Falling Sky

by Lisa Swallow

  “I don’t sleep, Sky. I need help sleeping. And some days I need help coping with the stress. Isn’t this better than what Jem’s doing to cope?”

  He believes that? “Is it, Dylan?”

  He turns his blue eyes toward mine, and this is the answer to how distant they’ve been. I ache to hold him and smooth his hair, take away some of the pain because this is killing him. I never saw when we met last time, never realised how fucked up he was.

  “What else are you doing to change things?” I ask.

  “I’m living day to day at the moment.”

  I straighten. “You need out, Dylan, time out and more than a few days at Broadbeach. If my job were doing this to me, I’d leave.”

  “Didn’t you hear anything I told you before? I can’t just leave.”

  “Says who? Steve? You’re a person, Dylan, not a product.”

  His eyes widen and he shakes his head. “No, not just Steve. You don’t get it.”

  Tears push into my eyes. “Yes I do! The person I care about more than anyone else in this world is drowning! There’s nothing wrong with using medication to help you get back on your feet, but using this stuff, and making no changes to your life just numbs what’s inside until you can’t remember how to feel. You’re not happy, and this won’t fix the situation!”

  For a moment, Dylan’s eyes register what I’m saying, but he turns and walks toward the door. I follow and take his arm before he can leave. This strong man, the guy who turned my life on its head then sent everything spinning out of control isn’t who I thought, not because of his past or the dubious treatment of Lily, but because he’s spiralling down as fast as his friend is.

  “Dylan, don’t walk away from this.”

  “I don’t want to see you cry,” he says softly without turning.

  The words push the barely controlled tears from my eyes. “I don’t want to see you give up.”

  “I’m trapped. I don’t know what the fuck to do!” he says hoarsely. “I know I sound like some bullshit star whining about how bad his life is but I can’t do this. And I need to.”

  I wrap my arms around his waist, and rest my head against the hard planes of his back. “I’ll help. My life is pretty much screwed now too. Maybe you’re right about us meeting at the right time back in the summer. We can help each other.”

  Dylan loosens my arms and turns back to me. “Can we? I pushed you away, and you push me away.”

  “If I can sit and listen to you tell me everything you did to that girl three years ago, and still want to give you a chance, doesn’t that say something about how I feel?” I ask, scrubbing at the tears on my face.

  The silence in the apartment hovers in the charged space between us, the gap that needs closing after the months apart. Dylan wipes away a tear with his thumb. “You’re crying for me?”

  “No, for us. For the last few months. If I’d known what was happening, if you’d spoken to me before and not gone away…”

  “I had to.”

  “Don’t say that! You don’t have to do anything!”

  He seizes my cheeks with both hands. “Every single day of the last four months I’ve thought about you. I held onto the memories of us to get me through until the memories weren’t enough and I went back to the pills.” He drops his hands and walks over to the bed, sitting on the edge. “At the end of another soul-stealing day, I’d sit in the room with one thought: I would give everything to feel nothing.”

  “Did it work?” I ask harshly, “Do you feel nothing?”

  “Until I saw you again, then everything flooded in. I ache to have you back, Sky.”

  I can’t hold this back. I’m unable to cope with this much emotion in just a few days. The stupid sobbing starts again as I’m hit by the depth of feeling I have for Dylan, the man I hardly know who I can’t imagine being without and who’s falling apart. I cover my face with my hands, not wanting Dylan to look at my ugly crying. Then Dylan’s there, arms around me, hugging me close. He presses my head against the hard muscles of his chest and winds his hand into my hair.

  “Don’t cry, please. I don’t want to make you unhappy too.” Dylan’s voice is hoarse, heart beating rapidly against my cheek.

  I lift my head from the t-shirt I’ve dampened and look into the eyes of the man from the sea. I see the worry and love in the face I remember from before. Standing on tiptoes, I press my mouth against his, knowing we need to reconnect and fight this together.

  Dylan responds with a hesitancy common in his kisses since we reunited, and I’m shaking, the tears dampening his cheeks. Gripping his hair, I push my lips harder against his until he yields and our tongues caress. My breath is snatched away by the intensity of the moment, the understanding behind our unity and the aching need to reconnect as easily as our mouths mould. I close my eyes, savouring the taste and smell of Dylan, a memory I tried to hold onto and lost over the months apart. I want to fall back into us, desperate to be skin on skin with this man. As I move a hand beneath his T-shirt, desperate to touch his warmth, he catches hold and laces his fingers through mine. I pull away and look in alarm at him. Doesn’t he want this? Dylan rests his forehead against mine, breath heavy to match.

  “I love you; I don’t ever want to live a life without you in it.”

  Controlling the tears fails again. “I thought you said you didn’t want to make me cry.”

  “I have to tell you how I feel, Sky.”

  I stroke his smooth cheek with the back of my hand, wishing I could say the words but frightened to tell him I love him too. The heavy tension in the room could be solved with losing ourselves in each other, but that gives Dylan another opportunity to deflect things.

  “I want you to do something.” I tell him.

  Dylan tenses, where his hands are on my hips they grip. “What?”

  “I want you to go to St Davids and see your gran.”

  Dropping his hands, Dylan steps back. “What makes you say that? Why would I go there?”

  I take his hand. “Dylan, to start moving on I think you need to reconnect with the old you; not the one from three years ago, but the one who needs to remember where he once belonged. Go back and remember him.”

  When he sits on the bed and stares at his feet, I’m not sure I’ve said the right thing. “But it’s Christmas,” he says quietly.

  “And if your Christmas holds demons, let’s go and put them to rest?”

  He glances back at me with a glint in his eye. “With the help of an angel?”

  I roll my eyes at him. “If you can’t find one, I’ll help instead.” Tipping his head, Dylan watches me quietly. “What?”

  “You’re amazing,” he says softly. “I don’t deserve you.”

  I cross to him, and he winds his arms around me, burying his face into my side. We stay together, in a silence that cocoons us.

  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 w
as 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 Gw
en.

  “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.