ONCE YOU FINISH THIS STORY GO READ MORE ABOUT LIZ AND DYLAN IN MY NEW STORY "THE CLUB"

Chapter Fifty-Three

      "So, we're in agreement?"

      "Yeah."

      "You're not going to go nuts and slash my mom's tires or start stalking me, are you?"

      "No, Liz."

      "Okay."

      "It's because of Collins, isn't it?"

      "A little, I guess."

      "You love him?" he asked, but it wasn't so much of a question as more of an assertion that, yes, I loved him. I stared at the gorgeous boy before me, wondering how to answer. It would be like putting salt on a wound—or however the fuck that saying went, and it just didn't seem like the appropriate thing. Also, I wasn't entirely sure that the claim was completely true. Love wasn't something I had a tendency to ponder. He took my silence as affirmation, though it wasn't fully, and continued to speak. "You do. Well, Liz, it was an honor to be your first real boyfriend, despite the fact that the relationship was partially built on lies."

      "And it was a pleasure to be your second real girlfriend," I returned.

      "I'm going to try to quit the, uh, pot, you know," he told me, his emerald eyes tearing into mine. Though a label no longer officially connected us, I still found his eyes utterly enchanting to look into. They were so beautiful.

      "You're going to make a girl very happy one day, Eric," I said, scanning his tanned face for what felt like the last time, though I knew that it wasn't. I would still be going to school with him and seeing him in classes, so it wasn't actually our final encounter, yet it was, in a way. It was like he was done with his sojourn in my life, and was now leaving—which he was. I wasn't happy about it, but I wasn't sad, for that matter, either. The feelings I felt towards the "breakup" were relatively apathetic ones.

      Even though it was generally associated with a negative time full of heartbreak and sorrow, I liked the word "breakup." It was fitting. It wasn't a synonym for spiraling into a deep depression full of miserable times related to emotions where one wrote or listened to sappy music of despair, but merely just a suiting word. The term itself was a compound one, and in the literal meaning was to simply separate. That was exactly what we were doing—separating.

      Eric wasn't becoming a psycho-killer and I wasn't going to become the next Emily Dickinson or have a Brittney meltdown. All we were doing was disaffiliating from our correlation. It was a hell of a lot more peaceful and effective than the failed succession that led to the American Civil War, too, which was always a plus. It wasn't like all the breakups I had seen on TV or in movies—it was better. I mean, it wasn't a good thing, but it didn't result in anything bad. Like Switzerland, it was just neutral.

      "And you're going to make Collins happy," he stated. "He loves you." Again, there wasn't an inquisitive tint to his tone, but more a sense of omniscient knowledge of which I hadn't previously been aware.

      "Why do you say that? What need is there to bring the 'L-Word' into everything?" I laughed, trying to turn the situation light. I didn't like dealing with overall sentiments, and I never had.

      "Liz," he began, "Dylan was my best friend. Sure, he had crushes on girls over the years, but it was nothing like this. Do you think that he's the type of guy that would punch somebody for just anyone?" I shook my head. "Liz, he loves you."

      "Okay, fine," I gave into the hypothetical whimsicality for a moment, "but how are you so sure that I love him?"

      "Because you're not a bad person, and I have a feeling that you wouldn't have cheated on me with just anyone. You're not that type of person—even if Dylan had initiated the kissing or whatever," he expressed. "When you're with him, what do you feel like inside?"

      "Paralysis," I replied almost immediately, giving him the same answer I had given to Dylan once before. Like with Dylan, he stared at me oddly, my response not making total sense in his mind. "It's indescribable. As if I can't move and don't want to."

      "Did you ever feel that with me?" he questioned softly.

      "No," I whispered, "when I was with you I just felt nice. Like nothing could ever go wrong."

      "So how is that different than with Collins?"

      "With Dylan it's like everything around me washes away, nothing else matters, and I'm powerless, but still secure," I reflected, my stomach rumbling—and not from the desire to eat. "Were you in love with Mackenzie?"

      "Yeah," he visibly gulped, taking in a deep breath of air, "I was."

      "What about with me?"

      "No," he glanced down at our feet, "it wasn't the same. I know what you're talking about—helpless but completely safe."

      "And does it fit your definition of love?" I inquired.

