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3
SKY
“Home sweet home,”says Dylan as he manoeuvres the car through the gates of his country property.
Outside the black Audi’s window, Dylan’s huge country home sits against a backdrop of grey clouds as we’re welcomed by the wind and rain. The Berkshire house is my most recent home too, but after living in a box-like semi-detached house for most of my life, the vastness of the property freaks me out. Dylan’s amused because when I moved in I confined us to several rooms at one wing of the huge building and tried to add some colour to Dylan’s stark black and white decor.
I now have three homes, which is hard to comprehend, and I have to admit I like Dylan’s LA place best. The villa overlooking the ocean has the same seclusion as here but without the bad weather. This thought is reinforced as I step out of the car and cold blasts my face.
“I told you we should’ve headed to LA instead,” Dylan calls after me as I run to the door. The house is lit, and I silently thank Jan, Dylan’s housekeeper, when I step into the warmth of the already heated rooms.
“I want to be in England for a while. I haven’t seen Tara for months,” I reply as Dylan closes the door.
“Back to normality?”
“Ha. And what would you call my normality?” I shake rain from myself and follow Dylan into the expansive farmhouse-style kitchen.
“Good point.” He opens the silver fridge. “I’m bloody starving. I hope Jan stocked up before she left.” He pulls out a plastic container of food and peers inside. “You want something to eat?”
And just like that, we slip into the life we led before our travels; an ordinary couple arriving home from a trip and slotting straight back into domesticity. Dylan opens the microwave. “How do I work this one again?”
Well, as domestic as Dylan can be, anyway.
With a laugh, I place the container of pasta inside the microwave and hit a few buttons. “There you go, Mr Rock God. I’m too tired to eat right now.” I tiptoe and place my lips on Dylan’s, and he encompasses me in his arms. His heart beats steadily against my cheek, and I surge with love for him. If I’d spent months away with anybody else, I think I’d hate the sight of them by now. Not Dylan; I can’t ever imagine that happening.
Upstairs, I gratefully sink onto the king-sized bed and crawl beneath the sheets. I doze, waking when Dylan climbs into bed next to me. He buries his face into my neck, and we spoon together.
“Bet you decide you want to go to LA by the end of the week,” he whispers as the rain pounds the window.
“You might be right.”
“Ha. See, I am sometimes.”
I pout. “Shush, I’m asleep.” Dylan huffs and I take his arms and wrap them tighter around me. The last few months have been amazing, but this is where I want to be, in Dylan’s arms and in my own bed.
* * *
When I wakethe next morning, there’s no Dylan beneath the crumpled sheets.
My head is woozy as I head into the marbled bathroom, and I sit on the edge of the bath fighting the nausea. Bath. Good idea. I run the water and throw in some bath gel before sitting on the edge, in my robe, fighting down the sickness. And fail.
Perspiration beads across my head as I kneel on the tiled floor, vomiting into the toilet. This situation is becoming too familiar. After weeks of food disagreeing with me, now I’m home I can return to a normal diet and my stomach can recover.
Stupidly, I left the bathroom door open, which is always Dylan’s invitation to walk in.
“Sky?” Dylan steps inside. “I thought I heard...” Shock crosses his face as he looks down at me. “Sky, you need to see a doctor, you’ve been sick for a few days—again.”
Embarrassed I’m found in this position, I shuffle back against the edge of the bath. “I’m okay.”
Dylan sits beside me and takes my hand in his warm one. “What if it’s more than gastro? This is the third time since we went away. Seriously, get checked out, Sky. I worry about you.”
“I know you do,” I say and rest my head against his broad shoulder, the soothing sound of the water splashing into the bath behind. “I’m fine.”
Dylan pushes hair from my face and places his hands on my cheeks, concerned eyes studying mine. “This isn’t normal. Four months and every time you feel better the sickness comes back. You don’t look well. Promise me you’ll see a doctor if you’re no better in a couple of days.”
“Okay.” The rose fragrance from the bath gel fills the room, calming my senses. “I promise. Now stop fussing and leave me to have my bath.”
“Not up to sharing?” he asks with a pout, then smiles at my frown.
