Falling For Us Again

24. BITTERNESS

Chapter 24

BITTERNESS

Dylan

When I turn to glance at Jenna, I see my mother with her, and a chill runs through me. Behind that poised elegance is a coldness and meanness that flares up whenever Jenna’s around.

I can tell that my mother’s already gotten a few jabs in, because Jenna looks stiff as a board, clutching the bouquet so tightly her knuckles are turning white.

Her eyes dart around, like she’s searching for an exit but doesn’t know how to break away. My chest tightens.

I’ve had enough.

As I approach, I can see a shift take place in Jenna. Something about her is different now. Stronger. She doesn’t shrink back. Instead, she faces my mother with a calm, look on her face, like she’s untouchable, immune to whatever barbs my mother throws her way.

Her chin is lifted, her shoulders square. She’s eating the chips like she doesn’t have a care in the world, and I almost smile at the look on my mother’s face.

But I can’t let this continue.

I know what my mother is capable of—how she can slip in those cutting words that tear you down without you even realizing it until later, when you’re lying in bed replaying the conversation over in your mind.

I need to stop this before it goes any further.

When I reach them, I can feel the tension crackling in the air like static, prickling at my skin. I step in front of Jenna, positioning myself between her and my mother like a shield.

“Mom,” I say, trying to keep my voice level, but there’s an edge to it I can’t hide. “Let’s not do this here.”

My mother’s gaze flicks up to me, and for a moment, something unreadable flashes in her eyes—surprise, maybe? Or is it disappointment? I don’t know.

She’s always been so good at keeping her emotions locked away behind that perfectly composed mask. But then, just as quickly, it’s gone, replaced by that cool, detached expression I know all too well.

“Dylan,” she says, her tone clipped, “I was just having a conversation with Jenna. Surely, that’s not a crime.”

“It’s not,” I agree, trying to keep things calm. “But this isn’t the time or place for whatever it is you’re trying to say.”

She lifts a perfectly shaped brow, the corners of her lips curving into a faint smile. “And what exactly do you think I’m trying to say?”

I glance back at Jenna, who has turned away from us and is at the counter, the packet of chips in hand. She turns, and her eyes meet mine for a brief second, and I see something there—something guarded, something hurt but buried deep.

“I don’t know,” I say, turning back to my mother, “but whatever it is, it can wait.”

My mother studies me for a moment longer, her gaze flickering between me and Jenna. She looks amused, and a resignation flashes in her eyes before she shakes her head. “Very well, Dylan,” she says, stepping back.

I tug Jenna away, her hand still in mine, pulling her through the crowd. Jenna stumbles behind me for a few steps before she finds her footing, her grip tightening on my hand.

She doesn’t ask where we’re going. Maybe she doesn’t care. Maybe she just wants to get away as much as I do.

We walk in silence for a while, the noise of the festival fading behind us, replaced by the rhythmic thud of our footsteps on the pavement.

The air is cooler here, away from the heat of the crowd, and I can feel my heart starting to slow down, the nerves easing up bit by bit. But it’s still there, simmering just below the surface.

Jenna pulls her hand free from mine, and I stop, turning to face her. She looks up at me, her eyes searching, like she’s trying to find something in them, something that might make sense of everything.

“Well,” she says, “that wasn’t awkward at all.”

“I’m sorry about that. Something seems to come over her whenever you’re around.”

She shrugs, a sad smile on her face. “It’s not your fault. I’ve gotten used to it.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut, and I feel the urge to apologize again, to somehow make up for all the hurt my mother has caused her over the years.

I’ve let it go on for too long, made too many excuses for it, hoping it would just blow over. But it hasn’t. And now, standing here, Jenna’s eyes filled with hurt, I realize that I’ve never really stood up for her. Not the way I should have.

I shove my hands into my pockets.

“Jenna,” I start, my voice rough, “I—”

Before I can say anything else, I hear Lola’s voice calling out from behind us. I turn to see her and Paul walking toward us, weaving through the thinning crowd.

Lola’s face lights up when she spots Jenna, but Paul’s eyes find mine, and there’s an edge there that’s impossible to ignore.

“Hey, guys!” Lola’s voice is too cheerful, too bright. She doesn’t notice the tension between Paul and me, or if she does, she’s ignoring it. “We were starting to wonder where Kim dragged you to.”

Jenna forces a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

Paul steps up beside Lola, his gaze lingering on me. “Hello, Dylan.”

“Paul.”

“Come on Dylan, you’re not still mad about the rumors from so long ago, are you?”

I take a step closer, my fists clenching at my sides. “What did you say?”

Paul raises an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “Relax, man. It was just a joke.”

All I can envision is him and Jenna in bed together. I’m still not sure I believe Jenna’s story about not sleeping with him.

“A joke?” My voice is low, dangerous. I don’t know why this is the thing that sets me off. Paul, standing there with that smug grin, that makes the anger boil over.

Maybe it’s because everything else feels out of my control—my mother, Jenna, everything—and Paul’s just an easy target.

Before I can stop myself, my hand shoots out, grabbing him by the shirt. The fabric bunches in my fist, and I pull him close, close enough to see the surprise flicker in his eyes before it hardens into something more dangerous.

“Dylan!” Jenna’s voice is sharp, and I can feel her hand on my arm, tugging me back. “Stop!”

Paul doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move, but I can feel his muscles tense under my grip. His eyes lock onto mine, and for a moment, neither of us speaks. The crowd around us seems to disappear, the noise fading into a dull roar in the background.

“You going to fight me? Seriously, Dylan?”

I tighten my grip, my knuckles going white. “Don’t push me.”

“Dylan, let go of him!” Lola says.

But I don't. All I can see is Paul, his eyes daring me to make the first move, to throw the first punch.

It would be so easy.

“Dylan, please,” Jenna’s voice breaks through the fog of anger clouding my mind, and I blink, my grip loosening just enough for Paul to pull free.

He steps back, his shirt wrinkled where I grabbed it, but he doesn’t say anything. Just stares at me, like he’s waiting for me to lose control again.

Lola looks between us, wide-eyed. “What the hell is wrong with you two?”

Jenna’s hand is still on my arm, her grip tight, like she’s afraid I’ll snap again.

I turn away, the anger still simmering in my chest, but now it’s mixed with something else—shame, maybe. Embarrassment. I don’t know. All I know is that I need to get out of here before I do something stupid.

Without saying another word, I shrug off Jenna’s hand and walk away, my footsteps heavy on the pavement. I can hear them behind me—Jenna calling after me, Paul muttering something under his breath—but I don’t stop. I keep walking, the festival lights growing dimmer the further I go.

By the time I reach the edge of the park, the anger’s faded, replaced by a numbness that seeps into my bones. I stop, leaning against a tree, the rough bark digging into my palms. My breath comes out in short, ragged bursts, and I realize my hands are still shaking.

It’s almost the anniversary of my father’s death, and it always puts me into this state of mind.

I miss you, Dad.