      "Yeah," he sighed.

      "I'm sorry, Eric," I said.

      "Don't apologize, Liz, it wasn't your choice—your heart's to blame for what happened, really," he smiled vacantly. I wanted to correct him, saying that the only thing my heart was responsible for was pumping blood, for that was its main function, but thought against it. "You don't choose who you fall for, Liz, that isn't in our control. You can, however, choose what to do about it."

      "Wise words for a stoner," I commented with a faint smirk.

      "I told you, I'm trying to stop," he said earnestly. "Tell him."

      "Tell him?" I reiterated in disbelief.

      "Tell him," Eric said once again. "You both deserve to be happy, Liz."

      "Thanks, Eric," I smiled gently, biting the edge of my lip.

      His eyes ran over me quickly, as if he too were ready to accept the semisweet closure that we were forming. He shook his head as a small grin etched its way to his face. "I should go."

      "Yeah, I guess," I said, not disagreeing with him, for it was true. It wasn't the type of thing that needed to be dragged on and on until both died of old age. No, it needed to be just like overused metaphor of a Band-Aid—ripped off fast so that the pain (if there truly was any) wouldn't be lengthened to absurd lengths. Keeping the removable adhesive on the skin for a long amount of time wouldn't be beneficial for either of us in the situation.

      "Thanks, Liz," he said as I gazed into his eyes for one of the last times.

      "For what?" I found myself asking.

      "After Mackenzie, I thought that it was the end of the world. No other girl in school compared—and then you came along," he laughed a little. "Liz, you were pretty, outgoing, smart, different, and just, well, you. You weren't my rebound by any means. No, you were better. I know it's dumb to think and maybe even dumber to admit aloud, but Liz, you really helped me. Thank you."

      Instead of verbally responding, I leaned in closer to him, turning my head marginally in order to plant my lips delicately on the surface of his face. It felt like I was paralleling the act that had been done to me only a few days prior by a boy who also affected my life a great deal, only was stored on my shelf of memories as "Best Friend" instead of "First Boyfriend." As I tenderly leaned back, my throat felt like it had closed up as all the buildup of what was actually occurring registered in my mind: I was breaking up with Eric Wilson—for good. This wasn't a temporary thing, but rather the opposite. It was an eternal severance, but I was okay with that.

      "Goodbye, Eric Wilson," I said, opening the front door that had been within my reach the entire time, and holding it for him.

      "Goodbye, Elizabeth Turner," he responded with as much solemn sincerity as I had. In a matter of seconds his body had ceased to exist before me, and he was gone. A mere apparition in my memory.

      I closed the door behind him, and then leant my back against it as everything really began to infuse into my cognizance. It was all real. Nothing like in the movies—it was much, much easier. Maybe I just happened to get lucky that a guy as great as Eric was the one with whom I experienced my first breakup, or maybe it wasn't luck at all. All I knew as inclined against the large wooden fixture was that everything was going to be okay. The world hadn't ended, and I felt fine. A little empty, but fine.

      Suddenly, the doorbell rang, startling the fuck out of me as I jumped back from the door. I figured that Eric had forgotten to tell me something, or was coming back to give me an item that I had left in his car. Pulling back the door once again, I was prepared to face my now ex-boyfriend, but the individual that my eyes met was so much better.

      Standing before me with a half-eaten candy bar in one of his hands was an extremely attractive boy who made me feel all jittery and crap inside. Like the first time we had met, he wore loose sweatpants of a light gray, and a divergent white tank top that showed all the form his torso possessed. His skin was pale, but held a slight olive tint, and his dark hair was cropped short—not the type of thing one could run their fingers through. Two obnoxiously large studs of a diamond-like quality were attached to his earlobes, and a smirk was placed on his beautiful lips of a natural pink. And then there were his eyes. If I wanted to write a book about the sheer beauty that those two irises of enthralling blue held, it still probably wouldn't be enough to describe how striking they were.

      "Hey—" he began to say. Instead of letting him finish, I decided to act impulsive and launch my mouth on his inviting one. Our lips connected, and he immediately reacted, showing that he was in favor of pursuing the deed. I threw my arms around his neck, and he firmly held onto my waist. Our tongues met and an explosion erupted inside of me as the kiss only got deeper. "You love him. He loves you." Eric's words floated about, in a nagging sort of way as I tried to bury them deep inside. All I could feel was this magical emotion that made me incapable of pulling away.

