“I don’t think I was worthy of your mother, but no one would’ve ever loved her more or treated her better than I do.”
I can’t believe I’m defending Dylan after what he did last night, but I can’t stop myself. I’m sure it was part of his decision when he dipped out before I woke up. How could there be anything more than what we had when my dad has been against him because of the sins of his father?
“Dylan was just a kid. His father was cruel and hurt those boys. You heard him. I know I did, and I was just a little girl. He had a horrible childhood, and you’re still punishing him for something he had no power or control to change. When does he have to stop paying for being born into the wrong family?”
Dad’s quiet as he stares at me, taking in everything I have to say. “You’re not wrong.”
“I never thought I was, but thanks for the affirmation.”
“I did feel bad for those boys. I called Child Protective Services more than once over how they were being treated and cared for, but somehow, he was able to keep those boys and put them through hell.”
“Dylan is not his father, Dad. He’s been sweet, kind, and caring when it comes to me and was nothing by respectful yesterday when he was here. I can’t imagine what his life is like, except for six brothers who hold a grudge against him because he got out when they never did.”
Dad reaches out and brushes my hair off my shoulder. “You’re right, sweetheart.”
I blink, not having expected that response. I thought he’d put up a little more fight. “I am?”
“Yes. I’m able to admit when I’m wrong.”
“It’s not something you’ve done often.”
“Well, that’s because I’m not often wrong,” he mutters.
I roll my eyes. “Liar.”
“I should be more understanding when it comes to Dylan. I don’t really know the boy.”
“He’s thirty-five, Dad. He’s hardly a boy.”
“That’s another thing. He’s way too old for you.”
“Dad.” I sigh, holding my head in my hands. “You’re so difficult.”
“He’s more than a decade older than you.”
“Do you think I want a young guy who is more interested in playing video games than spending time with me?”
“No, but I’d prefer someone under the age of thirty-five.”
“Well, it’s a good thing you don’t have to date him.” I smile, giving my dad a playful wink.
He mutters a slew of curse words under his breath.
“Honey,” Mom says, coming to sit next to Dad, catching all the vibes between us. “Everything okay?” The question is directed toward me.
“Perfectly fine, Mom. Just talking to Dad about Dylan.”
She turns to him, studying his face. “You okay, big guy?”
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Rosie’s right about Dylan. I’ve been a shithead to a kid who was a victim and treating him like he was his father.”
My mother’s eyebrows rise because, again, Dad rarely says he’s wrong. “He was always a nice boy to me. His father, on the other hand…”
“What do you think about their age difference? Doesn’t it bother you?” he asks her.
I don’t have the heart to tell them that Dylan’s no longer in the picture, preferring to ditch me without a goodbye.
“You’re older than me,” Mom replies, grabbing my father’s hand. “And we work great.”
“We’re different.”
She jerks her head back, brows furrowed. “We are?”
“Yeah.”
Mom runs her thumb along the top of Dad’s hand. “We had nothing in common. Absolutely nothing. You were older but not wiser. On paper, we never should’ve worked, but here we are…happy as can be.”
“We’ve had our issues,” he says.
“All couples do, Joe. I don’t care who Rosie dates as long as she loves him. Whatever issue you have with the guy, you can give your opinion, and then it’s out of your hands. Don’t you dare drive away our daughter because no one will ever be good enough for your baby in your eyes. You got me?”
He nods. “Loud and clear.”
“Your parents like him a lot. I know your mom already had a talk with you about him. She set you straight?”
“Yes,” he growls.
She gives his hand a squeeze before releasing it. “Then it’s done. What’s in the past is in the past.”
“I owe the kid an apology for being an asshole.”
I giggle. I can’t stop myself from laughing when he calls himself an asshole. It’s what Dylan always calls my father, and in his eyes, he hasn’t been wrong. I’ve never truly disliked anyone, but I’m sure if they treated me shitty for something I didn’t even do, I’d call them an asshole all the time too.
I somehow stop myself when my father tilts his head, not finding my amusement all that funny. “Dylan’s a lot like you, Daddy,” I say between bursts of laughter.
“Another reason you shouldn’t be with him.”
“Joseph,” Mom warns him with a stern look which isn’t all that scary in anyone’s eyes, especially my father’s.
“What?” he asks.
She reaches over him, taking his plate off the side table and handing it to him. “Eat your food and let our baby be happy.”
I smile at my mom, loving her so much. I was blessed to be born into this family with such great and loving parents. I could’ve had the unfortunate luck to become part of a fractured, fucked-up family like Dylan’s.
“I only want her to be happy. I support her whatever she wants,” he says, finally going back to his lasagna.
I’d feel the warm fuzzies if Dylan and I had any shot, but he ran away, chipping away at a piece of my heart. We ended before we started, leaving me with only a handful of great memories.
18
DYLAN
“The oncologist will call you when the results come in. Should only be a few days,” the woman says as she unties the tourniquet around my arm.
“Thank you.” I smile, waiting for her to put on the Band-Aid so I can get the hell out of here.
I don’t have an aversion to needles. My tattoos are a testament to that, but I hate all things medical. I wouldn’t do this shit for anyone else. Going under the knife, even for minor surgery, is not something I think I’d ever do willingly, but if this will save my brother’s life, I’ll put aside my fears.
“You’re welcome,” she tells me as I get up from the chair.
I don’t stick around, walking through the crowded waiting room, and head outside. I’m almost to my bike when I hear “Dylan!” being yelled from across the parking lot.
I look in the direction my name came from and see Grandma and Grandpa Gallo walking my way with their arms hooked together.
“Hey,” I greet them, tucking my hands in my front pockets as they get closer. “How are you?”
Mrs. Gallo reaches out and places her hand on my arm. “We’re well, sweetie. How are you?” She looks toward the clinic. “Why are you here? Are you okay?”