Falling Sky (5 page)

“I don’t know what to say; this isn’t what I expected you to tell me,” I say hoarsely.

“I’ve said enough then?” Dylan rubs his eyes and watches for my response.

Again, I fight the pull to him. The aura around Dylan was never bad, always lost and painful.

“I understand if you can’t accept what I did, and hate that man, but you know now.”

I can’t process this all in the moment, and I stare at the sleeting snow.

“I brought you something,” he says. Dylan pulls a package from his pocket, a small box wrapped in holly-patterned Christmas paper. He watches me then hesitantly puts the gift on my coffee table.

“Why?” I ask hoarsely.

“In case I don’t see you again, I wanted you to have this.” He indicates the box.

A painful ache begins low in my stomach at the idea of finding Dylan again and him walking away forever. My lack of response gives him the wrong impression and he sighs quietly.

“Okay, well, I guess I’ll go.”

I stiffen as he steps toward me, and places a kiss in the
centre of my forehead. Closing my eyes, I hold my breath against the scent and warmth of this man, who I foolishly want to be mine.

“Happy Christmas, summer Sky. Thanks for listening to me.”

A tear escapes and I scrub at it with my sleeve. “I don’t hate you,” I whisper.

“Thank you.”

The gulf left by Dylan when he walks out of the flat pulls me to a place I can’t breathe. As I sit on the sofa, the barely held back tears spill. He waited four months to tell me these facts. Dylan is holding onto this to confirm he’s no good. What he was involved in was wrong. They were actions of an amoral man, one who now has morals and who wants to change. Why did he leave as soon as he told me, as soon as I started pushing for more information? I need to absorb this and there’s a lot I suspect I haven’t been told.

This won’t be the last time I see Dylan.

I pick up the package from the table and unwrap the paper as if the box might explode. Despite the shape, I’m relieved the box doesn’t contain jewellery. Instead, a small, black USB sits inside.

My laptop rests on the kitchen bench and I plug the USB in with shaking hands. Is this more photos? The stick contains an mp3 file titled ‘Summer Sky’. Tears welling already, I double click.

An acoustic guitar accompanied by Dylan’s voice fills the silence of my flat and the remaining parts of my heart are lost as I take in the words:

Life in a bubble is fragile

and
full of temporary bliss

We floated along without a care

from the time of that first kiss

I was so unknown to you

but
you showed me another side

of
how our love could protect us

while
we stayed safe inside

My summer sky, my summer sky

I want this life to be just you and
I

I'd give it all up and that's no lie

for my summer sky, my summer sky

At the chorus, I hit the cancel button, unable to listen to any more.

The simple beauty of the music and tone of Dylan’s voice is at odds with the man he described to me ten minutes ago. A shallow, selfish star
who treats everyone around him like shit, the kind of man who would abuse others and not care about the consequences is not the man singing this song.

A tiny piece of paper is folded in the bottom of the box and I read the words:

Tomorrow? xx

My stomach flips over and over. He hasn’t given up, but I’m not sure I’m ready to let him back in.

I carefully put the USB into the box and close the lid before placing the gift on the kitchen bench. Then I pick up and re-read Dylan’s card, tracing my fingers over the letter x’s. The confusion I had about Dylan earlier today has morphed into turmoil.

Chapter Five

Sky

The day after my visit from Dylan I ended things with Ryan. Dylan brought into sharp focus how wrong the relationship with Ryan is. Ryan was the rebound but not from Grant, from Dylan.

Am I clearing the way for re-starting things with Dylan? Have I reached that level of insanity? His story disturbed me, but put into perspective of what I originally thought he’d done, what he told me is a small relief. But I’m certain something else underlies the story, and that I received a
sanitised version. This story doesn’t seem enough to make him walk away like he did.

My opinion of
Jem has sunk to pond life, and his decision to visit Lily last summer and dredge the events up pisses me off. Whatever Dylan says about this being his fault, Jem ignored a girl clearly telling him ‘no’ to sex.

I check out Dylan’s story about going to rehab shortly afterward and the dates match. Three days have passed since he came over and I’ve heard nothing from him or
Myf. Maybe Myf was right; Dylan needed forgiveness and now he has that, he can move on. But I’m not the one who should be forgiving him, Lily is.

Heading into my first Christmas alone, I toy with the idea of what to do and where to go. My parents are separated and I’m not keen on my mum’s new family. She stupidly had new children in her late forties so I have a ten-year-old brother who is spoiled rotten and I don’t like to be around him.