      After what felt like a short-lived eternity, he was the first to detach, my entire being feeling void without his lips on mine, though his hands were still at my sides and mine around his neck. We both took a few seconds to rediscover the enchantment that was breathing again, our chests heaving up and down as if a marathon had just been run. I stared at him, an overwhelming type of joy filling me.

      "Hey," I said casually, echoing his own greeting.

      "Not that I'm complaining, but what the f*ck was that?" he demanded with that same damn smirk of his that made me want to kiss him again and continue doing so for a very long time.

      "Eric and I broke up," I cut all the crap and sugarcoating of what had just transpired in my life.

      "Oh?" One of his dark eyebrows that wasn't too thin or thick rose. "And why would you do that?"

      "Because I think that I like this other loser who likes basketball and swearing and rap music and Jordans and maybe, possibly, even conceivably a girl named Liz, too," I rambled on hurriedly with a dim smirk of my own.

      "I kinda also like a girl named Liz. Do I need to beat up this prick?" he joked, but in a totally serious manner.

      "I would strongly advise not doing so," I laughed. "So, why the fuck are you here, Collins?"

      "Want a bite of this?" Dylan asked randomly, chomping down on a piece of the chocolaty substance before he held it out in front of him, offering it up to me. I stared warily at the edible item in his hand, my stomach practically demanding that it was to be inserted into my digestive system. I shrugged, taking the end of the bar that still had a yellow wrapper on it. After bringing the sweet sustenance up to my mouth, my teeth closed down on it, and a wave of chocolate and caramel spread throughout all my taste buds. Yum.

      "I love food," I said, not even caring that I was in the midst of chewing. "Now, please explain why the fuck you happen to be here."

      "I want to play against you again," Dylan said, taking custody of his candy once more. I blinked, unsure of the true meaning behind his words. Taking my trepidation as a hint, he went on. "One-on-one. The first time that we played it wasn't fair—I knew you were good, but wasn't prepared for you to be that good. I want a rematch."

      "Is there something about losing that you find appealing?" I queried with a confident smirk.

      "I'm not going to lose," he declared, though he was terribly misguided. I was Liz I'm The F-ing Best At Basketball Turner—basketball gushed through my veins. If Dylan Collins thought that he was going to win against me, then he had another thing coming. It was absolutely delusional of him to think such an outlandish notion.

      "Okay, Mr. Cocky, let's go," I said, more than certain that I'd be able to prove him wrong.

      Without waiting to hear what he would say, I turned around and jogged up the steps from the landing, turning to the right to run down the relentless hallway. After I had reached my door and opened it to the fifth state of matter (that being Liz Turner's bedroom), I rushed in and picked up the first basketball that I saw (unsurprisingly, there were quite a few scattered about in my room). Thankfully, it wasn't flat. Just as fast as I gotten there, I dashed back to the front door where Dylan was still standing, eating his food.

      He gazed at the object in my hand, and smiled. "Ready to go?" he asked.

      "Are we going to race to the park?" I inquired.

      "My truck's parked right outside, but if you want to run and tire yourself out, then by all means, go," he invited playfully, amused by my competitiveness.

      My eyes rolled, as I glided past him and out the door. I jogged down the steps that led to the front of my house, and then commenced the short journey over to his red truck. It wasn't as rundown from an exterior perspective as when I had first seen it, and made me smile at the memory of our less than satisfactory paintjob. I beat Dylan to the vehicle, and quickly situated myself in the passenger's seat—unlike the past two times I had driven in it.

      As I began to pull my seatbelt on, only then did Dylan finally arrive, carelessly fastening his own strap of vinyl across his chest. He jammed his keys into the appropriate slot, and Fuck, his elderly truck, roared to life. The radio was already on, and I wasn't averse to the loud and fast music that was pumping from it, so didn't bother to change the station. Dylan's hands were set tightly on the steering wheel as he started to back out of my driveway, heading to the park.

