Falling Sky (11 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Sky

The grey stone buildings of St
Davids are new to me, the cathedral central to the town looks out of place in such a small place. I glance at Dylan as he drives into the outskirts of the town. His mouth is hard-set, and I feel a pang of guilt at pushing him into coming here. Following our conversation yesterday, the evening was subdued and a part of me aches for the happy banter of Broadbeach. Soon. Everything will get better soon. We slept separately again, the strange hesitancy between us that I hope leaves soon. For this reason, I pushed Dylan to come to St Davids today. A step away from the Dylan he ran from is a step toward us.

“Everywhere looks different,” he says as he navigates a narrow lane. “The shops are different.”

“How long since you’ve been here?”

“Four years.”

“That long?”

“Nothing to come back for after Mum died.” He
manoeuvres the car through the streets, slush spraying around us.

“But your gran?”

The car pauses at traffic lights and his knuckles whiten as he grips the wheel. “I wasn’t welcome at their house while my granddad was alive. He wasn’t a big fan of what I became or my association with his family.”

“By being a rock star?”

He turns his face to mine. “By being a criminal, Sky. One drug bust too many. St Davids is a small town, and everybody knows we’re related. I didn’t go to his funeral last year, and at Mum’s three years before he wouldn’t speak to me. So, yeah. Four years.”

I’m lost for what to say, guilt increasing at making him come somewhere he’s not comfortable. But I believe Dylan’s first chance at reconnecting to his old self is to return here and remind
himself who he is.

I place a hand over his. “I’m sure your gran is looking forward to seeing you.”

A small smile plays around the edge of his lips. “Don’t let her get any photos out to show you.”

When we arrive at her bungalow, Dylan kills the engine then sits quietly for a few minutes. The house is perched on the outskirts of the village. Nobody is around, wrapped up inside
cosy houses against the grey, sleeting day. I glance at the pebble dashed grey exterior and net curtains thinking this could be my gran’s house too. The snow powders the coastal paths in the distance and the peace of the world around soothes my own anxiety.

“Did you live near here?” I ask.

“No, we lived the other side of town but I’d often walk over here. We’re closer to the coastal walks at Gran’s house. Sometimes in the summer Jem and me…” He pauses. “Yeah, well. Ancient history.”

Worried he might change his mind and turn back to London
, I open the car door. “Come on then; she’ll be waiting.”

We trudge through the melted snow on her path, and Dylan comments how he needs to clear this away before it ices over and wonders aloud if anybody watches out for her. I take his hand and squeeze, heart surging with love for the man who thinks he’s selfish but has this much thoughtfulness for others. A small dog yaps as we knock, peering at us through the frosted glass of the doorway as we wait for someone to answer.

A grey-haired woman dressed in grey slacks and a heavy maroon jumper opens the door. I’m immediately arrested by her eyes - the same strange blue as Dylan’s set into her creased face. Those eyes widen as she sees her grandson and they hesitate as they register each other.

“Dylan, are you eating?” she asks and reaches up to put her hand on his cheek.

I smile to myself at such a typical female relative’s reaction to Dylan’s current state. His gran is a lot smaller than he is, but I can imagine her admonishing people in her strong Welsh accent, she has the aura of a woman who knows her mind and doesn’t take kindly to anyone messing with her.

Awkwardly, they embrace, Dylan’s tall figure encompassing the woman. Dylan steps aside. “This is Sky. Sky, this is my gran.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say, smiling as she appraises me. Thankfully, she smiles back. “Gwen. Come in. It’s a long time since Dylan brought a girl to see me.” As we walk into the house, she continues, “A long time since I saw him at all.”

A gas fire blasts heat from the corner of the room as she shows us to her lounge. The room is crammed with furniture, two large armchairs and a matching sofa in a wine
coloured velvet finish. Her small Chihuahua jumps into one of the chairs and eyes us territorially. The magnolia painted woodchip wall is covered in pictures of generations of her family through the years. I can’t resist wandering to a wall and attempting to spot Dylan amongst them.

