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I sigh and shake my head, comfortable with this Dylan who never changes. The one I’m never sure is serious when he says these things.
Even Dylan admits the beach is a bad idea once we reach the shore and the icy wind blasts his face. The seaside town is forlorn, the shops and attractions would be filled in summer but several days before Christmas on a clouding winter’s day, the place is a ghost town. This is why he chose to come here. I hunch into my thick coat, burrowing my nose into the top as the sun retreats and the temperature drops. Dylan replaces his beanie with the same baseball cap as he wore in Sandchurch.
We choose a cafe on the very edge of the empty tourist area, a tiny place with orange booth seats and melamine tables. Shopping pulls most people’s attentions several days before Christmas, and we’re the only customers. The grey-haired man behind the counter smiles broadly, as we enter the warm cafe, and I suspect we’re also his only customers so far today.
I order while Dylan shuffles into the booth, and I gaze at the chalkboard menu, attempting to quell the sick excitement of Dylan’s presence, which spoiled the fish and chips last time. The stocky man attempts to chat about Christmas as he fills and passes polystyrene containers piled with the greasy food.
I head back to Dylan with the meal and cans of Coke, then slide into the booth seat opposite.
Dylan pulls his container toward him, and I pass the wooden fork. “Remembered the forks this time?” he says.
I don’t reply, knowing his ulterior motive is to connect us back to the night of our first kiss.
“Sorry, the date isn’t very rock star,” he says, pushing a chip into his mouth.
I blow on the hot food. “I’m not a rock star kind of girl.”
“Yeah.”
The narrow table has little room for his long legs beneath and our knees touch. I don’t move mine this time, and the butterflies return. Why are our dates always teenage? I study him when he’s focused on his food. Dylan’s eyes match the dullness in his skin, and he’s sporting more than a couple of day’s growth of stubble. He’s closer to the defeated Dylan I first met.
“How’s the tour going?” I ask.
“Long.” He bites down on a chip.
“When do you go back?”
“Never,” he mutters, still staring at his meal. “End of January.”
“Which?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” Dylan cracks open the can and gulps the Coke.
Conversation closed down, I grasp for a new topic. “Are you spending Christmas at your little house in the country?”
“No way, the guys are there. I want to be on my own; I’m staying in London.” He pauses. “What are you doing for Christmas?”
“Nothing much.” I almost tell Dylan this is my first Christmas alone ever, but I don’t want to give so much away.
He nods, and I kick myself at the awkwardness of the conversation with the man I was comfortable with a few months ago. So many new questions have circled my mind since we last met, and I use this as an excuse to myself for meeting him again.
Propping my elbows on the table, I lace my hands together, setting them under my chin. “Did she contact you, too?”
“If you mean Lily, no.” He pokes around at his food, not looking at me.
“I need to talk to you about this, if we… ”
“If we what?”
“If we want to start again.”
Dylan stops, fork hovering over his chips as his wider eyes meet mine. His scrutiny unnerves me, because I’m unsure what he’s thinking.
“Start again?” he asks quietly.
Away from Dylan, convincing myself he was a monster, for four months I extricated my heart from him. Because I hadn’t wanted to give him myself anyway, it was easier to turn away. I underestimated my ability to push out the Dylan who’d landed in my soul though.
“We’d need to start from the beginning,” I say. “This has wiped everything away.”
