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"Fair enough, but youdidshare pizza with me. Anyway, I haven't formed any opinion of you."
"Liar."
Dylan tips his head. "You're not transparent enough. I can't see through you—you're more a mirror than a window."
The wine fuzzes my head, lulling me into a possibly false sense of security. So, I find and open another bottle. God, I love the glug sound, even if drinking alone makes me feel a little judged. Who cares? I'd open another anyway if he weren’t here.
Dylan watches me walk over, elbows on the table, chin in his hands. He can't be a serial killer. Surely, serial killers aren't six-feet of searing hotness, are they?
"How about if you agree to stay and chat with me for a few hours, I'll leave and you can have the place for the next couple of weeks."
"But you paid to stay here."
He shrugs, curling his fingers around the can. Well, who am I to argue? My options are limited and I don't want to go back to Bristol.
"Okay. But I'm not talking about anything to do with my normal life."
"Oh, that’s such a good idea." Why do his eyes darken when I mention reality? "Ask me something. Anything."
"Um. What's your favourite colour?"
He splutters. "You can do better than that. Black. If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?"
"Here. I stayed every year as a kid, so I see this house as my happy place. Where would you go?"
"Here."
"I don't believe you."
Dylan frowns. "I've travelled and seen hundreds of places, but I always came here too, when I was a kid."
"Oh?"
"My summer childhood too, Sky. We rented this place."
He stands and wanders to the tall bookshelf in the corner, that’s stacked with books I doubt anyone has read for years. He pulls one forward and drags it out. "I left this here one year."
Dylan places the book on the table; a book about animals and the seaside. He opens to the first page. "See."
Dylan Morgan, written in childish scrawl.
"Huh." That’snotwhat I expected.
"Funny, how we're both attracted to the place from our childhood when we needed to get away from life."
The guy standing in front of me has a strange vulnerability, and for a moment I imagine him as a ten-year-old boy fishing in rock pools and collecting shells on the beach. Carefree.
This is not what I expected—from today, from him, or from fate. He's a mirror too, because when I think about his ten-year-old self, I picture mine. Dylan must be who he says or has concocted a lie worthy of MI5, which would be extreme to commit a crime against a broken-hearted girl from Bristol.
"Did you go to Mrs Hughes for ice creams?" I ask.
He sits back down. "Yes—and she home-made ice lollies in cups that melted down your arm before you finished."
"Yes! And she had a dog—I think she might still have it—"
"Has one eye. Buster."
We grin in unison. Suddenly, we don't seem as far apart as we once did.
