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I need to stop kidding myself. I wanted this. Him. The fantasy.
"We’d never have a relationship, would we? So, we either do this or we don’t. I don’t thinkthisbetween us would ever be more than sex, Dylan."
"Maybe."
"Maybe what?"
He huffs and leans back. "Look, sorry I upset you. You have no idea of the self-control it’s taking not to drag you upstairs and show you exactly what you do to me."
The embarrassment sends my spiralling into defensive anger to hide the hurt clutching at me. "Show me a good time, you mean? Arrogant much?"
He stiffens. "I don’t get complaints usually."
"No, your endless lines of girls are probably grateful that the famous Dylan Morgan lets them into his bed. You know, I think you’re probably right." I stand and grab my discarded bra from the floor. "This is a bad idea."
"Sky…" He stands and touches my arm, but I shake him away. "Oh, great—even stopping fucked things up?"
"Forget it ever happened," I snap and ignore the tears stinging my eyes. On my wobbly legs, I run upstairs.
In the bedroom, I climb onto the top bunk and curl my knees under my chin. Was I really planning on sex with an almost stranger? Good thing he has more self-control than I have, because awkward would’ve been an understatement if we'd… Ineverhave sex with people I don’t know. Ever. In fact, apart from Grant, I've had sex with two other people. Sexual hedonism doesn’t suit me.
Holding my breath, I listen. The house is often noisy—creaks, groans and tapping fill the quiet, as if the place is alive. I don’t notice them usually, but when I’m straining to hear Dylan, they magnify.
Footsteps on the stairs halt on the creaking floorboard between the two bedrooms. Panic rises—I don’t want to talk to him. A few minutes later, his bedroom door closes and footsteps thunder back downstairs. The front door slams.
We can hide from the reality of our lives, but we can’t hide from the reality of who we are and what we’re not. I grab my book from the bottom of the bed, fighting my impulse to google Dylan, because I don't want to know who he is yet.
* * *
A few hoursof embarrassed sulking later, I stalk downstairs. I've spent time listening for movement in the house, but since the front door slammed shortly after our encounter, there's been no sound.
Good.
Dylan returns later in the evening and I deliberately don't ask where he's been. Where can he go? He's bedraggled, clothes damp and hair wet beneath his hoodie. The rain stopped a few hours ago and I can only presume he went on a very long walk.
We eye each other warily. If I stare at him any longer, the blushing will start so I turn away, back to my book. Books are useful objects for ignoring people.
"I’m ordering pizza if you want something?" he asks.
"I'm fine. Thanks. I ate."
"Okay."
I always have room in my life for pizza, but I don't want to be around him. I'm not Dylan’s new toy and each time he kisses then rejects me, the worse I feel. I'm hyperaware of his every move as Dylan walks to the kitchen and makes a phone call to order his meal. Do I leave the room before he returns and traps me in his orbit again?
"Sky, can I talk to you." Dylan lowers himself in the armchair. He's removed the jacket and rubs his hand along his arm, a sign I'm beginning to notice spells unease.
"No."
He pulls his mouth tight, "No?"
"Correct."
"Right." He hesitates, shifting as if he's about to stand again, then remains seated. "Why?"
"I think we need to take this arrangement back to what it originally was. I'd leave but I haven't got..." I stop. He doesn't need to know I'm basically homeless. "I'll leave in a couple of days, unlessyouwant to go now."
"I'm not leaving," he says, tone becoming icy.