      After a few short minutes filled with Dylan attempting to rap along with the music that was playing and me telling him to shut the fuck up because he sucked, we finally arrived at the public area for exercising. There was the small playground that was a mixture of brightly painted metal and plastic with woodchips and that stuff that kind of resembled turf beneath it, and a baseball field that could probably also double as a place to play a softball game, too. Those two parts were nice, but as Dylan drove up beside an expanse of grass, my eyes were fixed on the best part: the basketball court.

      We discharged from Dylan's truck and then made our way to the plane of worn red and green paint. The ball was tucked underneath my arm, and the second I stepped onto the smooth concrete it dropped, and then proceeded to play a continuous passing game with my fingers and the ground. I walked towards the rusting hoop, and committed a simple layup, coming right under the basket, veered slightly to the right and jumping up, only to extend half my body and make it in. I liked layups, but they weren't my favorite.

      "Ready to lose?" Dylan questioned, coming up from behind me.

      "Says the loser," I mumbled with a smirk. "Bring it!"

      "Do you want to know the terms, or are you planning on winging it?" He held his hands in a way so that his fingers were curved, creating the perfect space for a basketball, and also serving as an indication that I should pass it to him. Unwillingly, I allowed myself to toss him the ball with slightly more force than required, and he began to dribble. "I go first, then you. No stakes. Just playing. Oh, and I'm going to win."

      "I wouldn't be so sure of that," I said, less than exhilarated that I would be acting as defense for the first time around. Generally, I was a forward. Yes, I still played defense, but that wasn't my main job. Not that it was a surprise, but I was still good a guarding, I was just better at offense. "Shall we?"

      Dylan just nodded, and made his way over to the center and top of the perimeter of the half circle at which games of one-on-one commonly started. I followed, situating my body close and parallel to his. He released the ball from his grasp, bouncing it on the ground at an angle so that it came to me. I then threw it to him without the obstacle of the court serving as a middleman.

      In a flash, he had moved to the left, the ball dripping from his hand to the tar and back again. I kept up with him, making sure that he didn't have direct access to the net, as had been drilled into my mind so many times before. He tried to push past me, but I wouldn't allow it. I was tempted to knock the ball out of his grip, but restrained myself.

      He was advancing down the court, closer to the basketball when a sudden thought occurred to me and I waited a mere two seconds before going after him. In that span of time, he had neared to the basketball and there was no way that I was blocking the shot he had already taken. My chance had been missed. I watched as the ball circled the rim a few times, and then tumbled into the beautiful struggle before gravity acted upon it once again.

      Calmly, Dylan went to retrieve the ball, not saying a word. He then turned to me; an agitated look was in his eyes instead of the happy one I had thought would be there. "You cheated," he said.

      "I cheated?" I reiterated, confused at the accusation.

      "Yeah," he went on, "you stopped in the middle for a couple of seconds. You let me win!"

      "I did no such thing," I swore. "Just because I may have taken a tiny break doesn't mean that I let you win."

      "Lizzie, you're probably nationally ranked when it comes to basketball. You know that seconds make a difference, and you let me win," he persisted his allegation.

      "I didn't," I lied. I wasn't even entirely sure why I did it. Honestly, it wasn't the biggest deal in the world, because I was still playing and put up a fight. All I did was give him a two second lead. That was it. Sure, if I hadn't slowed down in those brief moments then he probably wouldn't have scored, but he was right. I was a nationally ranked player. There was no way that Dylan was going to score if I had actually played like I would have in a game. It was impossible.

      "Stop!" he whined. "Lizzie, you're patronizing me!"

      "Well, that was certainly a big-boy word," I mocked his word choice, though it was completely appropriate for his feelings.

      "I told you already—I didn't feel like failing English this year. My vocabulary is superb," he bragged.

      "It can't be that good," I scoffed.

      "It's good enough to get me into UConn, that's for sure," he boasted with a wide smile as he revealed a rather important piece of information to me. Letting out a scream, I rammed him into a tight hug, the orange ball plummeting in the process. At first, he didn't hug me back, probably confused as to my motives behind the contact. He then patted my back awkwardly, trying to minimize his noteworthy accomplishment, "I just got into college, Lizzie—it's no big deal."

