by Lisa Swallow
We hover on the edge of an argument, avoiding the name causing this. “Are you feeling better?”
“Nice subject change. I’m fine, Dylan. Stomach pains have stopped. Don’t fuss.”
“I worry about you both.”
Both. “We’re fine.”
After the call finishes, I stare out at the rain-soaked world, glowing with the love Dylan pours into me, even when we’re apart. Dylan could’ve ended up like Jem, and I’m thankful he hasn’t and he’s mine.
I wake in the night, disturbed by the wind outside. I’m not sleeping well recently and wish I had Dylan to cuddle up to, to stroke my hair, and soothe me. My nights are filled with strange dreams, a side effect of pregnancy because I never dreamed much before. Tonight I woke, heart pounding, an image of Dylan dead in a hotel room dredged up from my subconscious. He doesn’t realise how badly his accidental overdose affected me, but I don’t tell him. Dylan carries too much guilt around, buried beneath his bright persona, and I refuse to add to this. For a few minutes, I lie and listen to the distant storm until I’m forced to take a trip through the cold night into the bathroom.
The world lurches and the direction of my life switches again, fear washing over me as I discover I’m bleeding. Nausea rises as I will this to be a dream, telling myself not to panic. Some women spot blood when they’re pregnant, it’s normal. Nothing to worry about. I take shaky breaths until the weakness leaves my legs, and I can leave the bathroom. Nothing to worry about, I repeat in my mind. This isn’t unusual. I read somewhere, I’m sure.
But as I lie in bed with my hands on my stomach, the dream of Dylan immobile in a hotel room grips me. Was dreaming of death a sign? My heart refuses to accept the possibility I could lose our baby, and I tell myself again: this is a natural conclusion for my anxious mind to jump to.
Tomorrow I’ll call the doctor and ask him to check me over. Tomorrow I’ll still be pregnant.
9
SKY
The stomach cramps continue, and the bleeding hasn’t stopped early the next morning. I will time to slow down until I can catch up to the situation, until Dylan comes home. I’m okay. Nothing’s happening. Should I call the doctor? Would I seem like I’m overreacting? My refusal to accept anything’s happening stops me making the call. Instead, I attempt to phone Dylan, but he doesn’t answer, and I leave a bright message asking him to call.
I stay in bed, scared to move, as if that’ll make a difference. The storm has passed, but the dark winter remains. The emptiness of our house when I’m the only person here never bothers me, but today I’m acutely aware I’m alone. Books are my comfort, and I prop myself up on the pillows and read as I wait.
Less than ten minutes after I leave Dylan a message, he calls and speaks before I have a chance to. “You okay? Sorry, I was asleep when you called.”
“Fine. How’s Jem?” I ask, unsure what I should say or how soon.
“Yeah. We had a good talk last night. It’s kinda nice we’re on our way back to normal together.”
“That’s great.” I attempt to force a light tone but it won’t come.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Missing you.” The words are hoarse. Dylan’s miles away from me, but he can read me as easily as if I’m in the same room; he always has done.
“Sky?” Dylan’s tone switches to concern. “What happened? Lily? I knew I shouldn’t leave you alone.”
“No, not her. I don’t know. I… I don’t feel too good, Dylan.” I can’t say the words, can’t tell him over the phone.
“You sick again?”
I suck in a breath and hold back the tears. “Are you coming home today?”
“I thought about staying an extra day because you’re heading to Tara’s, but if you need me to, I’ll come back. You’re more important than Jem, you know that.”
Tara’s. Yes. This morning. I’d better pack. “Right.”
“Sky?”
“I love you, Dylan.”
The silence between us stretches as far as the distance, and my attempt to hold back the building emotion is knocked by the sudden cramps; an unsubtle reminder of what I can’t put off any longer.
“Something’s wrong. Tell me.” I bite hard on the inside of my cheek. “Sky? You’re worrying me. I’m coming back whether you tell me what’s wrong or not.”
“I’m bleeding, Dylan,” I whisper.
“What do you mean?”
