by Lily Morton
Now, however, I would give anything to have Dylan here. I want to sit with him in the kitchen like last time and have him pull my secrets out of me, the way a magician pulls a rabbit out of a hat. I’ve never been with anyone who has ever made me feel like that, safe and warm yet almost painfully flayed open.
But Dylan showing up here will never happen again. The clock is ticking down on our relationship, and soon he will leave my employment. After rubbing my bleary eyes, I look around at my house. For the first time, the peace and stillness doesn’t revive me. It seems similar to the grave.
I swallow against a choking feeling of worry. Enough with this insular bullshit. Look what he’s turning you into.
I stand up. We’re in Amsterdam tomorrow. I will find someone else to fuck and take my mind off him. Dylan will talk to me again, wielding sarcasm like a cricket bat, and we will go back to normal.
My rules are there for a reason, I remind myself, and if there’s a hint of desperation in my inner voice, I’m the only one who knows it.
Bad Valentine
This short story is set immediately after the events of Valentine’s Day in Rule Breaker.
Gabe
I slam out of the flat and lean against the wall outside, breathing heavily. I can feel the alcohol running through my veins, and my eyes hurt. When I rub my fingers into them, they come away wet, and for a second I just stare at the moisture, unable to believe that this is me now, crying outside my boyfriend’s flat like some sad twat.
Rage sears me, and I lurch away. I’m going to a club, and I’m going to find the first available body and bury myself in him, and that will serve Dylan right. How dare he change the fucking goalposts on me, telling me he lo—
I veer away from that thought like it’s waiting to stab me, and I stagger towards the lift.
I press the button repeatedly and then pace the hall, looking back at his door constantly. Part of me wants him to open it, to tell me that everything will be okay and pull me back into the warmth of his home and him. The major part, however, wants to get away quickly before that could happen. Still, when the lift doors open, I hesitate and look back, but his door remains closed.
The wind slaps me in the face when I get outside, and I start to walk, hunched against the cold and looking out for an available taxi. The chill begins to bring me out of my alcohol haze, and something inside me tells me this isn’t wise. Seeing a taxi with its light on, I hold my hand up and then slide in when it pulls over.
I give him the address of Vibe and then sit, tapping my fingers on my phone. Mind finally made up, I hit my contacts. A few rings later and I hear Henry’s warm voice. “Gabe?”
“Hey,” I say in a rush. “You out tonight?”
There’s a pause. “I wasn’t going to. More importantly, I wouldn’t have thought you would be.”
“Why?” I say defensively.
He laughs. “Because it’s Valentine’s Day, you twat. Weren’t you supposed to be out with Dylan?” There’s a long pause. “Oh, shit, Gabe. Tell me you haven’t done anything stupid.”
“Why would I have done something stupid?”
“Because you’re the idiot still insisting on a hook-up status with Dylan, that’s why.”
“And that’s what it was,” I say, and then close my eyes at his heavy sigh. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” I manage to get through a tight throat. “He threw me out, and I don’t think we work together anymore.”
“What the fuck?” he says slowly. “Gabe, are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I’d been aiming for insouciance, but my voice falters badly.
“Where are you?” he asks, breaking the heavy silence.
“In a taxi going to Vibe,” I say staunchly. “I’m going to get utterly pissed and find someone to fuck.”
“Are you really? Think very carefully.” His voice is low and soft and gentle and reminds me vividly of the night at uni when I’d woken from a nightmare and he’d comforted me. After that night I’d have done anything for him, but he would never take advantage. He’s never pressed me for more, only remained at my side, my best friend.
I straighten in the taxi’s backseat, trying to take Henry’s advice, measure my thoughts, and let the anger go. But my mind unhelpfully sends me a vivid image of Dylan and the way he looked this morning, gazing up at me while I moved inside him, his face soft and warm and intimate.
I slump in the seat again. I would devalue Dylan and those memories I cherish by fucking someone else. I exhale gustily as I face the truth. I don’t want to be with anyone else. I have zero interest in another man’s body. The only one I want, I just singlehandedly forced out of my life. The image of Dylan’s soft expression is suddenly replaced with the one I’d seen right before I’d left—hurt and confused because of what I’d done.
I gasp at the pain that tears through me. “Shit!” I mutter.
Henry hums. “Shall we go somewhere else?” he asks quietly.
“The Dorchester, please,” I say to the driver. I can’t go home. Dylan will be everywhere I look.
“I'll be there in half an hour,” Henry says softly.
Half an hour later, I stop pacing the hotel room when there’s a knock on the door. I lope over and open it, and Henry strolls in, dressed in jeans, a navy jumper, and Converse. His dark red hair is rumpled, and he looks exactly like the university student I met for the first time all those years ago.
I think back to the first time I’d met him. I’d just moved into our room at university, nervous and a little cross after having discovered I’d have a roommate. I’d requested a single, but anyone knowing the university system knows that sometimes it’s best not to. Some sadistic hall managers do exactly the opposite of the student requests made on their forms.
