Fundamental Flaws

6. Ice packs and Ice breakers

The air is stale with the stench of midnight mistakes.

"I suggest you reconsider." The humorless laugh is cold, intimidating.

"This is my son you're talking about." Broad shoulders looming, he stood tall, important, commanding attention. "Do you like your job officer?"

I had walked in with a purposeful step, and a mission on my mind, but faltered at the warning. The threat hung arctic in the air.

I knew, without being told, that this was Dylan's father.

His hair was a sandy brown color, streaked silver with strands that testified to his years. Eyes, the same bright green as Dylan's, were a stark contrast to his cutting jawline and chilling demeanour. Dylan's best features were no coincidence. He was the spitting image of his father.

"S-Sir, the best thing for your son right now is to get a lawyer. It's the best you can do for him, sexual assault it's-"

My expression softened as the bumbling cop tried to explain due process. A small, assuming woman offered a comforting hand to Mr Cross' steeled figure - Dylan's mom I presume.

"What about bail?" his mother finally interrupted. Her voice was tired.

I approached the desk and inserted myself into the conversation. "He won't need bail."

Eyes swivelled towards me in one smooth, almost synchronized, motion. I took a deep breath, gulping down my shame, and I launched into my statement.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Nice of you to finally speak up Leah," Dylan noted bitterly, rubbing the stiffness from his wrists. Finally, out of the holding cell, he plonked himself into a seat next to his mom and ran a frustrated hand through his hair. Between his locked jaw and fisted hands, his irritation was tangible.

Mrs Cross was quick to correct her son with a reflexive slap upside the head. "That girl has been through enough. She got here as fast as she could. Apologize."

He shot her a dirty look that faltered quickly at the expression on her face.

"I'm sorry." He mumbled, barely glancing at me, "It's been a bad night."

Try being in my shoes I thought to myself.

His scowl dropped, replaced instantly with a remorseful grimace. Did I say that out loud? My leg twitched, ready to resume its fitful up-down routine.

"I'm sorry." He repeated more sincerely this time. Then there was a heavy silence; lingering and uncomfortable.

Somewhere along the line, I'd ended up sandwiched between Dylan's mom and mine, engulfed in their embrace of soothing reassurances. The station had dropped the charges after my official statement and all that was left was to give a description of the guys who had attacked me.

After a little resistance, I convinced my mom to get herself a much-needed coffee. Dylan's parents went over to work on some final paperwork. We were alone. I wiped my palms dry on my trousers before glancing up and clearing my throat.

"Hey, Dylan?" I started.

He stopped tracing the angry red line on his wrist. He didn't look so annoyed anymore, his eyes drooped from the exhaustion of the day. My heart panged with an unfamiliar emotion as he looked up at me, emerald gaze brilliant and penetrating.

There was so much I wanted to say. I wanted to thank him for what he had done, for risking his life. I wanted to apologize for getting him arrested, for not speaking up sooner, but the words die in my throat and I look away.