“That’s him,” says Gwen, touching a glass frame.

“Gran…”

When I register the picture, I suppress a giggle and understand why Dylan groaned. Gwen’s eyes twinkle conspiratorially at me. A boy aged about eight, with thick dark hair and freckles, gazes wide-eyed from the frame, a portrait shot where he’s wearing what looks suspiciously like a choirboy outfit.

“I’ll make some tea. Sit down,” says Gwen, obviously pleased at embarrassing her grandson.

I choke back a laugh. “Dylan, were you a…?”

“Choirboy, yes.” He’s frowning but biting back a smile too. He pokes me in the ribs. “Not exactly unusual for a Welsh boy who likes singing, huh?”

“No, I guess not. You look adorable.”

“Gah!” Dylan rolls his eyes and sits on the sofa.

I
plonk myself next to him. “No wonder your family got a shock if you went from that to international bad boy Dylan Morgan.”

“I stopped going to choir lessons as soon as they let me,” he whispers, “Hated every minute.”

“Well, it taught you to sing so you can thank your choir boy past.”

Dylan glances to the kitchen where Gwen is banging around, then runs a hand up my leg. “Stop teasing me or I’m going to have to be extra bad for you to make up for this new image you have of me.”

I narrow my eyes at his challenging look and obvious intent behind his words as they ramp up the sexual tensions between us, then lean forward to whisper, “Do your worst, Dylan Morgan.”

He inhales sharply and I sit back, smirking. I win.

Gwen reappears with a melamine tray carrying a silver teapot and rattling cups and saucers. She sets them on the table and disappears back into the kitchen, before reappearing with a plate of biscuits. I shift in my seat, and Dylan sits upright, hands folded onto his knees. Should I have come? Maybe he needs to do this on his own.

“I’m glad you came to see me, Dylan,” says Gwen. “I’ve been worried about you.”

“I don’t like coming back here much,” says Dylan, grabbing a chocolate biscuit and biting hard. I take one too; hoping things aren’t immediately going to get awkward.

Gwen pours tea into the cups. “I understand. But I think when you forgot us, you forgot yourself.”

Silence. Great.

“How are you?” Dylan asks.

“Better than I was, pet.” She looks at me. “I was married almost fifty years. People these days don’t do that, do they? Too many people give up.”

“Or just walk away,” says Dylan quietly.

“Well, you’re here now, whatever came before doesn’t matter. Tell me about Sky.”

The clock ticks in the warm room as Dylan and his gran chat, and the ordinariness of the situation is odd considering recent events in our lives. But this is what he needs, and as I see his shoulders relax, and he sits back against the cushions, I’m happy for him. There’s not much for him to tell Gwen about us, but the situation is reward enough.

We could be any couple visiting a family at Christmastime. Normal. Like Grant, every year. Then I realise, I don’t want normal. I don’t want extraordinary. I want mine and Dylan’s world. Drifting off into my own thoughts, I don’t notice them addressing me.

“Pardon?” I blink at Dylan.

“I was telling Gran that you made me come back.” He squeezes my hand. “Myf’s been hassling me to come back for a while; I think she’s been waiting for an ally.”

I smile
weakly, aware a spike of jealousy about Myf accompanies the smile. Why did Jem have to say that? Stupid question, why does Jem say anything? To cause trouble.

“I remember hearing you’d disappeared, Dylan. Is everything okay?” She turns to me. “He did this all the time as a kid. If something bothered him, he’d pack up and leave. When he was eleven we’d find him hiding in the shed, but as a teen, he went further afield. I don’t understand why he needs to run away from his life now, all that money and nice things.”

Dylan huffs and looks toward the net curtained windows. I doubt people on the outside would understand the reality of Dylan’s life when they get to judge via the media. Like I did.

“I hope you don’t think I’m rude, but I have some last minute Christmas shopping to do,” I say, setting down my china teacup.

