Hold me [ Dylan Sprayberry Fanfic ]

Chapter 14

Bridget's POV
I formed my hand into a fist, and brought my knuckles up to the glass door, and tapped softly. I sucked in my breath, before taking a stumbling foot off of the porch. Guilt began to crawl up my skin, like a slithering hand-threatening to choke me; as I heard the familiar sounds of shuffling on the other side of the door. I knew Dylan and Crystal wouldn't be home, I knew it'd be just me. The door swung open, hitting the door-stopper with a clink; a waft of sweet cinnamon flooded my nose. I looked at Mrs. Tasha for a moment, completely oblivious to my intentions. She looked so pretty, even while looking like a mess; brown hair pulled back into a lop-sided ponytail, her apron and face splashed with powdery flour. Her lips and eyes spread into a smile, you shouldn't smile at me.
"Bridget," Mrs. Tasha swept her apron, causing the flour to brush off onto the rug.
"I wasn't expecting you-Crystal's not here," She paused and smirked mischievously,
"Dylan isn't either." I felt my face flush; heat prickled the back of my neck and cheeks.
"She isn't? Would it be okay if I waited for her here?" Mrs. Tasha's eyebrows shot up, and she smiled again,
"Of course sweetie," She took a step aside, so I could get around,
"Make yourself at home. They'll both be here in about an hour." Mrs. Tasha glanced back at me. I took a dizzying step into the house; the blast of cinnamon engulfed me, making the room spin.
"Thank you. I hope I'm not in the way." I said softly, following her into the kitchen and sliding up onto one of the stool's positioned in front of the island. "Oh no, to be honest it gets kind of lonely." She smiled nostalgically,
"My husband's always at work nowadays, Tyler-he never really sticks around long enough for me to talk to him, and Dylan and Crystal do their own thing now. But I guess that's what kid's do, huh?"
I nodded my head in acknowledgement, and thanked her as she slid me a blueberry bagel, smeared with strawberry cream cheese. I knew if
I'd given her a sturdy answer, she'd continue to go on-I'd always known of her loneliness. The way she always busied herself with a catering job, the busiest of all career's to choose from.
Mrs. Tasha scrutinized my face with a sort of thoughtfulness, I couldn't quite understand. She smirked to herself and shook her head, a few more strands of brown hair coming lose from her pony tail and falling into her eyes.

A loud thump from the backyard caused me to jump and nearly choke on my bagel.
"Damn it," Mrs. Tasha banged her fist on the counter,
"Would you excuse me for one moment." She smiled sweetly at me, before storming off of the kitchen and slamming the back door behind her. I sat there for a couple seconds, unable to decide. I knew snooping was wrong, but I was going to do it with good reason. I didn't understand Crystal's defensive stand when it came to the people around her. It was like she was playing an unintentional game with the new girl in town somehow; keep everyone a mystery, like everyone had a lock, like everyone needed a key.
I wanted to find out what was stressing her so; I wanted to know why she kept so many secrets from her, and why it was necessary for me to keep secrets for her. I stood up quickly, remembering my dwindling timed mission. I hurried over to the back door and peeked out of it; Mrs. Tasha was wrestling with a glass table, trying to prop it up against the shed, with no luck. I closed the door as quietly as I could, and exited the kitchen. The Sparyberry's house was large, and there'd been many room's I hadn't had the chance to see, I'd check the upstairs first-that gave me a larger time frame to search without running into Mrs. Tasha accidently, I'd have no excuse for being upstairs. I'd save the downstairs for later, since I've already seen the majority of it.

With one last sweep of the living room, I made my way upstairs. Dylan's room lies adjacent to the stairway, so I'd go there first. I pushed open the slightly cracked door, and took a few steps in.
It was in the same mess it was when I'd been in here the first time; cd case's littered the ground, the bed sat unmade in the corner, his blanket's laying in a heap beside it, his desk was stacked high with classic novels, my eyes glazed over the hole in the wall again, the perimeter of the fist-size hole was crumbling, it hadn't been recent. A new cherry red guitar hung on the wall; it didn't look like it'd ever been played.
I wandered over to his surprisingly organized nightstand, a lamp, a couple bracelets my sister had made for him, a framed picture of his mother, and neatly folded sheets of paper peeked out from a copy of The Odyssey. I picked up the book, and opened it the page the paper's folded in to. Judging by the amount of creases and grayish hue, someone must've looked at it often.
I opened the paper half way, it read,