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Dylan stares up at me. “In July.”
I swallow. “Dylan... We need to move on. The date will be hard when it comes but don’t focus on this.”
“I know. I had. Or tried to. But this is a punch in the guts, right? Ruby’s due the same time as our baby was.”
“Don’t be shitty about this with him.” I can’t go here; do this. Not again. Not now. I fight a smile and struggle with the growing emotions waiting to curl around my heart. I push them firmly away. “Jem, a dad? No way.”
Dylan watches me warily. “I know, right?”
“I can see why it was a shock. I can’t picture it, to be honest. Those two with a baby...” I bite my lip. “Sorry, judgemental of me.”
Dylan’s mouth tips into a wry smile. “Yeah. Reckon he won’t know which way up to hold it.”
I snort. “I bet baby’s first word will be ‘fuck’.”
Dylan laughs and kicks me under the table. “Sky!”
“What?”
“You’re hilariously inappropriate sometimes.” His smile is weak, eyes hiding the truth. This is hard. Dylan slouches back into his seat again. “I knew I should’ve spoken to you straightaway.”
“Yes. You should. Holding things inside is bad, you know that.”
“I can’t help how it made me feel, Sky.”
“It hurts my heart too,” I whisper, “but we can’t change the past.” I take a long drink. “Besides, Ruby’s skinny. I think I’d notice fairly soon.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
We hold hands across the table and hold onto our defence against the past sneaking in to spoil things again.
“Jem’s mini-me lost his shit when Ruby told us,” says Dylan.
“Jax?”
“Yeah. I kinda understand why. The baby’s not a great move for the band.”
I laugh. “You know what? Rock stars are worse than a bunch of schoolgirls. Always misunderstandings, bitching, and full on flouncing.”
“I do not flounce!”
“No, maybe not now, but I bet you were a Jax once-over.”
Dylan’s grip on my hand tightens. “I love you. How do you do that?”
“What? Make you love me?”
“No, make me forget shit. Bring me down to earth.”
I lean across the table and touch his lips. “I’m a ‘rock star whisperer.’”
“You’re fucking awesome.” The table shifts as Dylan stands and reaches across the table to grab my face. Before I get a chance to respond, he overwhelms me with the kind of kiss Dylan is a master of. Passionate and loving, with the right amount of toe curling.
In front of a very decorous, designer-dressed fellow clientele partaking in a refined evening out.
A glass clinks and something wet seeps against where I’m steadying myself on the table.
“You spilled my wine.” I wipe at the mess, dark red staining my napkin. “Crap.”