Dad lives in Spain now. My brother, Connor, lives in the States with his American wife. Flights to the US are out of my current budget and I think Christmas in the heat of Florida would be odd.

Tara again invites me to her place for Christmas. She has a new man in her life and I have no desire to invade their love-struck first Christmas together. I picture Dylan’s estate in all the Christmas glory. What will Dylan do for Christmas? Does he have family to go to?

Christmas alone sounds sad, but this is what I want.

****

Dylan

Myf taps her fingers on my dining table with one hand and sends a text with the other.

“I don’t want you alone over Christmas,” she says.

“I want to be alone. I’m sick of everyone in my face for the last four months,” I retort, placing my bare feet on the table.

Complete fucking lie.
I want to be with Sky.

“I’d ask you to come to Oxford with us but…”

“I know, you’re spending Christmas with Miles’s family and they don’t know me.”

“If we’d gone to stay with my family, you know I wouldn’t hesitate to invite you.”

“Stop apologising, Myf.”

My soul aches to return to St
Davids, to spend a family Christmas in the place I grew up, but I don’t have anyone to go to. Fuck knows where my dad is; I haven’t seen him for years, not since he came begging money from his rich son he hadn’t seen for ten years. Since Mum died a couple of years ago, I haven’t been back.

Everywhere I turn in life there’s emptiness.

“Did you speak to Sky?” she asks hesitantly.

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“And I spoke to her,” I say gruffly. Since I saw Sky and left the song with her, I’ve waited for her to contact me. I have to hope the words speak to her. Sky is the first to hear the song. I can’t face sharing the rawness with anyone else and can’t listen myself now I’ve finished.

Myf stands and approaches, then grabs my head and hugs me into her stomach. “Dylan,
bach
, I’m worried about you. I wish you’d told me before about what was happening with you.”

Her Welsh endearment pulls me to the childhood I was just trying to forget, and I wrap my arms around her waist. She’s right, but she’s not the answer.

Chapter Six

Sky

Three days after our meeting and Dylan is still firmly stuck in my head. The events he described have buzzed around, as I fluctuate between being disgusted with him and relieved he isn’t a rapist. Anger edges in too, that he made the decision to walk away for so long before telling me. The Dylan I met in Broadbeach was running away, and he ran again when he had to face this. The fact he came back and spoke to me speaks more to me than the words.

I need to see him again; the half hour visit isn’t enough after months of silence. His hesitance once he finished his explanation and my stunned reaction didn’t end the meeting the way I hoped. How did I hope? I’m unsure exactly, despite the fantasist inside wanting us in each other’s arms, everything solved. There wasn’t any resolution to either the situation or our relationship. Did he just want to e
xplain? Or did he want to see me? The lost Dylan eyes held something I recognised from the summer when he looked at me, something I didn’t want to see. I saw how much I ache for him reflected back in his own gaze.

When did he write the song? Why did he let me hear the words? Hearing Dylan sing words he wrote about me twisted more pain through my heart. Is he telling me he feels the same as when he wrote the song in the summer?

My phone rings in the night, invading my dreams and when I wake up it stops. Gritting my teeth, I drift off. The phone rings again and as I’m half-asleep; I don’t answer. On the third ring, I check the time and know who’s calling. What is it about Dylan that makes him call or visit me at ungodly hours?

“Dylan,” I mutter.

“I know, shouldn’t wake you but I wanted to hear your voice and listening to your voicemail repeatedly wasn’t enough.” His voice is low, slurred but wherever he’s calling from is quiet.

“Are you drunk?” I ask.

“No.”

Right, sure.

“Why are you calling me?”

“You didn’t call me,” he says simply.

Unsure how to respond to this, I don’t.

“Did you open the gift?” he asks.

Instantly, a lump catches in my throat and I can barely answer. “Yes.”

“Did you like the song?”

“It’s a very beautiful song,” I say quietly.

“You don’t like the song?” He sounds disappointed, like a boy whose parent has rejected a painted masterpiece brought home from school.

“You hurt my heart with the words, Dylan.”

The line falls silent and I wish I could see his face. “Yeah, sorry, but you had to hear it.”

“Thank you for sharing.” The late hour and the touching on the raw emotion from the song aren’t helping me keep control.

“Have you thought anymore about our conversation?” he asks quietly.