“The baby. I don’t know, maybe it’s normal but—” I’m choked by the words, by not being able to look into Dylan’s face when I say this. My denial is no match for what I instinctively know is happening. The tears spill, but I suppress the sound, as if that would make any difference.
Dylan’s silence doesn’t help, and for a couple of minutes, I’m further from him than I have been in weeks. He may as well be in the States, not London, and I want him with me more than I ever have in my life.
“Call the doctor.” Dylan’s voice is flat, emotion hidden. “Now, Sky. No. Wait. I’ll call him. I’ll be an hour and a half. Two hours. Should you lie down? Will it stop?”
I grip the phone and zone out as he speaks. All I want in this moment is the comfort of his embrace and for him to hold me and tell me everything is okay. Dylan takes control of the situation and I quietly agree to every word.
Then I curl up in bed and wait for him.
DYLAN
Sky sits on the sofa of our London apartment, her pale-faced figure small against the large blue cushions. We haven’t spoken since we left the doctors. I’ve tried but Sky won’t say a word.
When the doctor couldn’t find a heartbeat, Sky didn’t react.
When we were gently told Sky is miscarrying and explained the options, she stared out of the window.
When I held her hand, kissed her face, and told Sky we’d be okay, she said nothing.
I focus on pouring glasses of water, attempting to summon enough strength for us both. My chest hurts, as if something is scratching from the inside trying to get out, and the pain dizzies me. I want to comfort Sky, but I need hers too.
This isn’t happening.
Sky continues to stare across the room and doesn’t take the glass I offer. I place it on the low table instead and sit next to her. She doesn’t react to my touch when I take her hand, but Sky’s eyes well with tears again. I want them to spill, for her to let go, almost as much as I don’t want her to cry.
“This is my fault,” she says, her voice a whisper.
“No, you heard the doctor. She said nothing you did or didn’t do caused this.”
“I’m being punished because of how I reacted, because I said I didn’t want the baby yet. So now she’s gone.”
I grip her hand. She. “No, Sky. Don’t beat yourself up about this.”
“I jinxed us. I didn’t deserve a baby.”
“No.” I stroke her cheek with the back of my hand. “Stop this. You were in shock, we both were, and we just reacted differently. After a couple of days you were fine, I don’t believe that’s what you thought.”
The anguish in Sky’s eyes when she looks at me tightens my chest further. “I did want this baby. I really did, Dylan.”
“I know.” I wrap my arms around her. “I know.”
Sky lets go of her composure, of the brave face she can never cover herself with around me. For the first time today, Sky gives herself over to her pain. She buries her face in my shoulder and curls into a ball on my knee, sobbing into my chest. I’m torn apart with my own grief and fight to stay strong enough to help Sky through hers.
And I don’t know if I am.
SKY
However honest and open we are, there are some things in life Dylan and I will cope differently with. The loss of our baby is one of those things. The grief hits us both hard, and I carry around a lot of guilt. Dylan’s heartbreak was hard to cope with on top of my own. At night when Dylan holds me, we try to talk, as if in the darkness, we can let the pain go. I know he meant well, but when he mention
s trying for another baby once we’re married I break down again and accuse him of not caring. From then on, the subject is avoided.
With two weeks to go, we switch focus and push ahead with the wedding plans. Dylan’s right, we need to concentrate on the future, however hard it is to let go of the recent past. I try, and then something small happens, and the loss sneaks in and takes over my thoughts.
I need to concentrate on the brightness headed our way.
As one of the only people who knew about our baby, I turned to Tara. She tried to be sensitive, but I don’t think she understood, as if only ten weeks pregnant meant this should be easier for me. Her attempt at soothing words backfires: she tells me early miscarriage happens all the time and people move on to have normal pregnancies. I wanted to shout “well, it doesn’t happen to me all the time” but lashing out at her wouldn’t help. Instead, I nodded and locked everything back inside, switching again to wedding talk. Tara’s relief was obvious, and I wish I could speak to somebody who understood, somebody other than Dylan who needs the same.
