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He hesitates. I know Dylan hates this, everybody wanting a piece of him, but he needs to accept this will always happen. Jimwatches warily, standing between us and the journalists.
“You want me to talk to them?” Dylan asksin surprise.
“Go on, I know the attention-loving Dylan is still in there somewhere.” I smile at him. “They seem like nice kids.”
When Dylan approaches the girls, I move so I’m obscured by Jim, but the cameras switch to Dylan. He chats to the teens and signs their posters and clothes. I smile to myself as the pink-faced girls take turns to snap selfies with a tired-looking Dylan, the consummate professional.
The spaced out sensation of jet lag and sickness morphs further into the surreal as I watch. I’m with a man who women and girls love, and who is discussed endlessly and is lusted over by women the world over. The Dylan who gave himself to me is a new person who’s a world away from the persona acrossfrom me now. The selfish star who crashed into my car, and was clueless about women, figured me out and gave more of himself than anybody ever has before.
Dylan moves away with a small wave to the girls, and I’m relieved they were respectful enough not to touch him. I remember my early battles not to put my hands (and mouth) on Dylan even when I didn’t know who he was. Even now I’m distracted by how his jeans hug the backside Iimagine digging my fingers into. Bad Sky.
“Okay?” he asks again.
“All good.” I tiptoe, reaching his mouth for a kiss.
As we head away to the exit and the unwelcoming English rain, I catch the eye of the girl with the short brown hair, her Blue Phoenix T-shirt now signed. She smiles with a genuine warmth I’ve never seen from a fan of Dylan’s. Usually I get death stares and dark mutterings about “somebody like me” taking Dylan “off the market.”
“Thanks, Sky. You rock,” she calls.
I smile back, shaking my head slightly at her turn of phrase. Dylan wraps his arm around my shoulders pulling me. “Yeah, Sky, you rock.”