I sigh; I should’ve expected this. “A lot. I believe you, but there are gaps, Dylan. Some of what you told me doesn’t make sense “

"Will you let me take you on the date we never had and I can explain anything you need me to?"

I rub my eyes, amazed at how easily he slips back into his insistent behaviour. "It's late Dylan; can we talk about this later?"

"So no?"

"I was sleeping, you woke me up. I’m not in a good mood.”

"Sorry, I forgot how late it was when I called. Can I call you tomorrow?"

I can’t help myself, and whisper, “It’s always tomorrow with you.”

“Always, until you’re my today.”

When Dylan ends the call, I lie in bed, listening to my heart whooshing blood through my ears. I try desperately to ignore the surge of hope and desire. Can the real Dylan please be the man I fell in love with, the one I just spoke to?

****

Two days later, the butterflies swarm around my stomach, as I pace the flat looking out of the window every five minutes expecting Dylan’s arrival. Myf was right. I have to listen to my heart and trust what he’s telling me. I agree to meet Dylan again, and lie to myself that the only reason I want to is because I want to fill in the gaps.

He arrives at the door wearing a leather jacket with a grey scarf wrapped around his neck, strands of his curling hair stick out of his black beanie. His face is reddened from the short walk from the car to the flat, and the wary look is on his face again. There’s an awkward moment where we almost hug, but we are both too scared of rejection I think, and then we leave. The snow from the last few days melts in the winter sun, turning to grey slush on the pavements. Dylan’s car is parked a few hundred
metres along the road and we tread carefully toward it.

I slide on the slush and Dylan catches my elbow. Even though I’m wearing a thick coat, the sensation of his hand on me sets the butterflies in my stomach into
a frenzy.

“Careful,” he says.

His pale blue eyes search mine as I grab his sleeve to steady myself and I’m seconds away from burying my head into his chest and allowing his familiar arms to hold me. I compose myself and step to one side.

Dylan appears to misread my action. “Do you trust me enough to be alone with me?” asks Dylan, as we climb into the black Audi.

“I told you, I don’t think you’re a rapist, whatever else happened,” I say in a low voice.

A muscle in his cheek twitches and he stares out of the window.

I agreed to go somewhere with Dylan, although neither of us had any real clue where. Public is awkward and there’s no way I’m going to his house.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

He grins, brightening his gaunt face. “Fish and chips on the beach.”

I tip my head and look out of the car window at the grey skies. “You are kidding, right? It’s the middle of bloody winter!”

“We could go to a restaurant?”

“Dylan, when I met you, you spent several days hiding from the public, and now, you’re going to take me to a public place? Do you want the paparazzi to join us?”

Dylan shifts to face me, the movement sending the fragrance I associate with the encompassing emotions of the summer into the space between us. “Do you pay much attention to the celebrity news?”

“You know the answer to that question.” He doesn’t, I’m not admitting my recent obsession with all things Blue Phoenix.

“Jem.”

I tense at his name. “What about him?”

“He’s screwing around with royalty.”

I choke back a laugh, visions of
Jem and the Queen appearing in my mind’s eye. “I read about that somewhere but didn’t believe it.”

“Not proper royalty, but close enough to the Royal Family to have the press pack in constant pursuit. I think she’s some heiress who’s two hundredth in line to the throne or something stupid.”

The ridiculousness of Jem’s situation melts some of the tension and I giggle. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in weeks. You have to show me pictures.”

Dylan shifts closer, solid thigh touching mine. When he pulls up pictures on his phone, I hardly focus on them, the awareness of Dylan’s proximity suffocating. I close my eyes he could be the summer Dylan again, not the one who
Jem dragged up for me to see.

The girl in the pictures is a lot younger than
Jem, and I suspect that’s adding to the media frenzy. She has adopted the edgier rock chick look, bottle blonde stylishly messy hair, dark make-up, and grungy clothes. I bet her appearance goes down really well with her privileged family, about as well as her involvement with Jem Jones. There are plenty of pictures of the pair of them at clubs, or walking down the street, always tightly bound together and Jem’s face always pissed off. The protectiveness of his embrace surprises me.

“Takes the heat off me, anyway,” he says and tucks his phone away.

Do I move my leg or stay close? My inner battle wages but Dylan makes the decision and moves away.

“You want to take me to a cafe and eat fish and chips?” I ask.

His face takes on the childish expression. “No, I want to eat them on the beach.”

