps up to Romer’s forearm, but his grip is weak and submissive. He isn’t putting up a fight, which quite frankly enrages Romer even more.

  “THINK I’M BLUFFING!?” Romer shouts into his ear. “HUH!? THINK I WON’T DO IT!?” Romer tightens his chokehold, but Dylan doesn’t retaliate. His body is starting to weigh down on Romer’s arm, his mind teetering on the verge of consciousness.

  “You worthless piece of SHIT!” Romer releases his grip and shoves Dylan back down. “You think you can just worm your way back in?” he kicks a metal barrel over, the woodchips in it flying everywhere. “You think it’s that FUCKING EASY!?” he shouts, body burning hot.

  Dylan struggles onto all fours with his hand on his throat, coughing. The shelves are still quivering as if due to a small quake, but start to settle as Romer’s rage wears him down.

  He bends at the waist and rests his hands on his knees, burying the urge to weep—the urge to purge himself of the pain running through his veins.

  He looks over at Dylan, and then makes his way back into the main space.

  Over his shoulder, he watches as Dylan wipes the blood from the corner of his mouth and rises to his feet. But before their eyes meet, Romer looks away and leans forward onto the rim of his work table.

  He drops his head and inhales a deep breath, but his shaking persists.

  I’ve made my point, he thinks to himself. It’s done.

  “Is that it?” Dylan’s coarse voice reaches him from behind. “Three years, and that’s all you got for me?”

  “Oh I’m going to kill you,” Romer enunciates. “As soon as I’m done planning my escape to Mexico,” he grabs a pencil and starts to whittle its blunt tip with a utility knife.

  “You need to hear me out.”

  “No… I really don’t,” Romer leans over the table and starts to scribble meaningless notes on a scrap piece of paper. He waits for Dylan to start groveling, but no such satisfaction comes his way.

  Rage is swelling back up inside him, burning like acid. Sour, and utterly intolerable.

  He pushes off the table and straightens his back.

  Every moment dragging by feels like the length of his sentence, stretching the space between them.

  “Why,” Romer asks. “Why didn’t you help me?”

  “I couldn’t.”

  Dylan’s response makes him sick to his stomach. “Let me guess,” Romer turns to face him, “you were too busy throwing yourself a pity-party to give a shit about anyone else..? Well guess what asshole—my hell wasn’t the kind you WAKE UP FROM!”

  σ

  ~Three Years Ago~

  Today was exceptionally chilly, especially for spring. Though the sun has already set, the blue sky is yet to yield to nightfall.

  Twilight: Romer’s favorite time of day. When the city comes alive with a vibrant palette of color and light. When early-birds and night-owls alike walk the streets.

  Holding an alarmingly cheap bottle of champagne, he walks up to a stunning beachfront mansion. And although this visit could easily be his thousandth, the building’s minimalist design takes his breath away, yet again.

  He loves how the walls, columns, and ceilings are really nothing more than concrete rectangles cutting into each other. How the planes extend beyond one another, creating overhangs, depth, privacy.

  Had he designed this house himself, it could not have been any more perfect than it already is.

  If only Dylan’s dad would be away more often.

  With hopes of avoiding any unwanted encounters, he drifts towards the side of the mansion, hops over a small fence, and heads down the walkway towards the pool-house in the back.

  He walks past rows and rows of bamboo planters and obsessively-trimmed bonsai trees, each step he takes revealing more and more of the infinity pool up ahead.

  With the pool-house in his sights, he pulls out a folded envelope from his back pocket and grins at the ‘UBC Faculty of Architecture’ stamp on its upper left corner. And when he looks over the shoulder at Dylan’s father’s mansion, it finally dawns on him:

  His dreams have materialized into reality.

  Romer refolds the envelope and slides it back into his pocket. He can only begin to imagine the reaction on Dylan’s face.

  Today has been a lifetime in the making. Today just might be the best day of his life.

  He fiddles with the bottle’s cork, and unwittingly pops it a few feet shy of the pool-house’s welcome mat. The swelling froth fountains all over his sleeve.

  “Goddamn,” he mutters and quickly unites his lips with the bottle’s rim.

