I step closer and bury my nose in it, hoping for a trace of his smell, of him. I tug it off the hanger, and something falls out of the pocket and slides under the sofa. I pull the shirt over my head, feeling instantly better to have a piece of James wrapped around me, and bend down, slipping my hand under the couch until I touch what feels like a credit card.
I pull it toward me, and for a moment, everything around me is hazy—the edges of my thoughts blurry as my mind tries to rationalize what I’m looking at: Dylan’s face.
In the palm of my hand is her driver’s license.
Instantly I recall the thing that bothered me when I dropped my own driver’s license at the airport. The piece of information I couldn’t remember. It was this. Her ID. It had been in this pocket since the day I ran to Beth’s house and showed it to her. I forgot all about it.
I study it, remembering the day I first met Nick. I see his scuffed cowboy boots. His shiny motorcycle. His gray eyes squinting at me as he waited for me to process who he was. Then his calloused hand as he handed me this. As proof that he was her fiancé.
But had he been?
If he wasn’t her fiancé, he would have never been the one to receive her personal things.
But wouldn’t this driver’s license have been in Dylan’s purse . . . which Officer Keoloha said she’d reported stolen while she and James were at the Seven Sacred Pools?
Did he lie to me when he said it was mailed back to him?
There must be an explanation.
I think about Briana. The restlessness I’ve been feeling since we talked. I pace in front of the closet, James’s sweatshirt hanging midway down my thighs. Maybe Dylan had traveled with a passport and left her license behind—and Nick had simply used it to lie about being engaged to her? Nothing more. That was possible, wasn’t it?
Fuck.
I’m squeezing the driver’s license so hard that it makes a red mark on my palm. A terrible feeling starts to spread through me—I try to stop it, but it’s moving at lightning speed.
Did Nick stalk James and Dylan? Follow them to Maui?
I think about Nick’s text just moments ago. That he misses me. A joke about a cat in a tree. That guy would never track his ex-fiancée to Maui!
I keep tightening my hand around Dylan’s license, questioning everything. Hugging James’s sweatshirt as close to my chest as I can. A big part of me wants to cling to another explanation. One where this is all a big mistake. One where I didn’t simply move from one man with a secret life to another.
I’m in the car, throwing it in reverse before I can talk myself out of it. I have to find my answers.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
DYLAN—BEFORE
Dylan couldn’t believe Nick had shrugged and told her he wished her only the best. “Can’t fault a man for trying,” he’d said, then flashed that smile at her as he squeezed the engagement ring between his fingers. She watched him walk—no, saunter—down the alley. Then she heard the distinct sound of his motorcycle roaring to life. The noise had cued her to leave—she was still standing on the same slick oil spill behind her restaurant. She considered going inside and asking Johnny to walk her to her car. But he’d have questions—she’d never wanted an escort to the employee parking lot before. And she didn’t want to get into it. Plus, she wasn’t sure she could explain Nick’s strange behavior if she tried. Or if he had even been acting as oddly as she’d thought. What if his behavior was in her head? If she was making it worse than it was because of her guilt over leaving him for James?
Still, she hurried to the parking lot just in case, trying to shake off what had just happened. How Nick had gone from smiling to melancholy to almost jubilant in the span of just minutes. Once inside her car, she locked all the doors, glanced in the backseat to make sure no one was there, and backed out onto South Coast Highway. She turned on the radio; the song “Shake It Off” was playing. It must be a sign, she thought, and began to sing along with the lyrics.
Midway through her duet with Taylor Swift, she saw him in the rearview mirror. She tried to tell herself it wasn’t Nick, just another motorcyclist with a similar bike, but she recognized the deep-red mudguard and matching helmet that reflected the streetlight. She changed lanes, and he followed—still several car lengths behind, but each direction she took her car, he paced with her. Dylan tried speeding up, slowing down, and turning quickly, but she couldn’t lose him. Her heart began to pound, and her palms were wet from perspiration. She wiped them on her black pants and kept driving; she could stop at a gas station or somewhere and ask for help. But help for what? She had no proof of anything, and she knew Nick would deny her accusations anyway. He seemed oblivious to his behavior—not understanding he was acting like a stalker.
So when she saw the light up ahead turning yellow, she made a split-second decision—she slowed her car as if she were stopping and then gunned it, slamming her foot into the gas pedal and blowing through the intersection. Horns blared, but she made it across safely. Then she checked for Nick and was stunned as she watched him barrel through, barely missing a shiny silver Mercedes SUV—the rolled-down windows in the backseat revealing tweens in matching soccer jerseys, screaming when their driver slammed on her brakes. A shiver passed through Dylan. She had put those lives at risk.
Nick was riding her bumper—revving his bike’s engine. Why was he following her? He’d given up so easily in the alley. Or had he? She replayed how he’d twisted the engagement ring on his finger, how he’d left with almost a spring in his step. He must have known then that it wasn’t over—that he was going to follow her—that she’d never suspect because she was gullible. He had manipulated her. Dylan tightened her grip on the steering wheel, mad at herself for being so stupid. So believing. She wondered if this was her penance for cheating on him. If she deserved this.
Dylan heard honking and looked over her left shoulder. Nick was riding right next to her—too close to her car—motioning wildly for her to pull over. She debated what to do. But then she saw the young faces of the soccer players in her mind and knew she had to stop. She turned on the first street she could and parked. She thought about calling the police, but her phone was in her purse in the backseat. And she didn’t know what she’d say—my ex-boyfriend is following me? She knew now that he wasn’t going to give up until she gave him what he wanted.
But what he wanted, she couldn’t give him. He wanted her back.
She watched as he stopped his bike in back of her car. She felt a scream in the base of her throat, but when she opened her mouth, no sound would come out. Helplessly, she stared at him as he got off his motorcycle and removed his helmet, running his fingers through his hair.
Then he gave a smile, one so sad Dylan returned it reflexively.
“Hey, Dylan, roll your window down, okay?” He stared at her, then tapped on the glass with the engagement ring. “Knock, knock!”
Dylan shook her head; his face changed so quickly she wondered if she’d imagined the somber smile. His lip curled; his cheeks reddened. She started to get really scared. He kept asking her to open the door, and she kept shaking her head. She watched him make fists with his hands and punch them against his sides.
“Dylan, come on!” he yelled, then hit the window with an open palm.
Her body jerked backward, her heart ramming against her chest; she had no idea what to do. She looked around her, but the street was empty. Her stomach dropped as she noticed the “Dead End” sign at the end of the road. Nick rattled the door handle, then turned and flailed his arms in the air in frustration, like she’d seen children do at the restaurant.
Dylan shivered. Could he pry the door open? Was he strong enough to break the glass? Would he take it that far?
“Dylan, you are my soul mate. Don’t you see that?” He flattened both of his palms against the glass, the diamond ring pressed between his right hand and the window. “This is yours. You belong to me.”