      "Dylan F*cking Collins! What are you talking about? It's, like, the biggest deal ever!" I said, my volume acceptable for the outdoors environment in which we were currently, though still categorized as "loud." I peeled myself from Dylan and stood back to pick up the ball. "Besides, I'm going and you can come watch all of my games and it's going to be so much fun and, Dylan, this is so awesome!"

      "Okay, sure, Lizzie," his dismissed my excitement. "Can we get back to playing now?"

      "Whatever," I shook my head, wondering why he didn't want to discuss all the possibilities brought by next year. I walked over to where he had been standing mere minutes earlier, the ball still on my tenure, and then repeated the process of bounce-passing it to Dylan, only to have him throw it back to me. Instead of springing into action, I laughed lightly as I remembered the first time we had played against each other. "So, do you want me to tell you what I'm going to do, or—even though I know how much you hate it—do you want to be surprised?"

      "Surprise me," he indulged in my second option. I nodded, acknowledging the bad decision.

      Inhaling a deep breath of the fresh air of April, I began the sedative repetition of dribbling, and then quickly sketched out a strategy in my mind. I attempted to run past Dylan, but he blocked me, so I only moved about a foot. I brought my hands up with the basketball, preparing to fake him out as he hopefully tried to knock down the ball, so that I could then bring it down and dash past him. Instead of raising his arms with mine, Dylan's limbs found their way around my mid section and lifted me up in the air—a clearly illegal act.

      "You're cheating and this is a foul!" I called out as he dipped me down to the ground, so that my back was against the sun-heated court and he was hovering over me. His hands were on either side of my face and his position was similar to that of one doing push-ups. He smiled down at me, but all I could think about was his illicit move. "Get the f*ck off of me! Ugh! Dylan, stop!"

      "Lizzie, I'm not really sure what this f*cking word means, even though my vocab rocks, but it's the only thing I can think of to say how I feel," Dylan's chest heaved as he quietly spoke. "Elizabeth Abigail—"

      "I'm going to stop you right there," I said, not liking the trapped feeling that Dylan's body was providing for me, "my name's Liz. Liz Turner."

      "Okay, Liz F*cking Turner," he rolled his eyes dramatically at my outburst, "I—I f*cking love you." As the words came out of his mouth, the only thing I could do was gape, and wonder if Eric was hiding behind a tree, ready to pop out and say, "I told you so!" Alas, there was no Eric Wilson. Nope. Just Dylan and Liz. I stared at the boy above me, and did the only thing that I thought rational in a moment like this: I crashed my lips right into his.

      I could feel the grin as the places that we used to stuff calories mashed together in complete accord. My hands flew to his neck just like before, and his on my diaphragm. Since he happened to be the one in control of the situation, before I could object, Dylan had already begun to pull me up off of the ground, never once breaking the kiss. Our lips continued to happily crush and blend, and everything faded out. We were no longer in the residential park where we had spent countless weekend mornings together, but rather an entirely new place unknown to anyone besides us.

      As we both simultaneously broke the kiss, I heaved out the appropriate words, despite being short on lung capacity. "I," inhale, "f*cking," gasp, "love," exhale, "you," gulp, "too."

      The smile on his face displayed so much of the epitome of elation that I couldn't help but smile right back. "Is it crazy that I don't even know what love is?" he asked sheepishly.

      "You say that like I actually know," I laughed. "Collins, I don't know what it is, but I know that whatever I feel is a hell of a lot stronger than just 'liking' you."

      "Me too, Lizzie," he agreed.

      "So, will you be my boyfriend, Dylan Collins?" I asked with a heart pumping full of adrenalin.

      "Aren't I supposed to ask you that?" he observed as I realized that we were still embracing.

      "I've never been one for distinct gender roles," I shrugged, expressing a philosophy I had carried with me for quite a long time. I started playing basketball on an all-boys team in third grade. I had definitely defied the gender barrier on more than one occasion; this seeming like a more minimal one.

      "In that case, I'd love to be your boyfriend, Liz Turner—if you'll be my girlfriend, of course," he added his own little stipulations to my request.

      "I can probably do that," I assessed, metaphorically checking the small box next to the words "I accept the terms and conditions." Unlike with most times that involved that overused phrase, though, I wasn't recklessly agreeing to something. Sure, I didn't quite know what having Dylan as my boyfriend and being his girlfriend would entail, but I knew that I wanted to find out. I wanted to be with Dylan Collins, as ridiculous as it sounded.

