Desiring Dylan - Suzanne Jenkins Page 0,13

state to get my hard-earned cash by having to probate my estate. I have things so tight it will take a stick of dynamite for one dollar to go to taxes.”

“You’re making me nervous. Stop talking like you’re going to croak.”

“Nah, I’m not going anywhere. But you need to know. I love you that much.”

She figured he would leave her a thousand dollars. It was substantial enough to show love, but not enough to piss off his family.

“Stop thinking about that!”

Leaving the bedroom, she went to start coffee, aware she was dragging her feet, afraid to start the day. Each task took on new meaning. Nothing had changed that much in spite of her heart breaking, and nothing to look forward to ever again. No cocky grin, no unbelievable sex where he told her how much he loved her, no ego trip when he pointed at her from the stage and sang she’s the love of my life.

When they made love, she knew he was thinking about her, that he was in the moment, not worrying about the tour. She’d never have that again.

Depression swept over her once again. While waiting for the pot to brew, she gazed out the window, looking over the river, feeling safe inside the four walls while it swiftly flowed past. A few days ago, she’d dreaded coming back to her house because of its connection to Dylan, afraid it would dilute the intensity of feeling, the insurmountable power of what had happened to her. Today, it would take a bolt of lightning to get her out of the house.

Drinking the first cup of coffee on the first workday of the week took on new meaning. She wanted to feel the transition, to acknowledge where things were going to be different. There would be no more weekends in Kenny’s New York apartment. The place itself wasn’t that great anyway, had never evolved much past the starving-college-student genre, but the location was awesome, and she’d grown to love the neighborhood with its arty vibe and cheap restaurants.

He’d flown her to every concert location that was held during her break, and if it was close enough to Philly, she went to the weeknight concerts, too. That meant lots of midweek excursions to Atlantic City; Washington, DC; New York; and even Boston. As long as she could make it to work the next day, she was game. The longer trips to the Virgin Islands, the West Coast, Europe and Asia would be memories of a lifetime. She’d never wanted to leave Philadelphia before that, and probably never would again. He’d paid for it, too, which was a powerful motivator.

The coffee table had picture albums stacked on a lower shelf. Mementoes like hotel postcards and matchbook covers, any little odds and ends she picked up with logos and advertising went into the albums. Trying to discipline herself to get copies made of the thousands of photos she took on their trips had become a daunting task.

Especially the trip to Paris; he’d called it an escape from their life in the States. No one knew him there, and they could go out in public together, and the admiring glances they got were for their attractiveness and nothing else.

Now there didn’t seem to be any purpose behind having hard copies of the photos made. It would be easier to forget the experience had ever taken place. She’d never have his child, and since he was dead, who else would care about her memories? It was enough brutality that she began to cry again, gulping, hiccupping sobs. In the middle of her emoting, the doorbell rang, again.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” she cried, jumping up from the couch. If it was Dylan, she was going to accuse him of stalking her. But when she looked in the intercom, her heart melted; it was her mother and father.

Renewed joy, she ran down the stairs and unlocked the door, throwing it open. They fell into each other’s arms, all of them in tears.

“Come in, come in,” she said. “How long did it take you to get here?”

“Less than half an hour,” Charlie Fontenot said in his thick Cajun accent. He’d been in New Jersey since after his Gulf War Army stint and never lost a tad of it, branding him forever a New Orleans boy.

“We stopped at Reading Terminal and bought pastries,” Calista Fontenot said, holding up a white cardboard box tied with string. “Papa wanted cheesesteaks, but I couldn’t stand smelling them in the