That night I went to bed long before Isaac and the others returned from the show. Later, I awoke in the dark to the sensation of being watched. A figure sat beside me on the bed, and at first I thought it was Isaac, but then the light flicked on and I realized my mistake.

"What the fuck, Dylan?" I mumble, still half asleep. "What do you want now?"

"I heard you before, you know," he says quietly, "what you almost told Isaac."

My heartbeat quickens and I'm instantly awake.

I try to sit up but he puts a hand on my chest and pushes me back, though not roughly.

"Hey, relax. I'm not angry. In fact...I'm here to apologize."

I stare up at him, heart still racing. Dylan has never apologized to me for anything, never even acknowledged that he's hurt me or caused me pain. That he'd do so now, in the middle of the night, when he's got so much riding on keeping our secret buried deep, is difficult for me to believe.

His eyes travel my face and focus on the base of my throat, where I can feel my pulse beating hard.

"Shit. I've really fucked you up, haven't I?"

He lifts his hand from my chest and stands, turning away from me and going to the window. I sit up, fear gradually fading, and frown at his back.

"What's this about, Dylan?" I ask. "What happened to 'stay away from Isaac or I'll kick your ass?'"

He laughs. "That was before I knew he was even more of a freak than you are."

That sounds more like the Dylan I know, but when he turns back to face me his expression is uncharacteristically reflective.

"I know I've been kind of a jerk to you, but I was hoping we could start fresh—put our differences behind us," he says.

I stare at him. "Kind of a jerk?" I repeat, incredulous. "Dylan, I used to be afraid to come home after school because I knew you would be there and it wasn't safe until Dad got off work. You found a way to ruin every good thing for me. You made me feel ashamed of who and what I was. You were more than kind of a jerk."

My voice comes out as an angry hiss, but if it wasn't the middle of the night in someone else's house I'd be screaming.

Rather than argue, to my astonishment, Dylan nods. "I know. And I know 'sorry' doesn't cut it. I was seeing someone in LA—a therapist—and I thought I was making progress. When I came back, though, I fell right into my old pattern. But I swear I want to be better. I want to make things right."

I shake my head. "Even if you're telling the truth, it's not that simple. I can't just...forgive you and move on. You made life hell for me for so long, even after you left it was like part of you was still there. For years, I was too scared to come out to Dad because I was terrified that he'd be like you—that he'd look at me and see a disgusting freak instead of his son. You know how I finally came out to him?"

He shakes his head, frowning.

"One Mother's Day we were bringing fresh flowers to Mom's grave. We were standing there, and he looked over at me and he said, 'Felix, when you find someone to love, make sure that he knows it. Tell him you love him every chance you get, because you never know if that chance might be the last one you have.' At first I thought I'd heard him wrong, but he made sure I understood. He said he'd been waiting for me to tell him I was gay for years, and then he'd read an article about kids being afraid to come out, and thought maybe I was scared, so he took it on himself to let me know it was okay."

I feel tears slip down my face and wipe them away. I haven't told anyone this story—certainly not Dylan. It's private and precious to me, and I don't know why I'm giving it away now except that this situation is so bizarre, it feels like a dream.

"I'm sorry," Dylan says again. "I don't know why I was like that. I guess I just had all these feelings I didn't know how to express, and well...you were there. Do you think there's a chance we can ever be friends again?"

"Dylan..." He's talking as if this is all in the past—distant memories, or something—but I still have traces of bruises from the last time he lost it. "I can't do that until I know you've changed."

"I swear," he says, "I won't do it again. Ever."

"And what if I tell Isaac? Or Isabelle?"

He shrugs. "I'd rather you didn't tell Isaac, but Isabelle already knows."

"What?" I sit up straighter.

"Yeah. She wanted to know why I'd been talking to a shrink, and I told her the truth. She knows."

He eyes me evenly, though there's definitely tension in his face. I just can't tell if it's 'please forgive me and let's get along,' tension or, 'please fall for this so I don't have to kill you,' tension.

I decide that, either way, the safest option is to go along with what he wants for now.