      "Good," Dylan beamed at me. "So, I guess you're my girlfriend."

      "And I guess you're my boyfriend," I said, not caring that there were probably set social rules about allotting a given amount of time between the ending of one relationship and the start of another. It didn't matter to me. All I wanted was Dylan.

      "You know one of the best parts about you, Lizzie?"

      "My endearing personality?" I guessed.

      "Yes, but no."

      "Then what's one of the best parts about me, Dylan?"

      "That you wear Jordans," he glimpsed down at my feet for a fleeting moment. Sure enough, a pair of primarily red and blue with hints of yellow and black Jordans was on my feet. They were aged, and not the type meant to be played in—a "fashion" shoe, as they were called. Nevertheless, they were still epic and pretty damn badass, if I did say so myself.

      I then averted my scrutiny to the larger feet across from mine. Two Jordans of green, gray, and white were what came into my vision. His, too, weren't performance shoes. They weren't the type one wore to win championships—just to look cool. I liked them, and I liked that Dylan wore them.

      "Yeah, well, I know it sounds mushy and all that crap, but I like your eyes," I said, daring myself to look into the mentioned anatomy. When I did, all I could think was that I wanted more time to continue staring into them. If I were given it, an infinity would be a sufficient period to gaze and contemplate Dylan Collins' eyes.

      "I think we did it wrong," Dylan suddenly expressed in an alarmed tone.

      "Did what wrong?"

      "Well, aren't we supposed to date and then say the whole 'I love you' crap?" he elaborated, unsure of the element of chronology and how it fit into relationships.

      "I f*cking love you," I said, "does that work?"

      "Well, considering that I f*cking love you too, yeah, I guess."

      "So, I guess we f*cking love each other," I commented happily.

      "I guess so," he laughed.

      "Now," I started, removing myself from Dylan, "I believe that you fouled me, so I deserve two foul shots." I walked over to where the inflated ball had stopped after its journey of rolling, and picked it up, only to drop it once more and involuntarily begin to dribble it.

      "Foul shots?" Dylan shot me a dubious look. "No f*cking way!"

      "And why not? You fucking fouled me!"

      "I was trying to be cute, Lizzie," he groaned.

      "Well, you fouled me, so I'm taking my two damn shots!" I proclaimed.

      "That's not fair!" he protested. I sauntered over to the faded line of white that was aligned with the basket and marked a side of the painted box forbidden to step in when on offense, disregarding Dylan's objections.

      "To hell it is! You cheated, fouling me, so I'm taking two damn foul shots," I asserted firmly.

      "But this is one-on-one, you cheated too, and you're going to win if you take two shots!"

      "Why are you so sure that I'm going to make them in?"

      "Really, Liz? Really?" he deadpanned grumpily.

      I smiled sweetly at him, and then got into the correct stance. My shoulders were forward, and my knees were bent just enough. The ball was at the tips of my fingers, guided by my left hand as it suspended just above my head. Like I had done so many times before, the ball found its way out of my possession as I extended my body and watched.

      A light clang was heard after the sphere had connected with the metal rim, circling it three times before tipping in slightly and going straight into the struggle. It swayed in the latticed net for a brief couple of seconds before completing its journey and diving down.

      "Nice shot, Liz," Dylan commended genuinely.

      "Thanks," I said, already on my way to retrieve my rebound.

      Grabbing the ball once more, I jogged back over to my previous location. Copying what I had done just seconds prior, I was in the standard position I knew so well. I was on autopilot as my muscles reacted to the situation, doing as they had done before. My hands were free of the ball as it began its expedition. This time, though, I didn't wait for the aftermath of the ball's whereabouts. Needing to know whether the ball made it in or not wasn't my top priority, because I knew it would.

      I lived for basketball, and foul shots weren't anything new or challenging for me. Currently, it wasn't that exciting. What was exhilarating, however, was what I felt for a boy named Dylan. Basketball was, and always would be my first true love, and I didn't plan on compromising it for anything, but then a boy named Dylan Collins walked into my life, I found something else that I loved: him. I wasn't sure what would happen between us or how things would go, but I knew that I couldn't wait to find out.