The good news is my dad loves the ukulele. I haven't seen him so excited about anything in months, and within a half-hour, he's got the basic chords down and is strumming along to whatever music is on TV.

The bad news is that Isaac is a decent guy. Somehow, he felt responsible for putting me within reach of a freak wave, and since he didn't have my number he called Dylan to ask if I was okay.

I hear him in his room down the hall that night, laughing loudly at something—probably my expense—and then a few minutes later he comes to my room.

I'd locked the door, but he shakes the knob and bangs on it hard enough to knock a picture off the wall.

Since Dad is already in bed, I jump up and let him in.

"Jesus, Dylan! Keep it down! What the fuck do you want?"

"What I want is for you to act like a normal human being for once in your life!" he hisses, pushing me hard in the chest so I'm forced to take a step back. He enters my room and shuts the door behind him.  "I told you to stay away from Isaac and the next thing I know you're hanging out with him, and now he's calling me to ask if you're okay? This is exactly what I'm talking about."

He clutches at his hair, staring at me with a frown.

"I don't get you," I snap. "I mean, I'm going to be spending time with Isaac anyway, and what does it matter if I'm not perfect? Isabelle's not marrying me. As long as she loves you, that's all that matters, right?"

"It matters!" he snarls, shoving me again. "Everything has to be perfect. I cannot afford to screw this up, and if you screw it up for me, I swear to God, Felix, I will not be responsible for my actions."

"Fuck you, Dylan. You don't have to be here with me and Dad, you know. You could've just stayed in Los Angeles, in your fancy apartment. Oh, wait—that's right, you got kicked out because you got caught with drugs. Now who's the screw-up, huh? I'm not the one who—"

His punches me in the gut, winding me, and I drop to the floor. He hasn't hit me like that since before he left for college, and I don't know why it takes me by surprise, but it does.

He stands over me, looking down with disdain as I cough around the pain radiating from my stomach.

When I've almost recovered, he leans down and grabs my face, forcing me to look up at him.

"You breathe a word of that to anyone, and there's a lot more where that came from. Consider this a warning, Felix. Keep your mouth shut." He pushes me roughly back to the floor and leaves.

When he's gone, I get to my feet, breathing raggedly and struggling against the tide of hate rising in my heart.

I don't want to feel like this. I thought I'd never have to feel like this again. I thought that Dylan had—

A new thought strikes me, and if Dylan hadn't already given me enough bruises, I'd kick myself for being so stupid.

This is what he's afraid of.

He's afraid I'll tell Isaac or Isabelle about our messed-up relationship; afraid that I might use words like 'abusive' or 'violent-tempered psychopath.'

And then another, much worse thought occurs.

How can I live with myself and not say something?

As far as I know, I'm the only person Dylan treats this way. But what about in a year, or five, or ten, when the novelty of marriage wears off? What if Isabelle starts to get on his nerves? What will happen when they have their first real fight?

What if they have a kid and it turns out like me?

Then again, what if I really am the only one, and speaking out ruins two lives?

I don't sleep much that night, my mind spinning on an endless round of 'what ifs.' In the end, I decide that if I'm going to tell anyone, it has to be Isabelle. She's the one who deserves to know.

The problem is, I'm not sure when I'll get the chance. It's not the sort of thing I want to explain in a text, or even over the phone. In a few days, Isaac and I are heading up to her uncle's house in Tahoe to start planning the event, and Isabelle and Dylan won't join us there for almost a week. When they do, I suspect Dylan will keep a close eye on our interactions.

Now that I think about it, he already does. I realize I've never been alone with Isabelle for more than a few minutes. Dylan's always there with his warning looks to keep me in line. I'd figured it was just him being an overbearing jerk, but now I'm not sure.

Then again, if he's so worried I might talk about the past, why remind me of it by renewing his violence now? And why not simply get married somewhere else, without the families and the fuss? Why the emphasis on 'The Perfect Wedding?'

Maybe it's what Isabelle wants, I reflect, and Dylan's just going along with the plan.

Whatever the case, Dylan's been so on edge since he moved back home and got engaged, I can't help wondering if he's hiding more than just the fact that he used to beat his little brother to blow off steam.

#

A few days later, I pull up in front of Isaac's house in my old Subaru to pick him up for the drive to Tahoe. We've both arranged to take off from work for this, and although I'm not thrilled about helping Dylan, I'm sort of looking forward to spending some time around the lake. Especially if the rich uncle's house is as disgustingly posh as it sounds.

Isaac comes out to greet me with a smile, loading his bags in the back seat.

"Felix, 'sup?" he asks. "I'm sorry about your books, man. I hope it wasn't anything too important. Actually, hang on a sec—I got something for you."

He runs back inside and returns with my messenger bag.

"I got it out of the bin after you left. It cleaned up okay." He hands it over and I see that it is, in fact, quite clean. "The books...uh, I tried to dry them out, but..." He shows me an example, pulling it from the bag with a rueful grin.

It looks like a roll of toilet paper and an accordion had a baby.

"I put the toilet paper between all the pages to soak up the water," he explains. "But when it dried everything kinda puffed up and stuck together. Sorry."

He rubs the back of his neck with one hand, and I notice he has tattoos across the tops of his fingers, too.

"Hey, it was an accident, and not even your fault," I assure him. "I'm sorry I got upset. And...uh, thanks for saving my bag."

"Hey, what are brothers for?" he grins, and pats my arm.

I wince, not because I really mind the touch, but because it's the spot where Dylan had grabbed me that morning on my way out the door. Dad had been nearby, so he hadn't said anything, merely conveying a wordless warning through his grip.

Isaac sees my expression though, and his grin falters. "Sorry. I keep forgetting. 'Brain like a sieve,' as my mom says," he laughs.

"No, it's okay," I say. "I think I'm getting used to it."

"Really?" he asks as we get in the car. "'Cause I don't know why, but I really want to touch you. You're like, magnetic or something." He leans towards me to demonstrate, then gets distracted by my hair. "God, I love these curls. You're gonna let me style you, right?"

"How do you have time to be a stylist, a photographer, and train to be an EMT?" I ask, also wondering if he remembers that I'm not straight, and where exactly he falls on that spectrum.

Not a lot of straight guys call other guys 'magnetic,' after all.

He shrugs. "Jack of all trades, I guess," he says, still eyeing my hair.

I start the car, and Isaac promptly takes over the radio, which I'd had on the classical station. My car's too old for blue-tooth or even an aux cable, but I do have a collection of CDs kicking around. Mostly Dylan's old stuff. 

He rifles through them and picks one out.

"Green Day? Haha!" he laughs. "I used to love that shit." He pops it in and turns up the volume. "All right! Road trip!" He thumps his hands on the roof.

I stifle a sigh.

It's going to be a long drive.