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The conversation stops and I tense at the banging around upstairs. Suddenly, I'm not sure I want to be in the house with Mr. Angry, remembering I don't know much about this guy at all. I nervously gulp down the wine, then set the bottle on the coffee table, curling up with my book.
I lose track of time, lost in the world of the billionaire and the secretary. Why do I read books like these? Oh, yeah, escape. Fantasy. Like holidays with mysterious men, who kiss in an unimaginably skilful way.
I'm aware of Dylan's presence in the room again and turn my head. He's watching, and the idea he may have stood there for a while sends a shiver through me. Maybe this guyisunstable and hasn’t shown his true self yet.
I wish I knew what lies behind those ocean eyes. They've regained some of their guardedness—worry etched back on Dylan’s face. The aura emanating towards me isn’t anger or danger, but his slumped stance shouts out stress.
"Is everything okay?" I ask, attempting nonchalance, as if I didn’t hear the furious conversation upstairs.
"Doesn't matter." He sits in the chair—opposite, not next to me.
"Liar."
Dylan looks genuinely taken aback. "Okay, no. But that's my shit to deal with. Something from the other world that we're not living in at the moment."
I'd like to say he's deluding himself—we're not totally closed off from the real world— but I've joined in the illusion, so I can't.
"Want to talk about anything?" I suggest.
"I said that shit isn’t part of this world," he snaps.
I pull a face, not impressed by him talking to me like this. "What world are we part of, Dylan?"
"The world where the man from the sea meets the summer sky."
"Pardon?"
"My name." He rubs his temples. "That's what Dylan means. I love the ocean so my name is apt—and you're Sky, who’s like the sky."
"Expansive and empty?"
He leans back and places his feet on the coffee table. "Sky. Where the sun hides behind the clouds but some days shines through them and fills life with warmth and brightness."
I blink at him, beginning to suspect he might be the band lyricist. "How do you know what I’m like? You've known me three days."
He watches as I drink more wine. "I know you're hurting, Sky. And I know you hide behind your sarcasm because you're vulnerable underneath."
"You don't know me at all. You know a girl you met, who shares a childhood past. You know thechildhoodme."
He inhales, and then exhales slowly. "Fine. I don't want to argue with you."
I shrug and return to my book, considering why I'm irritated. Because he kissed me, set my body on a collision course with his, and then backed off? Or because the real Dylan emerged from upstairs?
I'm confused. After our tryst on the beach, every time I meet his eyes, I want to throw myself at him. Maybe I should. Isn’t that what he's used to? Is that why he's annoyed? Because I haven't?
The door closes as Dylan leaves the cottage.
Still wearing his hoodie, I follow Dylan out of the door expecting to follow him to the beach but he’s in the shadows, leaning against the house and looking at the stars.
"Are you sure everything’s okay?" I ask, touching his arm.
"We can’t escape really, can we?" he asks quietly, eyes fixed on the stars.
"Not everything. But we can controlsomeof what happens to us."
"I don’t feel like I can." He takes my hand and squeezes. "I don’t feel like I have any control over my life."
The happy guy from the beach, the summer boy who ate fish and chips with me on the sand, left when he walked upstairs. This Dylan who walked back down again is dejected, shoulders slumped, and he tears at my heart because he’s touched my life in a way that makes me feel alive.
