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“Sorry.” I clear my throat. “Hi, Dylan.”
“Are you okay to talk? You’re not busy?” His voice. The American tone is back, with a tinge of tired sadness.
“Cleaning the kitchen.”
“Okay.” I hear the amusement and can’t help smiling.
In my mind, I envisage the Dylan, who left for Belgium, the last time I saw him, but I’ve seen in pictures that he looks different from my memories.
Awkward silence. Please can we not do awkward silences, but what else do we have?
“Thanks for calling,” I say
“Sorry I took so long.”
“It was only half an hour.”
“I mean four months so long,” he says quietly.
“I didn’t expect you to call me after you left. You made your decision. That’s fine.”
“No. I didn’t want to upset you.”
Attempting to wriggle my fingers out of the yellow glove, I shake one across the kitchen. This is as bad as the emails. Until we see each other face to face, this skirting around and small talk won’t change.
“Where do we meet, Dylan?”
There’s rustling as Dylan moves something. “Wherever you want.”
“But not too public.”
“Yeah, probably a good idea.” He pauses. “I understand if you don’t want to be alone with me.”
I screw my eyes closed, the hint at the topic of rape reminding me this isn’t a long-lost lovers’ chat.
“Maybe if Myf is around?” he asks. “You could come here?”
“London?”
“Oh. Sorry, yeah, that’s a long way but thought you’d prefer that to me coming there.”
“No. I mean, yes. Okay. I guess.” What the hell? Does the Dylan Effect linger after four months and operate over telephones? London and back in one day is a bit much.
“How’s your car?” he asks.
“Failed the MOT. It currently lives on the road outside my flat because I can’t drive anywhere.”
“Ah.” There’s that hint of amusement in his voice again, as if he’s having the same memory as me—our cars colliding. “I can get someone to drive over and collect you then?”
I don’t want to be picked up and deposited in his world. I need this on my terms. “Come here. I want to talk to you here.”
The length of the next pause leaves me with the impression he’s hung up. “Dylan?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m not scared of you, Dylan. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be agreeing to meet.” Another pause. “This is annoying the hell out of me doing this on the phone. Can you just tell me if you want to come over and when?”
He laughs softly at my terse tone. “Sure thing, summer Sky. I’ll call back soon.”
I think he waits for me to respond, but the new onslaught of tears from his calling me summer Sky strangles my power of speech.
“Bye,” I rasp and end the call.
