Summer Sky: A Blue Phoenix Book

by Swallow, Lisa

  I withdraw; touch his cheek. “Go and pack. How long until they’re here?”

  “Maybe fifteen minutes. Are you coming?”

  My heart tears in two, as I’m torn in half. “Yes.”

  “Thank you.” Dylan grabs my face, kisses my mouth hard and disappears inside.

  Pulling my phone from my jacket pocket, fingers trembling, I dial a taxi. Light shines through the doorway of the sanctuary I came to four days ago, the time it took the get pulled under and drowned by the man from the sea. I know I have to go to keep my head above the water.

  My rucksack rests on the floor in the kitchen, and I pull the bag onto my shoulder. I don’t know how long Dylan will take to pack, I need to decide now.

  The half-moon in the cloudless sky illuminates the lane leading away from the house, as if guiding me in the direction I need to go. Chest tight and pressure building in my head, I glance back at the door. Dylan could reappear anytime, and make this harder. I walk along the lane towards the road above the house, pushing through the remaining walls that surround my fantasy world.

  Part Two

  Chapter Sixteen

  Dylan

  Two weeks since I saw Sky; since we left behind our fantasy world of sand and sunshine. Fourteen days since she walked out of my fucking life, and hit me harder than our cars collided.

  I haul my ass out of bed, feeling like crap. The empty bottle on the table mocks me. Months since I last drank heavily and here I am again, back into my old way of coping. Empty bottles, empty head. Now everything is worse because I caught a glimpse of how life should be: with Sky.

  Do I not learn? This is what feeling something real does. Every. Fucking. Time.

  Sky, the infuriating girl who I tried to keep my hands off and failed. The moment I touched her skin, I left reality and moved into our illusion by the sea. In this Sky and Dylan world, I was free; freer than I thought I’d be the day I decided to run from this shit.

  Impossible Sky, the girl who knows me because she never knew me. She gave breath to a new Dylan, the man I want to be, and without her, he’ll suffocate again. Every morning I wake aching to hold Sky again, to cocoon us in our fragile world we created, and every night I crave the soft warmth of her in my arms. Fuck, listen to me…pathetic. She’s right; I should write a fucking song.

  Sky won’t give us a chance, refuses to see me. I’m shut out as if I never existed. She says I’m chasing something we could never be, that everything was an illusion. But the connection we made was more than an illusion.

  Our Sky and Dylan could exist in the real world too; Sky just needs time to realise.

  *****

  Sky

  Twenty-two, homeless and jobless; not what I planned when I hung around in Bristol to be with my childhood sweetheart. At least we never got married or had kids although not through lack of trying on my part - my subtlety was brick-like on that topic for years. Then I gave up, deciding we’d be one of those co-habiting couples. Grant said marriage was “just a piece of paper.” Wrong. I put money into the mortgage for his house, paying “rent” and allowing him to keep my name off the titles. I paid for the upkeep. And what am I entitled to now? Nothing. Look up naivety in the dictionary and beside the word, you’ll see me.

  My job. I turned my back on the chance of university and worked for his family firm as the ‘office manager’. This entails accounts, sales, admin, coffee maker and occasional cleaner. I am an expert on finance contracts and a complete fail on life.

  Naturally, my break-up with Grant and subsequent disappearance ends my employment. I’m sure I could fight back for unfair dismissal, but I haven’t the desire to communicate with a single one of Grant’s family.

  I move in with Tara, into her spare room, where I fight with her plethora of cuddly toys and clothes for space. A bed and a roof over my head are a start in my move forward in life. With my office skills, I can take temporary contracts until I find a proper job. If I’m brave, I’ll switch towns too and get as far away as possible from the dickhead and his stupid family.

  Dylan haunts my thoughts and dreams. And my mobile phone. He has guilted me over walking out on him. I thought he’d be over me in a couple of days but he calls daily. We have the same conversation over, and over, he wants to see me; I don’t want to see him. The glow of the holiday romance stays, and if I allow the other Dylan I never knew in, those memories will be destroyed.

