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Dylan’s look shifts to the table and he picks at the expensive napkin on his lap. “He fell apart before but came back. Fans had sympathy for him because of the ruined rock star sorting his shit out to return to his role. If I decided to up and leave, that would be selfish as far as they’re concerned.”
“You’re not coping either, only they can’t see you’re on self-destruct.”
Dylan’s hand grips his glass and he doesn’t look at me. “I’m not that bad.”
“You’re worse.”
He drains his glass. “Let’s just enjoy the date and forget about the shit around us.”
“When are you going to tell Steve?” I ask.
My champagne has miraculously emptied again and Dylan tops my glass up. “I’m not.”
“Dylan, you can’t just run again.”
“Why not?”
“Because things are worse when you don’t face up to them. Be straight with him.”
The uncertainty in his posture following the mention of Jem intensifies, shoulders drooping. There’s the answer.
“Dylan, why do you let Steve make you like this?”
“Dunno. Habit maybe. Plus, he dragged me out of the shit I buried myself in a few times. I owe him.”
“You owe him? Why? I bet he has a nice bank balance from his life with Blue Phoenix.”
“Not that kind of owe.”
“Lily?” He winces. “I know that, but don’t feel obliged to people who aren’t good for you.”
“Which is why I can finally breathe when I’m around my beautiful summer Sky.”
Ah, a Dylan subject change. “The song you sent?”
“About you? Obviously. Every word.”
My heart squeezes at the thought someone would do this, someone struggling with his life and music, pouring part of his creativity into something about me.
“Are you going to cry?” He hastily puts down his fork and encloses his large hand over mine. “I don’t have to record the song and release it if you don’t want me to.”
I laugh. “No, I’m not upset with you! I’m touched.”
He relaxes back into his chair. “Oh. I thought you were about to get pissed off with me for dragging you into the spotlight again.”
“I think I’m going to have to accept that as part of you. Now I just have to figure out how to cope.”
The talk for the rest of the meal—if you could call the food scraps a meal, and not a light snack—returns to banter and away from serious life topics. We’re finishing our wine when a commotion begins at the front of the restaurant. I peer through the aquarium and the colourful fish; a distorted view of cameras flashing outside, fill the street with strobe-like lighting. Dylan grabs my hand.
“This is what I’m waiting for, come on!”
Dazed by the change in pace, I grab my bag as he pulls me toward the door. The photographers who have permanent residence outside have cameras trained on a limo a few metres up the street. We duck out of the door, unnoticed amongst their clamour to get photos of Kelly and Tate. The busy street is filled with people and Dylan keeps a firm grip on my hand, half-pulling me along.
“I can’t run in heels!” I say, slowing so I don’t twist my ankle.
He pauses. “Piggy back?”
“In this?” I gesture at the tight, short dress.
