The Seven Pieces of a Feuilleton

Chapter 17

She lay awake, eyes focused on the ceiling, ruminations speeding at a rate that prevented even a whirlpool from catching up.

She heard whimpering, then a shout, her name yelled out in terror, followed by a rush of air as he rose abruptly.

"Dylan? Hey, hey, you're okay." She sat up beside him, rubbing his shoulder whilst moving her face to the curve of his neck.

"Were you asleep?" he mumbled, capturing her hand to rest against his cheek.

"Can't sleep," Brenda confessed, surveying the gleaming trail trickling under his eyes. "Nightmare?"

"Yeah. Felt so fucking real." He swatted at his cheek. "Been a while since I've had one like this, though. Used to get it all the time after your acc - the crash." He switched on the bedside lamp, placed an arm around her shoulder and tucked her into his side. "Why can't you sleep? Is our arrangement throwing you off?"

"No; I -" Like it, she inwardly admitted; liked it immensely in fact, "don't mind it."

They were sharing a bed for the second time, both fully clothed, and, up until he began to toss and turn, Dylan had kept her snuggled against his chest from the moment they had climbed in.

It felt odd to have him in the spot that had belonged to Finn - or still belonged to Finn; she honestly didn't know anymore.

It felt odder still for Dylan to be clothed whilst they were in that position when she was much more accustomed to seeing him slick and -

Fucking dammit shitwad mon Dieu.

To say Brenda was fully irritated with her continued imagining of a nude Dylan wouldn't quite match the level of annoyance she felt.

What she knew - one of the few things she still knew to be true - was that she fit perfectly against his body, the way she never had with any other man. Prior to their nuptials, it had often irritated her in the two years that she had tried to move on from him.

She had believed herself to mold into Finn Cavendish just fine, until reality slapped her in the form of Dylan McKay's chest which seemed to be formed specifically for her.

She couldn't restart a relationship with him purely based on sex. That wasn't who they were and that wasn't who Brenda wanted them to be.

But fuck if it wasn't some earth-shattering sex.

"Brenda, you're blushing."

"Blushing? No," she denied. "I'm just flushed."

"I can see that," Dylan smirked.

"With anger. Flushed with anger," she added, trying to save face. "I'm fucking furious and I just keep thinking about what Bran said. If it's all true, then," she shifted on the bed, facing Dylan with her knees pressed against his, "then I tried to end us for - for nothing and I don't know how we can possibly be together if -"

He silenced her with a gentle cupping of her knees.

"Wait, let me get this straight. First, you refuse to be with me because you thought I slept with Kelly and now you won't be with me because - you thought I slept with Kelly?"

"It's just - I let Stuart destroy us and I - and I should've known better and -"

"Stuart is a master illusionist, Bren; a chameleon, if you will." The brown hue in Dylan's eyes darkened, slipping into the intense look known all too well by many an acquaintance. "Always has been. He becomes who he wants you to think he is. I'm not mad at you. I have no right to be. You don't know the things he did at Eve's. I told Brandon; we never thought to tell you - which is really asinine, now that I think of it. We should've told you. You should've known what Carson's really like, outside of his alleged wooing shit."