I sigh and shake my head, comfortable with this Dylan who never changes. The one I’m never sure is serious when he says these things.

Even Dylan admits the beach is a bad idea once we reach the shore and the icy wind blasts his face. The seaside town is forlorn, the shops and attractions would be filled in summer but several days before Christmas on a clouding winter’s day, the place is a ghost town. I realise this is why he chose to come here. I hunch into my thick coat, burrowing my nose into the top as the sun retreats and the temperature drops. Dylan wears a scarf over his leather jacket, and replaces his beanie with the same baseball cap as he wore in Sandchurch on his head.

We choose a cafe on the very edge of the empty tourist area, a tiny place with orange booth seats and melamine tables. Christmas shopping pulls most people’s attentions several days before Christmas, and we’re the only customers. The grey-haired man behind the counter smiles broadly, as we enter the warm cafe, and I suspect we’re also his only customers so far today.

I order while Dylan shuffles into the booth, and I gaze at the chalkboard menu, attempting to quell the sick excitement of Dylan’s presence, which spoilt the fish and chips last time. The stocky man attempts to chat about Christmas as he fills and passes polystyrene containers piled with the greasy food.

I head back to Dylan with the meal and cans of Coke, then slide into the booth seat opposite.

Dylan pulls his container toward him, and I pass the wooden fork. “Remembered the forks this time?” he says.

I don’t reply, knowing his ulterior motive is to connect us back to the night of our first kiss.

“Sorry, the date isn’t very rock star,” he says, pushing a chip into his mouth.

I blow on the hot food. “I’m not a rock star kind of girl.”

“Yeah.”

The narrow table has little room for his long legs beneath and our knees touch. I don’t move mine this time, knees resting against the warmth of his muscles. Why are our dates always
teenage? I study him when he’s not looking. His eyes match the dullness in his skin; he’s sporting more than a couple of day’s growth of stubble and he’s closer to the defeated Dylan I first met.

“How’s the tour going?” I ask.

“Long.” He bites down on a chip.

“When do you go back?”

“Never,” he mutters, still staring at his meal. “End of January.”

“Which?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” Dylan cracks open the can and gulps the Coke.

Conversation closed down, I grasp for a new topic. “Are you spending Christmas at your little house in the country?”

“No way, the guys are there. I want to be on my own; I’m staying in London.” He pauses. “What are you doing for Christmas?”

“Nothing much.” I almost tell Dylan this is my first Christmas alone ever, but I don’t want to give so much away.

He nods, and I kick myself at the awkwardness of the conversation with the man I was comfortable with a few months ago. So many new questions have circled my mind since we last met, and I use this as an excuse to myself for meeting him again.

Propping my elbows on the table, I lace my hands together, setting them under my chin. “Did she contact you, too?”

“If you mean Lily, no.” He pokes around at his food, not looking at me.

“I need to talk to you about this, if we… ”

“If we what?”

“If we want to start again.”

Dylan stops, fork hovering over his chips as his wider eyes meet mine. His scrutiny unnerves me, because I’m unsure what he’s thinking.

“Start again?” he asks quietly.

Away from Dylan, convincing myself he was a monster, for four months I extricated my heart from him. Because I hadn’t wanted to give him myself anyway, it was easier to turn away. I underestimated my ability to push out the Dylan who’d landed in my soul though.

“We’d need to start from the beginning,” I say. “This has wiped everything away.”

“I’m okay with that.”

He reaches across the table to touch my hand and I tuck my hands under the table. “But I need more answers.”

“I tried to tell you everything.”

“You told me facts, you didn’t tell me why.”

He slumps back against the seat and places his ringed fingers on the table. Dylan could be an ordinary man in the empty café; without public scrutiny, that’s who he is to me. “Anything you ask me, I’ll tell you.”

“I’ll ask you one thing, and then we can finish this… date?”

“Sure.”

“Why did you treat Lily like you did? You knew she wasn’t interested in either of you and she tried to leave. Why did you stop her? And then why see her again if you weren’t interested?”

He shifts. “They’re pretty big questions, Sky.”

“They’re pretty big issues, Dylan.”

Dylan rubs his hand across his face. “I’ve spent years not thinking about this shit, then the past four months with my head full of it. The ‘what ifs’, the ‘why the fuck did I do thats’. I have no excuses.”

“The most important thing to me right now is that you understand what was wrong about your
behaviour. If you can’t see that, then Lily’s right about one thing - a man who can treat a woman like that will never change.”