by Lisa Swallow
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 across from 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 I imagine 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.”
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 gone 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?”
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 wake the 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, this has been going on 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? 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’ve had this on and off the whole time we’ve been away. 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.
“Sure, I might vomit on you though,” I reply, my sarcasm slipping in.
“Just kidding. Jan’s arrived, and she says she’s making you some chicken soup.”
“That’s sweet of her.” Two people fussing, great…
“You know what?” says Dylan, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
“What?”
“Maybe you’re pregnant?”
I smile. “We’ve had this conversation every month, haven’t we? Dodgy food, not a baby. Plus I’m on the Pill and after four months I think I might notice.”
“But still… What if you are?”
In Dylan’s face is a strange mix of hope and love. He hinted how he wants children shortly after we became engaged, and of course we will, but the speed Dylan operates at is breathtaking. The man who fell in love in three days, who’s lived a fast and furious lifestyle, never plans. To Dylan, life happens and preferably when and how he wants.
I curl my fingers around his and squeeze, unsure what to say. “Next year’s plan, remember?”
He laughs. “On ‘the list.’”
“I like lists!” I nudge him in the ribs with an elbow.
“Hmm.” Dylan stands and leans across to turn the bath taps off. “Are you feeling okay now? Not going to be sick again?”
“I’ll feel better after a bath. Shoo!”
Leaving a last kiss on my forehead, Dylan heads away and switches to singing to himself as he bangs around the bedroom, unpacking.
As I sink into the bubble-filled bath, Dylan’s words join me. This sickness feels different to the last. Could I be pregnant?
“What’s the date?” I call.
Dylan pokes his head around the corner. “Tenth October. We’re in Germany on the twelfth, remember?”
“Germany?”
“The Awards thing.”
“Oh. That.” Crowds. Cameras. Ugh. I pull a face and sink under. The warm water swirls hair around my face and blocks out the world. October already? I lost track of time; days mer
ging into one as we travelled from place to place. I run through dates in my head and my queasy stomach lurches.
The water splashes as I pull my head back from under, pulse hiking. I hold a hand over my stomach.
Dylan could be right.
4
TWO DAYS LATER
SKY
Dylan’s voice carries up the stairs as he yells at somebody on the phone.
I hesitate outside our bedroom, debating whether to talk to him now or leave this conversation until later. We’re both stressed by our first official public appearance in months, but I never expected Dylan to be as tense as he is. His occasional angry explosions at anybody in his management or PR are a part of him I haven’t missed while we’ve been away.
The call ends and Dylan stomps upstairs. I open my mouth to speak, but he walks past into the room.
“Everything okay?” I ask. He mutters something under his breath and shoves clothes into our suitcase. “Oh. Haven’t you packed yet?”
He stops, T-shirt in hand, blue eyes dark. “I’ve spent the best part of the last day trying to get us out of this trip to Germany. So, no, I haven’t,” he snaps.
“Whoa. Calm down.” I touch his bare arm. “This is just one evening, Dylan. We arrive this afternoon, and we can fly back tomorrow.”
“Whose side are you on?” I drop my hand in surprise at his tone. “They still think they can tell me what to do even when I’m supposed to be on sabbatical. It’s bullshit, Sky.”
“Don’t take your pissy mood out on me!”
“I don’t want to go to Germany.”
“Jesus, Dylan. Don’t be such a big kid. The rest of the band will be there. It would look bad if you weren’t. I don’t want to go either, but I think we need to.”
“Fine!” He slams closed the suitcase and half kicks it across the floor.
What the hell is wrong with him?
“Dylan…?”
Stony faced, he drags a hand through his hair. “I told Tina I’m out of there the minute everything’s over. I’m not hanging around for photos and celebrity bullshit.”
“That’s okay, then. Everything is fine. Don’t stress.” I switch to a gentler voice in an attempt to diffuse the situation, but Dylan’s lost in his own frustration. Whatever platitudes I offer now won’t work.
But, right now, I need my Dylan, the man who can hold me and soothe my fears, not the uptight star I thought he’d left behind. For the first time in months, he’s the guy who rear-ended my car, the one who fell apart on tour earlier this year. This tall, tattooed guy is Dylan Morgan from Blue Phoenix acting out, and not who I need right now.
“You know what? I’m over this already! Two days back in the UK, and I already have Steve in my ear about organising dates for the tour next year, and PR trying to push me into crap I don’t want to be involved in.”
I sit on the bed and watch him warily. Definitely no rationality coming from this man anytime soon.
“People still think the band have split, Sky, and apparently it’s my fault! How? Just because I left the country when we cut the tour short. Why blame me? Jem’s the one who went into fucking rehab!” He pauses. “You know what? We should just leave again. Anymore stress today, and I’m gonna lose my shit!”
Going to? My hands tremble as I bite back my words, at the conversation I want with him. He’s shut down any possibility of the words coming from my mouth. “Dylan. Take a walk or something. We don’t need to leave for a couple of hours. You’ll feel better.”
“Yeah. Good idea.” He plants a hard kiss on my forehead and walks away.
I rub my head as the Dylan whirlwind disappears out of the room, his footsteps crashing down the stairs. My heart thumps. How can I talk to him about this now? When he’s in this mood, Dylan is hard to rationalise with. He’s unpredictable, and we always end up in a fight. I don’t put up with Dylan’s attitude if he throws it in my direction.
Wiping a hand down my face, I head back into the bathroom and pick up the white plastic stick. The second blue line hasn’t disappeared in the few minutes since I walked out.
Pregnant.