The door to our room opened, and Henry strolled in. His red hair was windblown, and his face was thin and young. He was accompanied by his mother carrying a suitcase, and his father, who was somewhat incongruously carrying just a tennis racket. A few seconds later, the student president of the halls lurched into the room, laden down with luggage like a packhorse. He half threw, half dropped the bags, and Henry’s dad patted him on the head. “Good boy,” he muttered as if the boy was a dog and slipped him a twenty-pound note.
Henry closed his eyes in mortification and sighed, and when he opened them, he saw me and gave me a wide, warm smile. My anger and nerves instantly melted, and I’ve never regretted that room cock-up, because it gave me one of the most important people in my life.
“You came,” I say now, sighing.
He smiles sadly. “Always, Gabe. I wish you’d get used to that.”
“Were you out?”
He makes a moue of disgust like he’s licking something sour. “Of course I bloody wasn’t. It’s Valentine’s Day. Why on earth would I take a man out to celebrate that? What about the night of romance spells ‘good sex and absolutely nothing else’ to you?”
I sigh. “We’re a real pair, aren’t we?”
He smiles and throws himself onto the sofa, picking up the room-service menu and studying it. I slowly sink down next to him and observe his handsome face. I find myself wondering about his disgust over celebrating Valentine’s Day. And, not for the first time, I’m curious about why he doesn’t try for something with Ivo.
Despite Henry’s protests, I’m sure that Ivo wants him. Why wouldn’t he? Henry is warm and loving and funny and stable in a way that I’ll never be. I asked him once why he wouldn’t try for more, but he just shrugged before giving me one of those self-deprecating smiles and saying, “I can’t risk losing him. If I told him how I felt, he’d run and I can’t be without him in my life. Unfortunately, he’s also irreplaceable, and no one else matches up.”
At the time, I’d examined him like he was some sort of specimen in a lab. I remember wondering what kind of love spoils you for anyone else. Now I know the answer — the real kind.
Henry picks up the phone. “I’m ordering food,” he says calmly. “You need somethin
g to mop up that alcohol. I can smell it all over you.” I throw myself back on the sofa’s cushions, and he examines my face intently. “What did you do?”
I open my mouth and start talking. It’s ages later when I draw the story to a close, the words stuttering on my tongue and my heart clenching at what I’ve done.
Henry shakes his head and rubs his eyes. “Jesus, Gabe.”
I scrub my hands down my face. “I know,” I say quietly. “I’ve lost him now.”
He sighs. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
I look up, hope flaring. “Do you think?”
He stares at me. “The real question is why that would make you happy, Gabe?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that tonight you’ve singlehandedly pushed away the best thing that has ever happened to you. You broke his heart, and you did it deliberately, so I repeat, why does the fact that he’d have you back make you happy? Do you want to hurt him again?”
“No!” I burst out, jumping up from the sofa and starting to pace. “I don’t want to hurt him, ever. I hate myself that I did it at all.”
“And yet you did it, anyway.” His voice is calm and analytical like we’re in court, and I flush hot with rage and horror.
“I’m a monster,” I say numbly. “I’m like him.”
“Really? How are you like him?”
I’d expected incredulity from him, not this cool appraisal. We’ve never spoken about my past since the night of the nightmare, but I know he’s never forgotten it.
“Because I destroyed Dylan and us. I was frightened.”
“Really? You didn’t tell me you’d shot Dylan.”
I jerk. “Jesus fucking Christ, Henry. I can’t believe you just said that to me.”
“It’s the truth, Gabe, isn’t it? Did you pick up a gun and turn it on him?”
I actually gag at the thought. “Of course I didn’t. I couldn’t because–”
“Why?” he says sharply. “Why couldn’t you do that?”
“Because I love him,” I shout, and then stare as a sad smile crosses his face.
“Finally,” he says softly. “I know you won’t talk about your parents and the end, and I respect that. But I must ask you one thing. Do you think your father loved your mother?”
I shrug awkwardly. “I presume at one point he did.”
“And do you think he loved her when he killed her?”
I feel shivers running up and down my body. “No,” I whisper. “I think he hated her, and I don’t want to ever feel like that around Dylan. I would die before I hated him and hurt him.”
He sits back. “If he cheated on you, what would you do?”
Bile rises in my throat at the thought of Dylan with someone else. I swallow hard. “I don’t think I could stay with him.” I hear the hesitation and the question in my voice.
“Would you hurt him so the other person couldn’t have him?”
“Never,” I vow fervently. “Never. I might punch the other man.” I look at him. “The sad truth, Henry, is that I’d probably try and work it out with him.”
“Why is that sad?”
“What do you mean?”
He shakes his head, his face warm and sad. “There is a wide space between marriage and relationship troubles and what your father did. Fortunately, not many people take that option, and I should know.” Henry is a family lawyer. He stares at me searchingly and seems to come to a conclusion. “Gabe, I see every kind of humanity in my rooms, and my job depends on my accurate summing up of people. Listen to me very carefully now and hear me for the first time. You are nothing like your father.”