"Alright," I say. "I guess if you're trying, I can give you that much of a chance. But understand, Dylan, that if you go back to treating me like shit, or if I see even a hint of you being a jerk—to anyone—then all bets are off."

He nods, and exhales with relief.

"You won't regret this, Felix," he says. "I promise." He smiles and reaches out to pat my shoulder but, instinctively, I flinch away.

"Huh. We'll have to work on that," he says, withdrawing his hand like I'm a skittish dog. "Well, I'll let you get back to sleep. G'night, little brother."

He leaves, shutting the door softly behind him, and I get up and lock it once he's gone. I really don't know what to think.

On the one hand, what just happened is everything I've wanted from Dylan for years: an apology, an admission that what he'd done was wrong, an acknowledgement of the pain he'd caused. On the other hand, I don't trust him, and I probably never will.

I turn his words over and over in my mind, but hours later I'm no closer to understanding. It makes me restless with nerves, and although it was barely past midnight when Dylan woke me, I don't sleep again.

#

"Did you sleep alright?" Isaac asks me the next morning when he comes down for breakfast. "You look tired."

Ana had made 'churro waffles' as a treat for Dylan and the others. They tasted more like dessert than breakfast to me, but they were definitely good, and Isaac had enthusiastically piled his plate with a stack of four, covered in whipped cream and chocolate sauce. He'd already stuffed several large forkfuls in his mouth before he looked up and took in my appearance.

"Fine," I assure him. "Just a little insomnia."

"Did you try jerking off?" Mike asks, in the same matter-of-fact tone I'd expect him to use if he'd asked if I tried drinking a glass of milk. "That always works for me," he adds.

"Dude, gross!" Spencer objects, making a face. "I'm eating here."

"What? It's natural," Mike says. "Don't tell me you never gave yourself a hand getting to sleep."

"Well sure," Spencer replies. "But I don't talk about it over breakfast. Dude."

Contrary to this claim, the two continue to discuss both method and manner for the remainder of the meal. Dylan remains mostly quiet, though he adds a comment here and there, and Isaac merely laughs.

Shortly after breakfast, Mike, Spencer, and Dylan depart, returning to the Bay.

"I'll see if Dad wants to come to the rehearsal dinner," Dylan tells me before they leave. "That way he'd have two days to rest and adjust to the altitude before the real deal."

"That's...That's a good idea," I admit. "I'll text him and encourage him to come. The only thing is..." I bite my lip.

"What?"

"Well, all the bedrooms in this house are upstairs." Dad can do stairs, but it's not easy, and the less extra strain on his lungs, the better.

"I thought of that already," Dylan says, surprising me again.

"You did?"

"Yeah. I was thinking he and I can stay at a hotel. Maybe at that nice place a few blocks over—the one right on the beach with the suites. We can get a handicap-accessible one, even, if you think that would help."

"Yeah...I mean, the less climbing Dad has to do, the better—especially in a new place," I agree.

Dylan's thoughtfulness is so surprising and unprecedented, I don't think I'd be more shocked if aliens landed on the lawn right now.

"Cool," he says, smiling. "If he wants to come, I'll book it."

After he and the others are gone, I find myself sitting on the couch and staring at my hands, a little at a loss. I'd expected Dylan to act like he always did, just less obviously dickish. I hadn't expected him to really make an effort like that.

A few minutes later, Isaac joins me, flopping beside me with a big grin on his face. "Hey, beautiful," he says, leaning close and turning my face towards him so he can kiss me. "Whatcha thinkin' so hard about?"

I smirk. "Just that we better make sure the sheets get changed in Mike's and Spencer's rooms before the rest of the guests arrive."

"Ew. I know," he laughs. "Poor Ana."

"What do we have on the schedule today?" I ask.

"Absolutely nothing," he grins. "Today, babe, belongs to me and you."

I return his smile and I hope, with all my heart, that the same can be said of tomorrow.

I badly want to believe that Dylan is capable of change—that I can stop hating him and maybe one day even call him my friend again. But it's going to take a lot more than one decent morning to make that happen, and I'm not holding my breath.