by Lisa Swallow
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.”
Move on? The gnawing pain creeps into my chest again.
Okay.
“Do you think I did what Lily says?” I ask.
“Did you?” she shoots back.
Four months. Four months for us to have a frank conversation about something, I couldn’t explain because the truth seemed worse.
Sky’s eyes remain fixed on the threadbare brown carpet; the sound of a car passes outside. The words. They have to come; I have to vocalise this and get this shit out of my head.
“I had sex with Lily, yes. But it wasn’t rape. What sort of man do you think I am? I’m not sure how you could think that of me?”
Sky’s head snaps back and teary eyes meet mine. “I knew you three weeks, Dylan. So, I hardly knew you. I imagine date rape is a risk in your… industry.”
I rest my elbows on my knees and rub my hands through my hair, through curls that weren’t there last time I saw Sky.
Telling Sky the story doesn’t matter, whatever she thinks will make no difference; I lost her months ago.
****
Sky
Dylan’s appearance shatters one layer of defences. His pale face accentuates the dark circles beneath his ocean blue eyes. There’s no Dylan spark or colour around him; even his tattoos are hidden beneath his leather jacket and shirt. In the summer, I wanted to help him. Now I fight the desire to wrap my arms around his tall figure and to be held against the lines of the muscles still apparent under his clothes. I can clearly see why Myf worries about him.
A muscle twitches in his gaunter cheek as I say the word rape, and I’m annoyed with Dylan’s vulnerability drawing me to him.
“What happened wasn’t date rape,” he says holding my gaze.
Dylan looks to my hands and when I realise they’re trembling I sit on them. “What was it then?”
He deflects the question in his Dylan way. “One of the reasons I didn’t try to explain in July is because I feel as if I am responsible, and deserve the blame. I couldn’t have you look at me with the same disgust I have for myself, I wanted to keep the memory of the Sky who looked at me as if I meant something.”
“Why tell me now?”
“Because I thought walking away would make things easier. But for the first time in my life, leaving didn’t help. Walking away from you isn’t an option, Sky. Instead of hiding, I need to tell you the truth. If there’s the smallest chance you’ll listen and forgive me, then the risk is worth trying.”
With each word, the anxiety over what he’s about to tell me increases. I’ve been through a million scenarios in my head the last few months, and the one I settled on was Dylan not accepting ‘no’ from a groupie.
“Tell me the story, Dylan.”
Dylan flicks his fingers against his teeth and inhales, closing his eyes. “I’ll tell you. Believe what you want, but this is the truth. And I don’t think I’ll come out of the story a much better person than if I’d done what you think.”
“I doubt that,” I say coldly.
Dylan gulps half of his wine and sets the glass carefully on the table. “Three years ago Blue Phoenix made it big and we thought we were fucking gods. We came back from Europe after we’d toured the world non-stop for a year and lived the rock lifestyle to its fullest. Still high on life, alcohol, and drugs, we retreated to my place in Berkshire.
“For a few days, a stream of girls came in and out of the house and the craziness continued. Eventually, Bryn and Liam left. I wanted to chill out, Jem wanted to keep going. When I wouldn’t play, Jem looked for other opportunities. The village near the house is pretty quiet; most people ignore us or put up with us, and we’d occasionally go into the village. When I backed off drinking for a couple of days, Jem started going to the local pub.” Dylan laughs. “The villagers hated the scrutiny our living nearby brought to their village, and they had no time for the media either. So, only the people who frequented the pub knew about their famous customers, no one was tipped off.
“Jem befriended a group of girls or rather they came across him and fell for his star status which of course he lapped up. For a few nights, he’d go to the pub and talk to them. I didn’t understand why he was risking publicity. Jem was bored of groupies, said everything was too easy with them and had a bright idea about inviting some local girls over. One night, he returned home high and told me he was throwing a party.
“About half a dozen of them showed up early evening. A couple of them heavily made up in revealing clothes, hoping to catch themselves a rock star. They knew our reputation and I doubt any of their parents knew they were there. One girl stood out, partly because she looked uncomfortable and as though she didn’t want to be there, and because she was dressed down in jeans and a t-shirt. The fact the t-shirt had a different band name on it amused me, as if she was telling us to back off. This was Lily.
“Jem wanted Lily; I discovered later that she was the reason for the party. Lily also attracted me because she was the opposite of any girl I’d met recently.
He eyes me warily. “Jem and I had this thing where whoever saw the groupie first at a party got her. I argued I’d seen her first when she arrived; he argued he’d spoken to her first in the village. In the end, we agreed to play our game and see who she went for.”
As Dylan’s story unfolds, unease morphs into a heavy sickness in my stomach. “Go on…”
“We did this a lot with girls, to see which one of us they’d choose. Sometimes we’d…” He catches the look of disgust on my face. “Yeah, well. I watched as Jem turned on every seductive trick in his book to get her interested in him. I took a different approach, misunderstood rock star looking for love.”
I inhale sharply and he meets my eyes, knowing exactly what I’m thinking. She’s me. He’s described how he was in Broadbeach. An extra barrier against Dylan goes up.
Dylan stands and walks toward the front door, then turns toward me. “Everything that happened was my fault,” he whispers.
“How?”
“I could’ve stopped the game; I didn’t realise how far he would go.”
“Who? Jem? I thought she accused you?”
Dylan’s eyes are vacant, lost in the memory and I’m not sure he hears me. “I saw how uncomfortable she was becoming around Jem’s behaviour; you’ve met him when he’s high and that night he was intense. Jem told me he wanted her, needed to get to know her, how she was different. I saw what he meant because Lily was one of those people who inadvertently attracted people. She was natural.”
He rubs a palm across his face. “After a few hours, Lily looked to me more and more, trying to keep away from Jem. Jem went mental at me; he was weird. I’d never seen him like this over a girl so I backed off, couldn’t be bothered fighting. I noticed her trying to leave and stopped her. She trusted me because I’d been nicer to her and pulled Jem into line a few times when he got too intense. I guess I was being the considerate Mr Nice Guy as my strategy, so when I took her back to the party she was okay. Then I left her with Jem, half-hoping she’d tell him to piss off and come back to me.”
“You handed a girl back to your high friend like she was some kind of plaything?” My voice is barely audible. “What happened?”
Dylan crashes his head backward against the wall and stares at the dirty lampshade above. Is this as much of the story as I’m getting?
“They disappeared and I had a bad feeling about what he would do.”
The room contracts as I remember the creepy Jem, who approached me. “Was it him? Did he…?”