Falling Sky (3 page)

Chapter Four

Dylan

I stand in the floor to ceiling window and stare at the city skyscrapers defined against the leaden grey sky. The thick winter clouds threaten snow, and England is in the perpetual dull of winter. I count to ten in my head, so I don’t lose my temper with Myf.

“What the fuck did you think you were doing?” I ask through gritted teeth, keeping my back to her.

“I want to help you,” she says quietly.

“When? When did you see her?”

“Yesterday.”

Cars crawl along the spider webs of roads, and standing in the penthouse of the huge tower of apartments, I’m looking down on them the way I feel I’m looking down on myself sometimes. The spaced out times when I’m someone looking in on Dylan Morgan.

“Did she tell you to fuck off?” I ask.

“No.”

Hope. An emotion I’ve not experienced for months pushes away some of the grey and I turn to Myf. Her pale face betrays her fear she’s done the wrong thing.

“What did you say to her?” I ask more gently.

“That you’re not a rapist and she needs to hear the truth.”

I flinch at the word. “Even the truth would be enough to make her hate me.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t know Sky.” She never appeared the forgiving kind; the way she spoke about Grant was scathing. I don’t think Sky is someone who has time for men who treat women the way I treated Lily.

“You’re right, but maybe you’re underestimating her?”

The Christmas tree sparkles with stupid fucking lights and I’m ready to tear the monstrosity down.
Myf knows I don’t cope with Christmas and she has forced that on me. Now she’s pushing me to see Sky.

“So she wants to talk to me?” I ask.

Myf picks up her phone. “She gave me her number and said I was okay to give it to you. But she warned you not to turn up on her doorstep at 3am.”

I smile at the Sky comment. “Yeah, I get that. I already have her number.”
Myf gives me a disparaging look. “What?”

“Why didn’t you call her when you got back?”

“Because it’s easier to forget about things.”

“You big fat liar! You never forgot. I know you.”

“And I know you and I should’ve expected you to interfere,” I say with a mock pout.

She crosses her arms. “I don’t want to see you end up in the same mess as last time you couldn’t cope, Dylan.”

One thing is her interfering with Sky and me; however, nobody gets to dig into what’s going on in my head, apart from Sky, who doesn’t need to because she’s always uncannily seen right into my thoughts.

“I think you want to talk to each other. You need to give this a chance.”

“Fine.” I cut the conversation dead.

As
Myf wanders away, seemingly happy with her actions, I turn back to the grey London outlook. There were many other places I could’ve chosen to go for Christmas; this is the first time I’ve been in England at this time of year since Mum died.

The pull to Sky is stronger than the memories that keep me away.

****

Sky

My interest in a relationship with Ryan falls away the moment Dylan’s name re-enters my life. I can’t decide whether to let Ryan down gently or break things off all together. In the end, I decide to take the coward’s way out; we’re apart over Christmas so I’ll ensure things stay that way. If I’m lucky, he might hook up with someone when he’s in his hometown.

Delusional Sky, envisaging Dylan in my life again. A couple of days have passed since I saw Myf and no contact from Dylan. I didn’t factor that he might not want to see me either, forgetting Myf chose to come to me and he didn’t ask her to. Maybe he’s annoyed she did. The sleepless nights and reawakening hope that the rape never happened could be a waste of time and energy. Myf could’ve dredged my emotions back to the surface for nothing.

I check my emails for the tenth time in an hour; the refresh key is worse for wear following two days of this. No more messages from
Myf. I gave permission for her to give Dylan my email and mobile number. The fear he might show up unannounced as he once did follows too, but I don’t think that’s likely.

This time the inbox contains what I’ve waited for.

An email from Dylan.

Myf
told me she spoke to you. Can we meet to talk? D>

The words float across my vision as I attempt to read between the one line. He signed D - what does that mean? And didn't address me. Is the tone distant? Pissed off?

Several attempts at writing an answer, and an hour of typing and deleting later, I come up with a response.

I did talk to her. If you want to talk, I will. Sky>

I stare at my inbox, but nothing happens; a sick and giddy sensation in my stomach accompanies me. When there's no immediate reply, I make some lunch instead of obsessing and come back to a new Dylan message.

But do you want to see me? Dylan>

My heart thumps unsure of the answer. Part of me screams yes, but she's hidden down in the Broadbeach memories. Over the past couple of days, I've debated where I'd meet him if we both agreed. Due to his dislike of the general public, our options would be limited.

This emailing is stupid and increases the possibility of miscommunication.

Call me instead so we can arrange something. Do you still have my number? Sky>

I wait.

Of course I do, Sky. Dylan >

Then use it, I mutter at the laptop and slam the lid shut. Setting my phone on the kitchen bench, I stare at it and wait. After ten minutes, there’s no call, so I give up and distract myself by cleaning the kitchen. Jeez, I must be mentally disturbed to attempt such a crazy act.

When the phone rings, I drop the spray bottle of cleaner into the sink in surprise. The number is unknown.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Sky.”

The familiar yet unfamiliar sound of Dylan’s voice triggers tears I’ve held at bay for weeks, which takes me by complete surprise. Crap, what will I be like if I do see him? I shake as if I’m a teenage girl talking to her first boyfriend, and attempt to speak without letting Dylan know I’m crying.

“Sky?”

“Sorry.” I clear my throat. “Hi, Dylan.”

“Are you okay to talk? You’re not busy?” His voice. The American tone is back, with a tinge of tired sadness.

“Cleaning the kitchen.”