Dylan frowns at me. “What do you mean?”

“I think you should spend some time alone with Gwen, you’ve a lot to chat about. Besides, I’ve one more person to buy for.”

“I hope you don’t mean me,” he says in a low voice.

“Are the shops far?” I ask Gwen.

“No, pet, it’s ten minutes to the edge of town. Unless you want some bigger shops which you won’t find in walking distance, you’ll have to drive to Haverfordwest.”

“I’ll take you,” says Dylan, half-standing.

I place a hand on his knee. “No, stay here. I’ll be fine.”

****

A reluctant Dylan lets me leave once he gets a warning from me about over protectiveness. He gives me a chaste kiss on the lips, presumably since Gwen hovers in the doorway too. Then I pull my brown woollen coat tight and set off through the winter’s day.

Two days of living in Dylan’s flat is starting to suffocate me, a couple of days of his weird world engulfing. I relish the idea of a walk through the quiet streets. No more snow is threatened by the blue sky and after the pollution of the
city, fresh air in my lungs is appealing.

A few days until Christmas and the limited number of shops bustle with last minute shoppers, dashing from place to place and panic buying. I smile to myself when I
realise the majority are hassled looking men.

I know Dylan hates Christmas, but if we’re going to be together, he has to have something to open. I’m at a loss what to buy him, the proverbial man who has everything. I toy with the idea of buying him some socks as a silly cliché but decide I want to be more personal than that.

Half an hour of aimless wandering later, I stop in the middle of the store, shoved by passersby. Maybe something for his cave? Or something to remind him of home? Eventually I pick up a small, red dragon on a wooden plinth, and head toward the checkout. He likes odd things, so why not an odd thing to put next to his shell monster? A Welsh dragon to remind him of his Welsh roots.

Waiting at the checkout, wishing they’d play some better Christmas music than Bing Crosby, I spot someone in the corner of the store, looking at Christmas wrap. If I were in a cartoon, I’d do a double take. He has a beanie on and his long-red hair is tied back, but he is unmistakably Liam. Nobody around pays him any attention. I stare for a moment until
I’m interrupted by the cashier asking me to pay.

Once I pay, I pick up the small, white plastic bag, and I turn back and meet Liam’s eyes. We both hesitate, and then I cross toward him.

“Hey, Liam. I thought you were in the States for Christmas?”

There’s something odd in his expression, as if he’s a kid caught stealing. “Yeah. I was. Decided to come home instead. Missing the place, you know. How come you’re here?”

“Dylan’s visiting his gran.”

“Really? Wow. St
Davids prodigal son returns.”

“I think this is tough for him, Liam.”

“Yeah, I know the stories, Sky. I’m just surprised that’s all.” He’s half-listening, look shifting around the small shop.

Should I ask Liam about how Dylan has coped over the last few months? Out of all the other band members, I met at the party, he’s the one I like the most. He has a calmer, friendlier aura.

“I’m also surprised to see you with him,” he continues. Now isn’t the time to discuss this, but he doesn’t pry any further. “I’m glad though. You’re good for him.”

A woman approaches Liam and I cringe inwardly. I guess even shopping brings recognition and requests for autographs. A toddler holds her hand, the girl wrapped in a puffed blue winter jacket and a
woollen hat covering her blonde hair.

“Did you find anything?” asks the woman then pauses and glances between Liam and me.

I do the same, looking between the two of them. Her face flushes and green eyes widen as we register each other. Tucking a strand of her bobbed brown hair between her ears, she looks to Liam for help. Oh god, have I walked into something I shouldn’t know about?

“Sky, this is
Cerys.”

I smile and she returns mine with a nervous one. “Dylan’s Sky?”

I fight the urge to reply with ‘Liam’s Cerys?’

“Uncle Lim, did you find the chocolates?” asks the girl in a small voice.

“Oh, you’re Liam’s sister!” I say in relief.