  Social media exploded when Dylan reappeared, news of his holiday with the mystery girl speculated on. The palpitations caused every time I open the internet, expecting to see my picture, lessen each day. Two weeks on, and my name and face remain unknown. That’s the way I want to keep things and another reason to steer clear of Dylan. My life is already upside down, with Dylan my life would spin out of control.

  Following a morning registering at employment agencies, I meet Tara for coffee in our favourite cafe. She’s seated in our regular spot, in a wooden booth on the vintage-look cushioned seats. The expensive fixtures add to the effect, I think they’re going for a Gatsby art deco theme. I’m pretty sure us customers pay for this fit out through overpriced coffee.

  Tara’s immaculately dressed in her understated, natural way. Next to her, I always feel like a scarecrow – her sleek brown hair versus my unruly straw-blonde waves and her expensive, coordinated blue skirt suit versus my cobbled together interview outfit of a short black skirt and white shirt. Tara offered something of hers for the interviews, but she’s several inches taller and a size eight to my size twelve.

  On the stone table, next to her cup of mocha, is a glossy magazine. When I approach with my latte, she studies me, red-painted mouth quirking at the corner.

  “What?” I ask her smirking face.

  “You never discussed your holiday with me. How was it?”

  I open a sachet of sugar and tip the contents into my drink. Then another. “Fine.”

  “Fine? Anything else? Meet anyone nice?”

  The fake innocence to her voice raises a red flag so high the whole of Bristol could see. “In Cornwall? Not likely.”

  “Mmm.” With delicate fingers, Tara flicks through the magazine, stops on a page and turns it to me. “Is that you?”

  Perspiration not from the summer warmth grows; the situation I’ve dreaded in front of me. I’m looking at a grainy photo of Dylan and me, several grainy photos. In the one where we’re kissing I’m hard to identify, but someone has managed to get closer to my face in on one of the other pictures. The photo is blurry, but not blurry enough to fool my best friend.

  The beautiful cafe lurches. “Oh.”

  “Oh, my God!” shrieks Tara and I shush her. “What the hell? No way! This is you?”

  At this point, I’m not sure if her incredulity or the fact she knows pisses me off most.

  “Keep your voice down. Yes. I was stupid. It’s over.” I glance furtively around but nobody pays any attention, the lunching city dwellers focused on sandwiches and phones.

  She leans across the table, long hair almost dipping into her coffee. “Did you…you know?”

  Why reply when my bright pink face does for me?

  “Sky! You dark horse! How was he?”

  I hold a hand up. “Stop there. I’m not talking about Dylan.”

  “Why? Did he pay you to keep quiet?” she whispers.

  “Do you think I’m a whore?” I snap “Or gold-digger?”

  Tara frowns. “Okay. Sorry, I didn’t mean… What happened?”

  “It’s a long story. It happened and the whole situation is over and done with.”

  Who am I kidding? I don’t want everything over and done with, but I’m too old to live in a fantasy world where rock stars date Miss Average.

  Sipping her coffee, Tara watches me over her cup. “You know what’s funny?

  “In my current life, not much.”

  “You don’t even like Blue Phoenix!” She giggles. “Did you tell him that?”

  “I didn’t know who he was! Not until the la
st day.”

  She splutters. “Right…”

  I ignore her and read the article. There was a ‘no comment’ from Dylan and his manager, and nobody knows who the mystery girl is. There are a few not so pleasant comments about why he’s with me, which I expected; and a line from his girlfriend about how they’ll split up now. Girlfriend. That’s the part that hurts the most - confirming my suspicion about the model I saw in the internet story I read at Broadbeach.

  “Do you think anyone else will recognise me?” I ask.

  “If they want to find you, they will,” Tara says nonchalantly. “They probably want the scoop on why he disappeared in the first place – did he leave because of you?”

  “No. I met him there. Tell me, do you think they’ll look for me?” I press.