“Okay.” I hear the amusement and can’t help smiling.

In my mind, I envisage the Dylan, who left for Belgium, the last time I saw him, but he looks different from my memories, I’ve seen that in the pictures.

Awkward silence. Please can we not do awkward silences, but what else do we have?

“Thanks for calling,” I say

“Sorry I took so long.”

“It was only half an hour.”

“I mean four months so long,” he says quietly.

“I didn’t expect you to call me after you left. You made your decision. That’s fine.” No, it wasn’t.

“No. I didn’t want to upset you.”

Attempting to wriggle my fingers out of the yellow washing up glove, I shake one across the kitchen. This is as bad as the emails. Until we see each other face to face this skirting around and small talk won’t change.

“Where do we meet, Dylan?”

There’s rustling as Dylan moves something. “Wherever you want.”

“But not too public.”

“Yeah, probably a good idea.” He pauses. “I understand if you don’t want to be alone with me.”

I screw my eyes closed, the hint at the topic of rape reminding me this isn’t a long-lost lovers’ chat.

“Maybe if Myf is around?” he asks. “You could come here?”

“London?”

“Oh. Sorry, yeah, that’s a long way but thought you’d prefer that than me come there.”

“No. I mean, yes. Okay. I guess.” What the hell? Does the Dylan Effect linger after four months and operate over telephones? London and back in one day is a bit much.

“How’s your car?” he asks.

“Failed the MOT. It currently lives on the road outside my flat because I can’t drive anywhere.”

“Ah.” There’s that hint of amusement in his voice again, as if he’s having the same memory as me, of our cars colliding. “I can get someone to drive over and collect you then?”

I don’t want to be picked up and deposited in his world. I need this on my terms. “Come here. I want to talk to you here.”

The length of the next pause leaves me with the impression he’s hung up. “Dylan?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m not scared of you, Dylan. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be agreeing to meet.” Another pause. “This is annoying the hell out of me doing this on the phone. Can you just tell me if you want to come over and when?”

He laughs softly at my terse tone. “Sure thing, summer Sky. I’ll call back soon.”

I think he waits for me to respond, but the new onslaught of tears from his calling me summer Sky strangles my power of speech.

“Bye,” I rasp and end the call.

****

Dylan

Sky’s flat. I never expected to come here again. Ever. A powdering of snow on the ground adds a festive feel to a horrible situation. I’m alone.
Myf offered to come, but this is something I need to do on my own.

Jim drops me at the gate then speeds away in the black Audi. Leaving my car outside and indicating to the world I’m with Sky won’t help my cause. I shift my leather jacket closer
around myself and head up the path, combat boots leaving outlines in the new snow.

Sky buzzes the intercom, opening the door to the building entrance and I climb the stairs to her flat, apprehension flowing through. I fucked up the chance of a relationship with Sky by walking away in the summer instead of explaining. I understand that, but if Sky can listen and not hate me, maybe I can move myself on. I don’t know.

Sky opens the door and drags the breath from my lungs. Beautiful, real, amazing Sky stands with her hand on the edge of the doorframe, blue eyes wide. A single thought careers into my head: I fucking love her. Her soft hair hangs in waves, reaching lower across her shoulders than a few months ago, but everything else about her is exactly the same. Her strawberry scent reaches me, and I battle with the automatic need to bury my face into her hair and whisper how much I fucking missed her.

Sky’s trying to hide how she feels, but I know what she’s thinking. I’m not the same man she met in the summer. I don’t even look like him anymore.

“Dylan…” Sky’s hand goes to her mouth and the blue eyes widen further.

I shift my jacket across my shoulders, confused by her reaction. “Hey, Sky.”

She blinks away whatever she’s thinking and smiles. “Hey.”

Resisting the urge to take her in my arms and lose myself in the past, I step into the room as she widens the door. Sky positions herself, so I don’t stray too close as I walk inside. The flat doesn’t look any different either, apart from a small, fake Christmas tree hung with baubles in a corner near the front window. Still a hole, still not the place I want her to live.

“Do you want a drink?” she asks.

“Whatever you’re having?”

“A huge glass of wine,” she mutters then says, “Coffee?”

“Huge glass of wine sounds good, but I’ll go with a coffee.”

Sky pauses then tips her head. “Wine it is.”

I perch on the blue sofa, rubbing my palms together as I wait for her to return. Sky’s tidied some of her mess of books and papers into piles on the coffee table and there’s a lack of empty cups around.

“How was the States?” Sky returns and passes me a goldfish bowl sized glass of wine before sitting opposite with hers.

“Shit.” I gulp from the glass.

“I can see. I’m surprised you went,” she remarks.

“I look that bad, huh?”

“Yes, Dylan. You do.” A shadow of concern passes her face.

“I like that you’re always honest.”

She gives me an odd look. “I’d like you to be honest.”

Well, I guess the formalities are over with. “You want to get straight into this?”

“Yes. I’ve waited a long time for your explanation.”

One thing about Sky, you always
know where you are with her; I doubt she’d ever play games.

“Sorry I left without explaining.”

“You did what you had to, but it hurt, Dylan. A lot.”

“Sorry.” I grapple for other words of explanation as to why I left, but I can’t get them out. The situation strangles me because I’m terrified this is the last time I’ll ever see her. “I fucked up.”

Sky shakes her head slightly and she looks at the floor. In a way, I’m glad, because if I see tears in her eyes it’ll kill me. “Just give me your explanation, Dylan. If telling me helps you move on, that’s a good thing for you.”