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25
Sky
Following my restless night,I sleep in and don’t have time to shower before work. I hate not showering every morning, but I'm on a new contract and tardiness could end the job. Finding temporary work is easy enough but swapping around different companies is a pain in the backside. So I tie my hair back, use extra deodorant and attempt to make up my face so I look closer to human than zombie.
The summer sunshine warms the day; the cloudless sky brightening my mood. I wish the days in Broadbeach had been sunnier, and then chastise myself for allowing my memories to wander back there again. As I leave the flat, I join the conveyor belt world. Kids wander past the gate towards school; cars drive by and queue at the end of the road, and people stack at the bus stop.
A young guy from the downstairs flat, who I see every morning but never speak to, leaves at the same time. Today he's wearing a Blue Phoenix T-shirt over scruffy blue jeans, unkempt brown hair hanging in his eyes. I stare in disbelief—as if a part of Dylan sneaks into my world all the time. The guy watches me curiously from under his fringe, and I rub my face, hoping I haven’t left toast hanging out of my hair or something. He mutters a greeting and I resolve to speak to him soon, giving him a breezy hello for now.
A man sits on the low brick wall outside the Victorian house. He’s middle-aged, dressed in slacks and a zipped green combat jacket. He stands as I walk along the path, but I don't register him.
"Are you Sky Davis?" he asks.
I halt unable to control my wide-eyed response to him. "Why?"
Oh, shit. Why did I not notice the camera he’s holding, partly obscured behind his back. My look of realisation meets his and he grins. "I’ve been looking for you. I wanted to talk to you about Dylan Morgan."
"I don’t know what you mean."
He smirks. "Come on, sweetheart. I saw him here last night."
Fuck. Not only does Dylan wake me up to profess his drunken love for me, but also he leads people to my front door. "No, I don't think you did."
I step to one side as the guy from my flats passes. He has earbuds in—hopefully, he didn't hear what the photographer said.
"See, most people think this thing Dylan Morgan had with the strange girl means nothing. But I get there’s more to this, especially now I've discovered the girl's name is Sky and he's visiting her here." He pats my sleeve. "You can talk to us about everything, Sky."
Perspiration breaks out across my back—the day I've dreaded is here. I don't respond, mind whirling as I walk by.
"Sky."
I turn back to him, and his grin reveals yellowing teeth.Shit.I confirmed what he needed to know by reacting to my name. Nice job, Sky.
When he points the camera at me, I know being late for work is the least of my problems today.
* * *
I’mno fan of social media. I have Facebook and Instagram but rarely use it—all my old friends from school post pictures of their babies or their holidays and (bizarrely) their dinner but I can't see the point in wasting my time. Twitter is a mysterious universe I haven’t touched.
And social media works at lightning speed.
Mid-morning, I’m sitting in the lunchroom, dunking chocolate biscuits into my tea, when a text comes through from Tara.
A picture of Dylan walking away from my flat in the dark is attached to her message. The bastard didn't try to disguise himself.
My hand shakes as I type a response.
I don’t think I want to, but I do. A Blue Phoenix fan blog has posted a series of pictures—several of Dylan last night and one of me looking worse than I thought I did this morning, with added 'wtf?' expression for good measure. Both sets of pictures are clearly taken outside my flat—one in the dark, and one in the morning by the same gate.
Fuck.