Dylan stands at the edge of the kitchen looking out at the terrace we sat on together eighteen months ago, the first time I visited the house. The day the band manager, Steve, brought me here, and I was ready to slap Dylan for outing me to the world. Nowadays, I understand Dylan’s confusion over his actions was genuine. He never fully considered what telling the world about me would do, and the fierce passion Dylan holds is now something I love about him. Today the sunshine of the day is replaced by the perpetual grey clouds and rain bouncing off the table outside.
Dylan’s hidden hurt shows in his slumped stance, as he rubs his face, unaware I’m watching him. My heart aches too at the realisation he holds himself together as tightly as he holds me when my heartbreak deluges me. We need to talk again. He isn’t coping as well as I thought.
I walk over and wrap my arms around his waist, then rest my cheek against his back. His stiff figure relaxes as he entwines his fingers with mine. The rain batters the window, and we silently watch for a few minutes.
“The weather will be better in Bali,” he says eventually.
“I hope so.”
He disentangles himself and turns. The tension extends to his face, and I smooth my thumb across his brow. His blue eyes are dark, the stress deeper than he shows.
“We should concentrate on our plans for next week.” He’s hesitant, wary of my reaction as he touches my face too. “I need to focus on something else. That doesn’t mean I don’t care, I just—”
“I understand. You’re right. Focus on something good.”
“Like marrying rock god Dylan Morgan?” His tone is teasing as he holds my face in both hands and kisses me softly.
“I guess.”
“Huh.” he drops my face. “You guess?”
His mouth tips with amusement, and I grasp onto our first light-hearted moment in a week, the old happiness edging in. “I love you.”
“And I fucking love you,” he whispers back, and the smile grows as I pout at his teasing by using that word. He grips my face and tips my chin to his. “I love you, Sky. We’ll get through this.”
“I know.” I pull my face away and press my head against Dylan’s chest, soothed by his heart beating against my cheek. “I know we will.”
We hold each other, silently acknowledging our need to let go for now. Not to forget or to leave everything behind, but to focus on our new forever while keeping the child we’ll never meet in the corner of our hearts.
10
SKY
Bali. The island I once sighed over and bypassed in holiday brochures because I’d never afford to visit. Friends from school travelled to the tropical island and sent me a postcard of the impossibly beautiful beaches; the place a world away from mine.
Until yesterday, Bali remained outside my reality, even though Dylan and me, and Tara, spent weeks planning our trip. Trip. Wedding. Overwhelmed by choice and frightened by public intrusion if I chose the wrong location, I passed the accommodation research to Tara. She narrowed down to three exclusive resorts. I voiced my concerns to Dylan over other guests finding out who we were. He looked at me with the odd amusement he does sometimes and explained only four people are guests: Dylan, me, Tara, and Tom.
Seven villas. Thirty-five bedrooms. Five acres. Four people. Extreme, but if this is what it takes for secrecy, this is what we need to do. We’ll only use two villas since Tara and Tom are our only wedding guests. The prestigious resort is “go to” for a lot of celebrities, and I get a secret thrill from being here.
The resort manages to look exactly as it does in the brochures, from the perfect gardens surrounding the single-storey villas, to the no-expense-spared interiors. I’m scared to touch anything and spoil the clean and tidy perfection.
Staff fuss and wait on our every need. Each time I walk out of a room somebody is there offering to help me, cook for me, bring me drinks. There is more staff here than guests and moving from Dylan’s—our—place to this much attention takes some getting used to. Tara wanders around with either a dazed look or huge smile, her and Tom relaxed and keeping to themselves.
From our villa, a large outdoor-decked area beneath a Balinese gazebo faces the ocean, where an infinity pool between us and the nearby cliff adds extra seclusion. Nobody could approach this resort without driving along the one winding road leading up here through the mountains; neither could they see much from the beaches below.
I lounge in the gazebo’s shade, reading, as Dylan swims in the pool nearby. The humidity is stifling, but an overhead fan and cool drinks help.
I’m losing count of the number of luxury hideaways I’ve visited with Dylan this year. I don’t like sounding ungrateful when I say they blur, but I’m spoiled. This shouldn’t be my norm but is beginning to be.