  A few gulps into the endeavor, “ugh,” he cringes. “Even I think this tastes like ass.”

  He checks the label, and then vows never to cheap out on celebratory alcohol again.

  “KNOCK KNOCK, BITCH,” he pushes the front door open and enters the pool-house.

  There’s no sign of Dylan.

  “D!” Romer calls out. “I started without you,” he puts the bottle down on the bar counter. “But don’t worry—we’re breaking into your dad’s cellar later.”

  His glee is met with silence. Is Dylan in the main house, he wonders?

  Nah… he thinks. Dylan hates it in there even more than he does. He’s probably just taking a nap.

  “D!” Romer shouts even louder as he swings open the nearest cabinet. He scans the dwindled selection of clean glasses and mugs, shrugs, and then pulls two bottom-heavy whiskey glasses off the shelf.

  “Man—I’m buying you a new charger,” he makes his way over to the guest bedroom. “I called like—”

  He freezes at the threshold upon noticing a hand peeking from behind the bed.

  Terror twists his core.

  He drops everything and dives forward onto the floor to find Dylan with his eyes shut, sunken heavily onto himself.

  “D—” Romer holds up Dylan’s ghostly face and pulls up one of his eyelids.

  His pupil is alarmingly dilated.

  “What did you do..?” Romer barely gets out with what little air he had trapped in his lungs.

  He frantically looks about the room and spots an empty bottle of prescription drugs on the nightstand.

  What did you take?

  He leaps to grab the bottle and discovers a folded piece of paper right underneath.

  A letter he doesn’t need to read.

  σ

  Behind the wheel of Dylan’s vintage Porsche, Romer swerves out of the driveway and onto the main road.

  “IF YOU DIE I’M GONNA KILL YOU!” Romer shouts as he cuts through the evening traffic.

  “Hold on, hold on, HOLD ON!” he stomps down on the gas pedal, narrowly making it through a yellow light. But further down the road, a string of finicky traffic lights await the screeching of his tires.

  “Oh, no no no, please—please turn green—TURN GREEN!” he screams, and inexplicably, the upcoming traffic lights start to fli
cker.

  Regardless of whether they’d just turned yellow or red, they all revert to green like a chain reaction.

  “Yes!” Romer jolts in place. “What the fuck—YES!”

  He swerves left onto the leftmost lane and speeds up, not accounting for the aftermath.

  WHIPLASH.

  All color and light blend into horizontal strokes as his collision into an unsuspecting vehicle swerves him violently out of control. And as the Porsche spins sideways, all Romer can think of is how he needs to survive this so that he doesn’t rob Dylan of the same opportunity.

  They skid to a screeching halt with Romer’s hand firmly pressed onto Dylan’s chest.

  Groaning, Romer rests his aching head back onto the headrest, unimaginably grateful to be alive.

  The world is still spinning, and the pulsating pain in his skull is intensifying with every heartbeat.

  He squeezes his eyes shut to ward off the pain, and opens them again to a blurry world.

  He turns his stiff, aching neck and looks in the direction of the car he crashed into. And all he sees is the fuzzy outline of a dark blue vehicle with a huge dent in its passenger’s seat.

  The driver is clutching his head with both hands, screaming something, but Romer can’t hear him over the ringing in his ears.

  With his hand still on Dylan’s breast-bone, all that Romer’s aware of is the stretching silence between the beats of his dying heart.

  He turns back around and looks at Dylan’s sallow face. How he made it to the hospital, he can barely remember.

  σ

  “You know what they charged me with?” Romer asks, smoldering beneath his icy exterior.

  Dylan just stares, his lips glued together.

  “First Degree Man-slaughter,” Romer says, feeling sick to his stomach. “They said if I hadn’t driven back to the crash site on my own, they would’ve slapped me with a felony hit and run too.”

  Dylan lowers his head, a choked breath escaping through his strangled vocal cords.

  “See, you may not have given a shit about your life, but I never—and I mean never—thought you’d throw me to the wolves.”

  “Is that what you think I did?” Dylan looks up.

  “You ran away!”

  “No, I didn’t!”