The words rush through me like someone has opened a window in a stuffy room and let in a cool breeze. I think it’s the first time in my life that I’ve ever spoken about this, apart from the night of my nightmare.
“How do you know? Are you sure?” My voice is hoarse and deep. I examine his face intently.
“I’m sure, Gabe. You may be cruel sometimes, but it’s a cruelty that we all share when we’re cornered. You don’t suffer from the madness that seized your father, and it’s time that you learnt to trust yourself.”
I sit back, feeling weak and sick. “You know what I’ve done. There’s no going back from what I did. Dylan is clever and gorgeous. He’ll find someone else quickly, now I’m out of the picture.”
“Do you want that? A psychiatrist would say that you engineered it.”
I shake my head. “I knew he was going to leave me. I just wanted him to hurry up and do it so I could feel the pain. It’s worse to anticipate a hurt than it is to actually experience it.”
“I’m not sure about that.” His face is closed off and distant, as if he’s not here for a second. “What are you going to do?” he asks, coming back to himself.
I stare at him in surprise. “There’s nothing I can do. I’ve hurt him so much tonight he would never have me back. You don’t know Dylan. He’s got a steel backbone when you fuck him off.”
Henry hums. “Actually, I’m not sure whether that applies to you. I think you’re the exception to all of Dylan’s life rules, the way he is to yours.”
Hope fills me suddenly, washing through the place in my soul that holds my fears about being like my father. I think that place will always be there, but maybe I could dilute it a bit.
“I want him,” I say suddenly, the words flying out of me, fast and clear and sure. “I love him so much.”
He smiles at me. “Is he good for you?”
I look at him, startled. “Of course he is,” I say fiercely. “He’s good and kind, and so warm. He gives love so freely.”
“And do you think you’re good for him?” The question comes from Henry, the family lawyer.
“No,” I say slowly. “I’m not good for him at all. He said he was worth more.” I swallow hard. “And he was right.”
“And are you just going to accept that? Are you going to wander off with your tail tucked between your legs?” He pauses. “Or are you going to fight to get better for him?”
“He may never have me back.”
Henry nods. “That’s true. He may choose to move on with his life and leave you behind. But surely you could honour him and the most important relationship in your life by trying to heal. Find someone and talk to them. Get help and get better for him, and you.”
Resolve fills me, pushing away the terrible pain. “I will,” I say, and it’s a vow said not to Henry, but to the invisible presence of the person I love most in the world. I will try to get him back, but if he moves on, then I will be the best man I can be for him.
Jude’s Intervention
This short story is set just before Dylan’s accident in Rule Breaker.
Gabe
The sun shines through the windows of the conference room and dances on the glasses and bottles of water that litter the surface of the table. I track its progress across the room while the men around me talk loudly and agitatedly. It takes a second or third call of my name for me to realise that someone is talking to me. I look away from the wall to find Morris, another lawyer, looking at me.
“Are you even listening?” he hisses.
I raise one eyebrow. “Of course I am.” I’m not, but he doesn’t need to know that. “I’m just being selective about which piece of crap I’m retaining at the moment.”
He huffs and returns to the argument, and I glare after him. For a second and without thinking, I look for Dylan. Usually, he’d be sitting in the corner taking notes, his face full of expressive snark, waiting to catch my eye and share a moment of suppressed hilarity. Neither of us ever liked Morris. Sometimes when he was in full flow, Dylan would glance at me, and it would take everything I had not to laugh.
It’s not the first time that I’ve looked for him since he left, or even the hundredth, and every time he isn’t there, I feel a sharp pain in my chest. I massage it absently, wondering wildly for a second whether I’m having a heart attack, and if I am, would he come to me.
&nbs
p; I shove that self-pitying thought far away and return to the conversation around the table. Unfortunately, it’s still being led by morons, so I drift off again. Nothing seems to hold my attention, which, for a man defined by his career, is slightly disturbing. I can be sitting in the most interesting meeting, and it’s as if I’m behind a wall of cotton wool. Everything seems shit and dreary.
It wasn’t until after he’d gone that I realised how much of my day was structured around moments with him. First thing in the morning, I would always criticise his coffee. He would respond with something insulting, and the day would start happily. When I was away from the office, I could relax because I knew when I went back he would be there sniping about my handwriting or something else that I’d done to piss him off.
His replacement, Alistair, is nice enough, but he will never be Dylan. I swallow hard because I have a horrible feeling that nobody will ever be Dylan, in both my personal and professional life.
“You know, you could at least pretend to be interested.”
I turn with irritation to Morris. “Why? You’re doing such a thoroughly good job of that, it’s making me feel slightly redundant.”
His huff of indignation bores me, and I stare out the window. I would give every penny I have, and the cold house I live in, if I could just have another day with Dylan. My throat tightens. It would be useless anyway, because he’s obviously moved on. I think back to that night in his flat and the wanker he was with. He’d been pretty enough, but he didn’t have an ounce of Dylan’s character and personality. He had Dylan though, and that thought leaves me full of a roiling mixture of anger, jealousy, and misery. Mostly misery because it’s my fault that the wanker had a chance in the first place.