Nausea and panic rise again. This could cause an argument. A big one. Not because I’m pregnant, but because I’ve taken the test alone, unable to hold off any longer after two days obsessing. Why didn’t I say something to Dylan when I suspected?
I am going to regret the decision.
I slept in this morning, and Dylan was already downstairs so I took the pregnancy test, telling myself it’s better if I know for sure before I share with him. As soon as the second blue line appeared, the shock hit at the realisation my world was about to change yet again. I wanted Dylan’s reassurance and love, to share the news and voice my fears. Instead, I was confronted by him in full-blown self-centred mode, a man who wouldn’t be able to understand my feelings.
I don’t want Dylan angry with me. I wasn’t trying to hide from him. I wanted to be sure before I confronted the reality of what this means.
A baby. Our baby.
I swallow. If I walk downstairs now and blurt this out what would Dylan’s reaction be? Whenever I choose to tell Dylan, I’ll upset him. He’ll be angry or hurt, or both. I make some dumb decisions around our relationship still.
A door slams and I walk over to the window, positive pregnancy test still in my hand. Dylan’s tall figure strides across the lawn, beneath the grey sky, heading towards the studio he hides out in. This extreme reaction to our return to his old life, and in such a short space of time, worries me. Dylan worries me.
I chew my lip. A tiny part of me is concerned Dylan will freak out and not want another person in our relationship yet. The realistic part of me knows I have no reason to be anxious: he’s a guy who loves and wants to marry me, who I love and adore with every ounce of myself too. Dylan would move the world to keep me safe and happy. So why am I putting off sharing the news with him?
5
Berlin, Germany
DYLAN
I’m worried about Sky.
I know she hates star-studded and fake nights like this, where we’re forced to put on a show for the world, but she’s quieter than usual. I mean, she refused wine, which is her usual way of getting through stressful situations so she must feel bloody awful.
I apologised for my behaviour this morning, but I can’t lose the guilt when it’s clear how much I upset her. Sky’s quieter than usual, and I swear I saw her hiding tears earlier. Way to go, Dylan, you jerk.
I’m pissed off with myself. I try not to let things get to me, but the constant phone calls and hassle over band-related shit since we arrived back in England dragged me backwards. The panic, that I can’t cope if I’m pulled back into the Blue Phoenix world before I’m ready, spilled out and Sky received the brunt.
Tonight’s fun and games was Blue Phoenix’s first time together as a whole band for a long time which is weird, especially since we all had girls with us. I haven’t seen Jem for a few months, and I’m relieved to see him looking well after rehab, though I’m not sure if tangling with somebody like Ruby is good for him. What if she breaks his heart and sends him sliding backwards? Because it looks to me like she’s captured it. The last time Jem looked at someone the way he looks at her was years ago. If ever.
“Who’s the girl Bryn was with?” asks Sky, sinking onto the plush sofa in our suite.
I pull off my suit jacket and throw it on the nearby armchair. Usually this would prompt Sky to help me out of the rest of my suit. I’m not a fan of wearing them, but I am a fan of Sky’s reaction, especially if she has a few drinks inside her. This time, however, she just looks at me with a tired expression.
“Mia? I think she’s the daughter of someone we knew years ago, but I’m not a hundred percent sure. If she is, it would be pretty damn weird for Bryn to be fu—” I catch Sky’s look and correct myself. “Dating her.”
“Hmm. She doesn’t look Bryn’s type. She’s a bit young too.” Sky rubs her eyes.
“Sky, what’s wr
ong?” Her pale features and silence through the Awards and lack of Sky sarcasm about the other guests is at odds with the girl I know and love. “You really do need to see a doctor, don’t you?”
“I will. As soon as we’re back in England.”
“See? I told you we should’ve told everybody to piss off and stayed home. This trip has made you worse.”
Sky’s eyes well with tears and my panic spikes. It’s a long time since Sky cried in front of me. Following the months of hell we were apart, and the mess up I made of things with the stupid overdose, I’ve attempted to fill her life with happiness. Sure, we fight like any normal couple, and either she wins or I sulk, but we’re never nasty.
“Sky.” I sit and curl my fingers around hers. “Please tell me what’s wrong. Are you feeling worse than you were?”
“Pass my bag.” She indicates the small black bag resting on the top of her suitcase. Hastily, I hand it to her.
She pushes the bag back to me. “In there. I need to show you something.”
Confused, I unzip the bag. Amongst the small items is a plastic stick, which Sky pulls out and hands to me. I stare not sure what this is, but I have a pretty good idea.
“Is this a pregnancy test?” I ask.
“Yes. Sorry.”
Sorry? I flip the item over. Blue lines. “No. Tell me. I’m confused. I don’t know how to read them. Is this positive?” I study the plastic, feeling dumb at my words. I stare harder, imprinting the two lines on my mind, as the world outside the room suddenly doesn’t exist anymore.
Sky doesn’t respond. She doesn’t need to. “You’re pregnant?”
She nods.
I blink and shake my head in case I misunderstood. “Yes?”
“Yes.”
“Holy shit!” Sky’s eyes widen at my loud voice. “I mean, fuck… shit, you know what I mean. Wow!” I seize Sky’s head and kiss her mouth. She stiffens and I pull my head back, searching her eyes. “This is awesome! Right?” I’m pretty sure I’m grinning like an idiot, and I wait for her smile in return.
Sky doesn’t reply. Or smile. She wraps her arms around me, burying her face into my chest, her body shaking. Uh. I wrap my arms around Sky, still holding the plastic stick, and she grips my waist.
