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8
Day Three of Weirdness.I’m still alive, so it seems unlikely Dylan Morgan is a serial killer, even though he shares the same initial and surname as a fictional one.
We missed each other for the rest of the day yesterday. My rest turned into several hours, and the house was quiet when I woke up at 10 p.m. Downstairs, half a pizza sat on the table with a note from Dylan informing me he’d eaten and headed out for a walk. This note is crossed out and he’s written "gone to bed" beneath. Half asleep, I munched on the cold pizza considering the strange domesticity of this arrangement, and how I didn’t imagine rock stars would head to bed so early. My phone beckoned me towards googling him, but I resisted. Bubble walls are very thin.
This morning, Dylan’s bedroom door is open, bedding scrunched into a pile. He isn’t downstairs, but a dirty bowl rests in the sink. No bacon sandwiches this morning. I sit and eat toast, in the silence of the house I came to be alone in—a house with an unwanted emptiness without Dylan, the man who shares my summer memories. I rub my eyes, fighting thoughts of Bristol and my dickhead, cheating boyfriend. And wondering if I’ll have sex with Dylan before I go home.
Oh, wow.
Does he have this effect on every woman?
I suspect so.
But do I really want him to, as he so subtly put it, fuck me, and then leave? There’s adventurous and then there’s shameful. I don’t know. I’m presumptuous he wants to dothat—Dylan said the reason he likes me is because I don't. Then he teases me by saying things about wanting to kiss me. Can he relate to women on a non-sexual basis?
I pack up my confusion and head for the beach.
Today, the sun fights with grey clouds, the idyllic summer weather gone. Instead of walking between the sand dunes, I scramble up the side, grasping onto seagrass as I do. The dunes aren't high, but elevated enough for a better view of the area. The almost-empty beach stretches between two rocky outcrops, and I can count the number of people in the surf on one hand. The grey sky turns the seawater to the colour of lead, the break of the waves higher than yesterday.
The wind whips my untamed hair across my face and goosebumps rise on my arms, so I clamber back down towards the beach. The tide is out, and I fix my attention on the damp sand, hoping to find shells as I walk along the shoreline. Half an hour later, I have a sandy pocketful but none to match those in my treasure box.
I stand in the break, enjoying the sensation of waves lapping my toes and wriggle them into sand. With or without Dylan, this trip to Broadbeach was the best move. There's something raw about the sea that pushes away thoughts of the world I left behind in Bristol.
I’ve walked a long way from the house, so I head back, holding my hair wishing I’d tied it back. As I get closer, I notice a male figure in the waves. The man lets the waves carry him to shore, then swims back out to repeat the process. As I continue walking, this happens three times. The only other people in the sea are the two kids I saw yesterday, whose parents now scold for copying this swimmer.
Dylan. Who else would this be?
I stop near the spot where the waves sweep Dylan, and I wait for the foaming waters to carry him to me. Emerging from the surf like a movie scene, Dylan's chest gleams from the water trickling across his abs, and his board shorts hang lower, revealing the tantalising line of dark hair disappearing into his shorts.
Breathtaking doesn't even begin to cut it when describing this guy.
"Morning, summer Sky," he says, out of breath.
"Having fun?"
Of course he is; the guy’s face is lit up like a Christmas tree. Water shines on his face, drops landing on his lips, which he licks away. This fires the desire to touch my lips to his, igniting the slow burn inside, so I tear my gaze away.
"The water’sslightlycolder than the beach near my house," he says.
"Your house is by a beach?"
He shakes water from his hair at me. "Forget I said that."
"The water’s bloody freezing!" I step back and rub the drops from my arms. "How can you stand swimming in this?"
"Because it makes me feel alive. Free. Fuck, I’d forgotten how awesome this place is. I can breathe again." Dylan is half talking to himself, and I can’t help but smile at his contagious enthusiasm. "Come into the water."
But notthatcontagious. "I’m okay. Not my thing."
The waves pull at my feet, as if joining Dylan in persuading me to let my inhibitions go.
"I thought you said you wanted to do weird stuff that isn’t your usualthing?"
"I draw the line at hypothermia. I’ll see you at the house." Despite the overwhelming urge to continue staring at the water dripping down Dylan’s chest, abs, and into his shorts I take a deep, calming breath and turn away.
“Don’t be boring, summer Sky," he calls after me, as I traipse across the beach.
I don’t get far. Footsteps thud across the sand and before I can register what’s happening, Dylan grabs me around the waist, lifts me over his shoulder and turns back to the sea.