This trip won’t blur into others. The next couple of days will be with my forever. I’ll return to England as Dylan’s wife. We arrived a couple of days ago and settled into the resort.
Water soaks my book and drops onto my bare arms as Dylan shakes water at me. I scowl at him as he grins down at me. “You made my book wet. You know I’m very protective of them.”
“Come for a swim.”
“Maybe later.” I smooth the page.
Dylan crosses his arms and pouts. The water glistens against his naked chest, running along the ridges of his abs. His board shorts are pulled lower on his hips by the weight of the water, revealing the tantalising trail of hair disappearing downwards. I shift my gaze to his face, and the amused look on his face shows he knows the effect his photoshoot-worthy look is having on me.
“You sure? You look like you need to cool down.” He licks a drop of water from his lips.
I lift up my large orange cocktail. “These help.”
He drags my hair away from where it sticks to my face and places his cool lips on mine. “Boring, Sky.”
I kiss him back. “Yep.”
“Do I have to pick you up and carry you in?”
“You know that would be a bad idea, Dylan,” I warn.
His blue eyes glint, and he bites away a smile. Since we arrived in Bali, Dylan’s smiled more than he has in weeks. When we left England, we also left behind the event we increasingly don’t speak about, and I’ve locked away my pain. Tomorrow is a step forward together. This is the first day of our future that holds bright things.
I’m also aware of the tension dropping away as the sun and sea reminded us of our happier times. Uptight Sky returned recently; she needs to leave again.
“You’re dressed for the pool.” He indicates the white bikini and the sarong I’m wearing over it.
“I’m dressed for Bali.”
“Sky Davis, I hope when you’re Sky Morgan you’re going to be a dutiful wife and do what I say.”
I scoff at him. “In your dreams, Dylan Morgan.”
He slides damp arms beneath me and effortlessly lifts me off the lounger. I could struggle, tell him to stop, but instead I wrap my arms a
round his neck and rest my forehead on his.
“Never?”
“Maybe sometimes,” I whisper.
“Come swim with me.” I wrinkle my nose. “Please.”
“Well, I am getting too hot, I suppose, but— Dylan!” I’m alarmed and grip tighter as he walks towards the pool. “Put me down!”
“Oh, okay. Sure.” He steps closer to the water, and I wriggle from his grasp. Wrong move. I brace myself for the cold as Dylan loses his grip on me, but the pool is heated. Breaking my head to the surface, I swim to where Dylan sits on the side of the pool.
“Every time, Dylan! Can’t you walk past water without throwing me in?” I splash him. The happiness shines in his eyes as he slides into the water.
“Your fault, you slipped.” He takes my arm and pulls me closer.
“Uh huh.”
Dylan holds me, our wet bodies sliding against each other, and kisses me with a stronger passion than recently. Above, the heat of the tropical day shines down on us. Life with Dylan is worth everything the world throws at me, because however hard they try, the world can’t touch us.
Tara laces blue ribbon through my hair, after spending the best part of an hour attempting to tame the waves and arguing over why I won’t wear make-up.
“This.” I hold out the foundation to an unimpressed Tara. “The weather will mess this up. I’d rather marry Dylan without my make-up sliding across my face.”
She slaps me on the arm. “The weather’s not that bad today! At least it’s stopped raining.”
But hot. Stepping outside is like stepping into an oven, engulfing heat and humidity. The tropical rains don’t cool either, but today the sun chased away the clouds. “Maybe the outdoor wedding wasn’t such an amazing idea.”
Tara sighs. “Beach wedding… so romantic, Sky. You and Dylan….” Her eyes well with tears, and it’s my turn to slap her.
“Don’t, I’m emotional enough.” I suck in a breath and gaze out across the property to the pool I swam in with Dylan last night.
“He loves you so much. I’ve never seen anybody look at another person the way he looks at you. Well, apart from how you look at him.”
“I’m lucky.” I stand and brush the short, white cotton dress into place and pick up the small bunch of flowers. The scent of jasmine and frangipanis somehow soothe me. “Sometimes I can’t believe this is real. Not my new life, but that I met my soulmate.”