  “Who knows – if he’s done with you and you’re not interested in selling your story, I’m sure they’ll forget about you. Once he moves onto the next girl.” She pulls an apologetic face. “No offence.”

  Done with me. Nice. I don’t tell her how Dylan called Gran; and sweet-talked her into giving him my number, in the pretence of returning my car. Or his daily phone calls, ending in a drunken one last night. At least he sent someone else to drop my car off instead of driving over. A guy built like the proverbial brick house, wearing a suit and a curious look delivered my freshly washed and freshly functioning car the day after I returned. I wonder how much he’s paid to keep quiet about me.

  So all I have to do is keep my head down for a few days, and forget about the man who exploded my world.

  *****

  I step out of the fourth interview of the day, jaw aching from false smiling and head aching from yet another mind-numbing “computer skills” test. The situation I’m in depresses me as I wander towards the car park. Three years ago, I could’ve left and gone to university in a new city, I had the grades but I stayed with Grant instead. I couldn’t see the point in studying another three years when his family had a job for me, so I chose to stay with my security blanket. I mean my boyfriend.

  Now things with Grant are over, I have the opportunity to start again. I’m sick of the treadmill life of nine to five. But, what do I want to do? Who the hell knows? I don’t.

  This worry is on the back burner following my meeting with Tara. I scrutinise every person I pass - middle-aged lady with small white dog; mum with screaming baby; group of teens sat side by side texting on their phones and not communicating. I’m paranoid they’ll jump up and run through the car park shouting “It’s her!” but no one pays any attention.

  I drive home in a daze, the images from the magazine flipping my mind and stomach. Nobody knows who I am; everything will go away. I repeat the words repeatedly as my car crawls through the traffic towards Tara’s home.

  Parking on Tara’s street is a military manoeuvre at the best of times. Finding a space isn’t the issue - the problem is the politics surrounding which rectangle of tarmac belongs to who. The first day I parked in what I presumed was a free space, and then endured the wrath of a middle-aged man in a brown suit with an interesting comb-over hairstyle. He lives five doors down but claims the spot is his.

  Now I park around the corner so if I do accidentally invade someone’s territory, they won’t know where I live.

  Pissed off that the July weather equals rain clouds and not sunshine, I tramp along the street, skilfully weaving around the dog crap on the pavement - sometimes avoiding people’s eyes helps in life.

  Tara’s home is a Victorian house converted into several flats. She says she’s saving for one of the new apartments near the river. I nodded and saved my question about when a ‘flat’ becomes an ‘apartment’? I suspect there’s a pound sign and a few zeros involved.

  As I approach the house, I spot a figure in a familiar blue hoodie perched on the low brick wall bordering the pavement and overgrown front garden.

  Dylan.

  I freeze, heart stuttering. What the hell is he doing? His head is down, hair covered by his hood, but if hardcore fans recognise him from the streets of a sleepy, seaside town, I doubt this’ll be much of a disguise.

  “Dylan?”

  He looks over and in his face, I recognise the Dylan from the day we collided. Beneath his hoodie, Dylan’s dull eyes brighten when he notices me. He straightens and gives a lopsided apologetic smile.

  “Are you mad? Sitting in the middle of a busy street?” I hiss.

  An elderly lady trundles by with a wheeled shopping bag.

  Dylan doesn’t take his pale blue eyes off mine. “Not exactly a hive of activity? Besides, I’m hiding in plain sight. No one’s looked twice at me.”

  I take in his appearance. He’s unshaven, in scruffy clothes with black circled eyes - exactly as when I first met him. I recognise the blue hoodie covering his tattoos as the one I wore in Broadbeach.

  “I said I didn’t want to see you,” I say quietly.

  “I said I had to see you. I need to talk to you,” he replies in a low tone. “I tried to stay away but I think I deserve an explanation. You just walked away and that was unfair.”

  “I had to.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I wanted to avoid this. I thought you’d forget me as soon as I went, I didn’t expect you to want to see me.”

  Confusion lines Dylan’s face and he stands. “I told you I wanted us to be more, why would you think I’d forget you? I’ll never forget you.”

