AllFreeNovel
Share Us
8
Sky
Three daysafter our meeting and Dylan is still firmly stuck in my head. The events he described have buzzed around, as I fluctuate between being disgusted with him and relieved he isn’t a rapist. Anger edges in too, that he made the decision to walk away for so long before telling me. The Dylan I met in Broadbeach was running away, and he ran again when he had to face this. The fact he came back and spoke to me speaks more to me than the words.
I need to see him again; the half hour visit isn’t enough after months of silence. His hesitance once he finished his explanation and my stunned reaction didn’t end the meeting the way I hoped. How did I hope? I’m unsure exactly, despite the fantasist inside wanting us in each other’s arms, everything solved. There wasn’t any resolution to either the situation or our relationship. Did he just want to explain? Or did he want to see me? The lost Dylan eyes held something I recognised from the summer when he looked at me, something I didn’t want to see. I saw how much I ache for him reflected back in his own gaze.
When did he write the song? Why did he let me hear the words? Hearing Dylan sing words he wrote about me twisted more pain through my heart. Is he telling me he feels the same as when he wrote the song in the summer?
My phone rings in the night, invading my dreams and when I wake up it stops. Gritting my teeth, I drift off. The phone rings again and I don’t answer. On the third ring, I check the time and guess who’s calling. What is it about Dylan that makes him call or visit me at ungodly hours?
“Dylan,” I mumble as I answer.
“I know, shouldn’t wake you but I wanted to hear your voice and listening to your voicemail repeatedly wasn’t enough.” His voice is low, slurred but wherever he’s calling from is quiet.
“Are you drunk?” I ask.
“No.”
Right, sure.
“Why are you calling me?”
“You didn’t call me,” he says simply.
Unsure how to respond to this, I don’t.
“Did you open the gift?” he asks.
Instantly, a lump catches in my throat and I can barely answer. “Yes.”
“Did you like the song?”
“It’s a very beautiful song,” I say quietly.
“You don’t like the song?” He sounds disappointed, like a boy whose parent has rejected a painted masterpiece he brought home from school.
“You hurt my heart with the words, Dylan.”
The call falls silent and I wish I could see his face. “Yeah, sorry, but you had to hear.”
“Thank you for sharing.” The late hour and the touching on the raw emotion from the song aren’t helping me keep control.
“Have you thought anymore about our conversation?” he asks quietly.
“A lot. I believe you, but there are gaps, Dylan. Some of what you told me doesn’t make sense “
"Will you let me take you on the date we never had and I can explain anything you need me to?"
I rub my eyes, amazed at how easily he slips back into his insistent behaviour. "It's late Dylan; can we talk about this later?"
"So no?"
"I was sleeping, you woke me up. I’m not in a good mood.”
"Sorry, I forgot how late it was when I called. Can I call you tomorrow?"
I can’t help myself, and whisper, “It’s always tomorrow with you.”
“Always, until you’re my today.”
When Dylan ends the call, I lie in bed, listening to my heart whooshing blood through my ears. I try desperately to ignore the surge of hope and desire. Can the real Dylan please be the man I fell in love with—the one I just spoke to?
