I crumbled, sobs wracking my body like never before. Dylan caught me around the waist and held me up. My body pressed against his, relishing in the comfort I needed. We stood together, my arms around his waist, his around my shoulders, for a good ten minutes.
“Tell me,” he said.
“Miranda’s been in love with Eddie since... well, forever.” That was an understatement. “I need to call her back. I need to apologize.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. He did.” He squeezed me tighter. “Something tells me calling her back isn’t the best idea right now.” He steered me toward the door. “Come on. First things first. My hangover cure-all, breakfast, and you can tell me what’s really going on. Then I’ll take you home. We still have a show tonight.”
“Oh God, I can’t even...” The thought of standing on a hot stage stopped me cold. “How can I...”
“If you want to be a singer, you have to learn to go on no matter what.” He led me down the hall into the too-bright kitchen. My eyes rejected the light. “You can’t pick and choose when you’ll go on. You signed a contract, you perform.”
He was right. Of course he was right. He pulled out a chair for me and helped me sit. Well, he helped me not collapse into it. I stared at the wooden table, my eyes tracing the patterns of the grain. My brain understood this. Patterns, not thoughts, just focused on the natural way the wood ebbed and flowed. It was almost calming.
My phone lit up again. I picked it up and stared at the text from Iris.
WTF? You better call me now.
It took me a few minutes to figure out what to say. Even that felt like an eternity. A glass of thick red liquid appeared in front of me. I glanced up at Dylan.
“Don’t think, just chug it. Your headache will be gone.” He waited expectantly. When I didn’t pick up the glass, he sighed and pushed it closer. “Pinch your nose. It’ll go down faster.”
I really didn’t want to drink it. And I didn’t want to know what was in it either. “I need to call Iris.”
“Yeah, you probably should, but you’re not really coherent yet so drink the damn juice.” He tapped the glass. “Get it over with.”
I picked it up. It smelled like tomatoes and spices I couldn’t identify. If I didn’t drink it myself, there was a slight chance he’d pour it down my throat judging by the look on his face. I pinched my nose and thought of anything but the rank taste.
“What the hell is in that?” I asked, setting the now empty glass on the table with a thud.
Dylan laughed as he stepped toward the fridge. “A Bloody Mary.”
“You’re trying to help me get over my hangover by having me drink more alcohol? What kind of sick logic is that?”
“Dad’s a pro at hangovers.” He grabbed a liter of water and tossed it at me. “Electrolytes. Chug that too. You’ll be back to somewhat normal in time for breakfast.”
I opened the bottle and took a sip. My stomach rolled at the thought of breakfast, but it wasn’t long before the water was gone. I’d drank it faster than the disgusting Bloody Mary.
The oven beeped that it was preheated. Dylan slid a pan of biscuits inside. He stirred something on the stove that I couldn’t see, humming to himself the entire time.
My body begged for more water. I stood and grabbed another bottle from the fridge. The top two shelves were filled with them. The bottom shelf had booze. The crispers were filled with fresh veggies and fruit. The meat drawer held ham, steaks, and hamburger. Condiments filled the doors along with a gallon of milk.
“Why all the water?” I asked.
Dylan didn’t turn around as he stirred sausage in the skillet. “I drink it.”
“Duh,” I said with an eyeroll. “I get that, but why so much?”
“It was on sale.” He glanced over his shoulder. “So I loaded up when I was at the store.”
“You don’t seem like the type of guy to shop the sales. Or to cook for that matter.” I sat back down and sipped the second bottle. My headache disappeared slowly.
“Oh?” He poured the sausage onto a plate and dabbed away the grease. “What type of guy do I seem to you?”
“You rented a house for the summer instead of staying at the cabins on the resort,” I said.
Dylan laughed. “True and not true. I bought a house to stay in over the summer. It’s an investment. And I needed to be away from Dad.”
I raised my eyebrows and waited. Dylan put the sausage in the pot of gravy. The timer beeped and he pulled the fresh biscuits from the oven. It was all so domestic. Then it dawned on me that we needed to eat on something. I stood and opened the cabinets until I found the plates. Dylan pointed to a drawer where he kept the silverware.
“Investment?” I finally asked after setting the table.
Dylan put the biscuits in a bread basket and the gravy in a bowl in the center of the table. We sat down and filled our plates.
“I started when I was eighteen.” He opened two biscuits and spread butter on them. “When my trust fund kicked in. Mom used to be a real estate agent before she met Dad. Once they married, she didn’t need to work. Then they separated.” He poured the gravy. “So she started flipping houses.”
“Flipping houses?” I took a bite and a moan escaped. “This is amazing.”
“Thanks,” Dylan said with a smile. “She’d buy the houses cheap, upgrade them, then sell them for a profit. She’s somewhere in New York state right now. I forget where, but’s it’s in a town close enough to New York that New Yorkers are snatching up property as weekend getaways.”
“So you plan on flipping this?” I didn’t see how that was possible. The house was already in