  Already his words are piercing my resolve, and I pull myself back to the reality sitting in my bag. “Have you seen this?” I pull the magazine out, still folded at the offending page, and show the article to him.

  “Yeah,” he says without looking at the magazine.

  “Can you make sure I don’t get dragged into anything? Get your people or whoever to pay someone?”

  He moves closer, too close. My thoughts scatter, the scent of him pulling me back to the incredible things he did to me.

  “My people?” He laughs. “Sure. If you come with me and talk to me.”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want anything else to do with you and your life, Dylan,” I say, even though my body is begging me to reconsider.

  I edge past him towards the steps leading up to the flats.

  “Sky. Please.” He folds a hand around my sleeve before I can get by.

  Tears prick my eyes, in frustration with him and the situation. “What do you want from me?”

  “You.” The sincerity in his face knocks the breath from me. “Sky, I want you to give us a chance. Things were going well until…”

  “… I discovered who you really were and our fantasy world imploded.”

  “I was going to tell you, once I realised I wanted more than the Sky in our fantasy world.”

  “Holiday romances are great while they last, but they always end.” I smile weakly.

  Dylan sits back on the wall and buries his hands into his pockets. “I have so many things I want to say to you, Sky. I don’t know how to make you understand that I currently don’t give a fuck about anything but trying to make things work with you.”

  “How? How would we work? In Broadbeach, we had fun because everything was different. This is reality.”

  “And I want you to be part of my reality,” he says, turning the eyes I could drown in back to mine. My Dylan Morgan’s eyes.

  Exasperated, I throw the magazine at him. “This. This is your reality. You can’t exactly pop round to watch a movie with a takeaway, or meet me at the pub for a quick drink after work, can you? And I can’t be part of your insane reality.”

  “Don’t I fucking know it,” he growls, picking up the pages as they fall on the floor. “And I want to protect you from this bullshit.”

  “Then leave me alone.”

  Dylan’s face hardens, and he stares at the concrete path. “If you hadn’t found out about this Dylan Morgan, would you have given your Dylan Morgan a chance?”

  I wince as the realisation hits. He gav
e part of himself to me and I’m rejecting more than rock star Dylan Morgan.

  “Dylan, I’m asking you again. Leave me alone, you’re making things hard for me by being here. If anyone finds out who I am…”

  Dylan jumps to his feet, and I stagger back as he approaches and takes my face in his hands. “Why won’t you see me again? What did I do?”

  “Nothing…you didn’t do anything wrong. We had a holiday thing which is over now.” My traitorous body reacts to his touch, skin heating beneath his palms and desire to be in his arms again.

  “And that’s all our time was to you? A holiday thing?” His scrutiny doesn’t waver, and I summon the courage to meet his eyes and lie. Lie to the man who filled my world with more colour and happiness than I’ve had in my life for years.

  “Yes, that’s all.” A sinking in the pit of my stomach contradicts my words.

  The anger I expect doesn’t come; instead, his mouth pulls into sadness. He rearranges his features and drops his hands. “Okay.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I guess I just needed to look at you and hear you say the words to accept I don’t mean anything to you,” he says.

  This guy is hurting; hurting more than before he met me. However, this isn’t my fault, I can’t feel guilted into doing something I don’t want.

  “Sorry,” I repeat.

  As we face each other, vivid memories of our time together tumble into my mind on replay, stirring the powerful emotions this man elicits from me. Days spent rationalising the situation, of locking my Dylan Morgan in a box in my head seem pointless in this moment. My heart has been broken once and too recently, my ability to trust scratched away. I want to preserve the memories of the happiness I had with Dylan, and not risk revisiting the pain of loss and rejection I know will follow. However much he believes what he’s saying, reality will treat us unkindly.

  But I want him so much. The contradiction keeps me awake at night; the emptiness left by someone I hardly know confusing. Swapping one man who tried to control my life, for another whose life is so out of control is frightening, isn’t what I need right now.