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19
The obsessingwho Dylan Morgan is doesn't ebb as I make myself a snack and debate whether to leave or not. The old desire to not know anything is replaced with a consuming need to find out who he is. So when I take my phone to search train timetables, the control I've held onto disappears.
I punch his name into Google. I don't need to type his full name before the search box fills for me. Immediately a page appears with a link to Wikipedia, images, and stories.
The man in the picture doesn't look anything like Dylan, apart from his eyes. His hair is longer—half way to his shoulders, dark brown with a slight curl. The style changes his face shape completely, but there’s no possibility Dylan is lying because this man has his distinctive eyes. They're different shades of blue in different pictures, colour changing with his mood like those rings I wore as a teen.
I scroll to the stories.
Then I see the band name.
Blue Phoenix.
Holy shit.
No way.
The tattoo. Dylan practically told me and I didn't click. Evidently, his semi-naked presence switches my brain onto standby.
I'm clueless about music, but everybody knows who Blue Phoenix is. Calling them ‘big’ is an understatement, they’re huge. So how did I not know? I trawl my mind but can't find any memories of pictures showing the band members; I don’t even know how many people are in the band.
But I've heard friends talk about them—I think Tara went to their stadium gig last year. I know she raves on about them sometimes, but I switch off sometimes, lost in my own thoughts, so I have no idea about names.
Worse, Blue Phoenix aren’t sanitised like the famous boy bands. These guys have a reputation and a lot of internet fan sites. I mean,a lot. I click on one. More pictures of Dylan, and other band members. In a lot of images, they’re shirtless or turning smouldering looks to the camera. There’re also pictures of Dylan with girls—copious amounts of different girls. Beautiful women dressed up for awards nights or dressed down in bikinis at exotic locations. Tall, willowy, silicone enhanced, and glamorous. Girls who don't exist in my world.
Who look nothing like me.
Dazed, I click back and read the first news story.
'Fans furious as star disappears – Blue Phoenix forced to postpone tour’
The mysterious disappearance of international bad boy rock star, Dylan Morgan, has teenage girls around the country venting their anger on the venues who are powerless to do anything. The band's manager, Steve Bennett claims he has no details of Dylan’s whereabouts. Rumours of a split, and fake death notices on Twitter and Facebook have sent the fandom into a tailspin.'
I speed read the rest of the article, staccato heartbeat accompanying me. Background I'd rather not know about Dylan follows, including a list of his demeanours. The most recent article is accompanied by him with a model I vaguely know. Again, tall, skinny with silky black hair and perfect everything. His girlfriend?
I want to throw up. This guy? Why the hell did he do this with me? What an amusing game I must've been—clueless but falling for his spin. I might not be a groupie but Dylan caught me in his full beam and dazzled me into believing he wanted me.
This is my fault for not investigating who he is before now—I fooled myself into a fantasy worthy of a best-seller. Why didn't I know who Dylan was when he told me his name? I’m vaguely aware of boy band names because they’re plastered on the TV 24/7, but I know little about rock bands. Blue Phoenix is one of a few I’ve heard of, just not well enough to recognise them.Stupid, stupid girl.
Afternoon melds with the evening and I’m locked in the world of the internet, spinning in circles as I learn everything about Dylan I can. Like an addiction, one taste of insight into his life and I need more. Everything. Some articles will be lies and others exaggeration, but the essence of who Dylan Morgan is runs through. This is a different man in a different reality that I won’t be part of.
The bang of the front door pulls me out of the internet world and I rub my eyes, glancing at the time: almost nine P.M. Wow, I’ve spent a lot of time dizzying myself with the life and times of Dylan Morgan. Footsteps walk up the stairs, but the floorboards don’t creak and he returns back down. Where did Dylan go when I left him in the supermarket car park? And is that my business anyway?
I pick up the paper with scrawled train times; if I go soon I can be on my way to Bristol in an hour. The overwhelming shift in our day blew apart our new world, and I made the decision to leave when I discovered the truth about Dylan.
I pile clothes into my rucksack and head downstairs with the full bag. Dylan stands as I walk into the lounge, the old weary look from the lane outside Broadbeach back on his face. We lock gazes for a moment, and then I stalk past him into the kitchen. Gathering stray books and sunglasses, and pushing them into my handbag, I panic how I’ll pass Dylan without speaking to him.
"Can I talk to you?" he asks softly.
I turn. Dylan leans against the doorframe, the exact way he has every one of our days in this house. But this isn't my Dylan anymore; I've replaced him with stories and images from the internet.
"How did you get back here?" I ask.
"The same way you did. I walked."
I blink. "What if someone saw you pursuing some girl you wouldn't be seen dead with?"
Dylan moves into the room. "Don't. Say. That," he says through clenched teeth
