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9
Warm English summersoften lead to cool, cloudless evenings, and I shiver as we walk along the beach towards the town, wishing I’d brought my jacket. When we reach the stone steps, Dylan waits on a low wall at the bottom, and I make the five-minute trip to the fish and chip shop. We don't discuss why he decided to wait, but we both know why. Dylan wears a navy hoodie, and sits with the hood over his face, hands burrowed into the pockets.
What would it be like to live his life? The fact he may be more famous than he's telling me pushes on the edges of the bubble. I like my bubble; I won't be the one to burst it by pushing to find out if he is.
I wrap my bare arms around the welcome warmth of the paper fish and chip packages as I carefully climb back down the steps. Eating straight from the greasy paper was a tradition of our family holidays. Is this Dylan's too? I stand in front of him, hugging the meal.
"Where did you eat your fish and chips as a kid?" I ask.
"Normally, we'd sit on this wall. You?"
"We’d sit on the beach and watch the sunset."
"Sounds like a plan." Dylan holds his hands out for the food but I keep hold, passing him the cans of Coke.
We find a sheltered spot and sit against the tall rocks at the edge of the dunes, looking over the beach. If I'd planned this better, I'd have a blanket to sit on. I unwrap the parcels, and peel the greasy paper back. The smell is heaven. Heart attack inducing, celestial goodness. I close my eyes and inhale, making a satisfied noise.
Dylan chuckles. "Funny, Sky."
I open an eye. "What?"
"Nothing. I like that you're not obsessed about what you eat." With deft fingers, he unwraps his bundle too. "Forks?"
"Umm. I forgot."
He rolls his eyes. "Fingers it is then."
As much as I love fish and chips, the sensation of Dylan's hard thigh pressed against mine interferes with my appetite. We're touching, his soft cotton hoodie warm against my goose-bumped arm, the material rubbing me as he eats. His presence fills my stomach and interferes with my meal. Damn. I pick at the food, attempting to quell the shaky excitement of being close to this man.
"We can head back to the house and find forks if you don't want to use your fingers?" he suggests through a mouthful of chips.
I wrinkle my nose. "It's fine. I'm not as hungry as I thought."
Dylan shrugs and returns to his food. As the sun drops behind the horizon, the temperature drops to match. I gaze at the red and orange clouds streaking across the sky and touching the dark sea, and focus very hard on not focusing on Dylan.
"I can’t remember the last time I ate decent fish and chips. Not quite L.A. style." He grins, rubbing his belly.
"I suspect if you ate a lot of fish and chips, you wouldn't have the body you do..." I trail off.Nice one, Sky, lay yourself open.
He chuckles. "True, although performing burns a lot of calories. If I stay in Broadbeach and eat junk food for a month, I'll be sporting a party pack instead of a six-pack."
I giggle and fight my overwhelming urge to check out his six-pack, in case he needs any advice on the intactness.
"So why did you really come here?" I ask him, twisting around as I sip from the can of Coke.
Gaze fixed on the sea, he doesn't reply for a few seconds. "I want to remember what life was like before all the crazy shit. Here, I can block out the rest of the world without using alcohol and drugs."
I frown. "You had an alcohol problem?"
"Yeah. For years. Alcohol became the way I coped with my weird reality. When I stopped drinking and drugging I had nothing else to fill the hole with." He pauses, then continues quietly, "The hole gets bigger every day."
Did I fill my emptiness in the same way by craving affection from Grant, a man who only gave me love conditionally? Is that what's happening here—my need for affection rebounding me into Dylan like a huge jump on a trampoline?
"A couple of days ago, I woke up and thought 'fuck this'. I cut my hair and left that life."
Forgetting myself, I reach a hand and touch the short hair above his ear. "You had long hair?"
My hand slides across Dylan's face as he turns to look at me, his cheek smooth above his stubbled jaw. "For the last eight years, yeah. I'll show you a picture some time. You might recognise me then."
