Did I Mention I Need You? (The DIMILY Trilogy Book 2) by Estelle Maskame Page A

overwhelming. I can’t seem to figure out why our hands seem to fit more perfectly together than Dean’s and mine. It could possibly feel this way because Tyler’s hands are smoother, whereas Dean’s are calloused from working at his dad’s garage. It could even feel this way because Dean’s hands are often cold and Tyler’s are often warm. I don’t know. It just feels different. My body never reacts to Dean the same way it reacts to Tyler, and I can’t figure out if it’s because I’m more in love with Tyler than I am with Dean, or if it’s simply guilt that causes my heart rate to pick up. Tyler and I are wrong for so many reasons. We’re wrong for not being over each other. We’re wrong for flirting behind Dean’s back. We’re wrong because we’re stepsiblings.
    We’ll always be wrong.
    Tyler’s pulling me along behind him, his skin smooth and warm. We leave third base and head across the dirt, but I’m not focused. I’m still thinking about our interlocked hands, and I’m thinking about Dean, and I’m thinking about how much of a mess everything is turning out to be. This summer is going to be hell and I highly doubt I’ll be able to survive until the end of my six weeks here. Dean was right to be worried. I’m spending the summer almost three thousand miles away from my boyfriend with the person I’m in love with. Is there a difference between loving someone and being in love with someone? Because I think that’s what separates Tyler and Dean.
    I love Dean, but I’m in love with Tyler.
    And to think I used to believe that nothing could ever be more confusing than AP Biology.
    After only a few seconds, Tyler comes to a halt. He releases his grip on my hand and turns around to face me directly. His emerald eyes stare down at me as he moves one hand to my hip, and he nods to my feet.
    I drop my gaze to the ground and only then do I realize where I’m standing. I’m back on the home plate, right back where I started. I kick at it with my Chucks before firing my eyes back up to meet Tyler’s. I furrow my eyebrows at him.
    He takes a moment to swallow before squeezing my hip and taking a step back. Quietly, and with a small smile on his lips, he says, “You got your home run, badass.”
     
    We keep playing until it rains. To begin with it’s only drizzle, but gradually the sky darkens even more and the rain grows heavier, and soon it’s pouring down over the city. Everyone else seems to have abandoned their ball fields by now and only Tyler and I are insane enough to stick around. Finally, after my hair is drenched and Tyler’s shirt is soaked against his chest, we decide to give up.
    We even run, and we laugh while we do so. It’s not because we look ridiculous or because we’re running a little awkwardly. It’s because it’s just so typically messy of us. Tyler keeps falling behind and I keep having to stop and wait for him because I don’t know the route back. The rain keeps getting into my eyes and I drop the ball a couple of times on our way out of the park. Even my new Chucks are becoming squishy. I worry that Tyler’s writing will wash off, but it doesn’t even smudge.
    “I’m so not used to rain!” I call over my shoulder as I leap out onto the sidewalk, pushing my wet hair out of my face. I blow out a breath and scan the avenue. I’m pretty sure we need to head right.
    Tyler joins me by my side, out of breath, his hair flat. Drops of rain roll down his forehead, but he doesn’t make the effort to wipe them away. “Looks like you’re losing your Portland roots,” he says, loud enough for me to hear him over the sound of the rain pelting against the concrete.
    I roll my eyes and push his shoulder. He’s right, though. How I survived rain like this for the majority of the year, I’ll never know. After living in Santa Monica for two years, I’m now accustomed to the constant sun and heat.
    “Trust me, I don’t think I ever had any Portland roots to begin with,” I