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"You called me Jamie, so I carried on the charade." As if the word ‘charade’ isn't enough of a punch in the guts, his next words stab my heart. "And you're not the kind of girl Dylan Morgan would be seen kissing."
I smack my hands into his chest, hurt firing straight to the insecure centre of my brain, triggering immediate anger. "What the hell? You dickhead!"
He steps back, alarmed, and tries to catch my arm but misses. "No, listen, that's not what I meant. Shit!"
Head whirling, I move to the other side of the car and grab my handbag from the footwell. "Stay here and find someone else to help you. I'll get the bus and bloody walk home."
Tears of humiliation press behind my eyes, blurring my vision. I know he won't follow me and expose himself more, and even if he does, I don't care. I storm across the car park towards the bus stop I saw near the other side of the store.
"Sky!" he calls. "Really, you got this all wrong. I'm not saying that's whatIthink." I keep walking as Dylan catches up with long strides. "Sky!"
Dylan grabs my arm and spins me around, causing a tear to fall from my eye. Great.
He stares at it in alarm. "Sorry, you’re right. I’m a dickhead; I didn't mean what I said to sound that way."
"Let me go."
Strong hands cup my face, and I twist my head trying to get away from the intensity of his look. "Listen to me, Sky. I'd swap you for a hundred of the girls the press and public expect me to be with. You're genuine, funny, and real. You've touched a part of my soul I thought died years ago."
"Don’t, Dylan," I say hoarsely.
"No, I'm not just saying this—it's true. I know we don't know each other very well but something about you fills a space inside that's been empty for so long. Don't let me fuck this up before we've started."
I yank his hands from my face, before his words break through my defences. He can’t understand how deep his words cut me—I already feel worthless because the man I spent years with treated me like shit. Now Dylan reinforces my worthlessness, even if he doesn’t understand why his simple words caused such a big reaction.
I’m nobody.
"Maybe you should write a song about how you feel."
"That's unfair, Sky."
"I wish I'd left the day I first met you, the games don't stop, do they?" I hitch a breath. "Don't follow me."
He doesn’t.
* * *
I siton a metal bench at the bus stop and control my ragged breaths. How stupid am I? I let this guy play with me—indulge in his fantasy for ordinary girls. I chew the inside of my mouth, willing the stupid tears not to start again.
To return to the cottage, I take two buses and walk a couple of miles. Sweat sticks the summer dress to my back and legs and, by the time I reach the door, my calves are sore from walking in unsuitable summer sandals. All the way back, my chest stayed tight, Dylan’s words replaying—not the back-pedalling lies about touching his soul, but the easy and amused way he said he’d never be seen with someone like me.
I step into the shower, washing off the day and him. What was I doing? Living a fantasy with a mysterious rock star? The type in books who profess undying love before the story ends? My story won’t end that way. If I listen to my head and not my heart, mine ends on a train back to Bristol, with my car dead in a supermarket car park.
One of Dylan's T-shirts lies on the floor by the sink and I stare at it. If I were a worse person, I'd take the item as a souvenir. But of what? What was this? His game? I’m bloody stupid—I’m a challenge he set himself the day we arrived at the cottage, all because I told him I’m not interested.
Well played, Dylan Morgan.
