Falling Sky

by Lisa Swallow

  “I found him with her.” He heaves in a breath. “He wasn’t listening and she was telling him no. I don’t know if he would’ve, but I walked in and hauled his ass out of the room. The thing is, it’s because of me she was in the position. Jem would never have thought she’d just changed her mind at the last minute.”

  For the first time in his explanation, he looks directly at me, waiting for my reaction. I’m numb, his words washing over me as if I’m listening to a court case. “I don’t understand. Why did she say you were the one who raped her?”

  “It wasn’t that night she accused me of raping her, but a couple of weeks later. To cut a long story short, because I felt guilty, I visited her a couple of times to make sure she was okay. Huge fucking mistake. Lily saw me as her knight in shining armour and wanted me. Even bigger fucking mistake? Having sex with her. Jem found out and went ballistic, accused me of planning this all along, and told her my part in the whole episode. She hated me more than Jem. She blamed me for handing her over to him and keeping her there. She accused us both of rape, and lost her shit threatening to go to the papers and police.”

  The lack of information about this on the internet tells me something. “Let me guess, Steve got involved and made everything go away?”

  “Pretty much.”

  The faraway look Dylan held when he arrived has intensified, and he stares at his boots. I walk to the window and look out. People pass by with bags of Christmas shopping, excited kids skipping along and gathering the tiny layer of snow from the wall to make snowballs. Ordinary.

  If Dylan wanted to lie to me, he’d pick a story with him in a more favourable light and not one where he was involved in the abuse of a young girl.

  I turn back to Dylan. “Why did you do all those things? How can you treat someone like that? Like they’re just your plaything?”

  He looks me straight in the eyes. “Because I was high, thought I was entitled to anything, and didn’t give a shit about other people. And other stuff, complicated things between Jem and me.”

  The stories about Blue Phoenix I came across from those years reinforce the extremity of his lifestyle, but this? He could have his pick of any girl, and he did this? “That doesn’t excuse what happened.”

  “If it means anything, the incident opened my eyes to how fucked up I was. I went into rehab and didn’t touch a girl for months afterward.”

  “Why? Scared you’d have to pay her off again?” I can’t help the edge to my voice. “I guess that’s how you fixed your little problem? Money?”

  He shakes his head. “We didn’t. Well, not exactly. I paid for her Art course she’d applied for, got the department to give her their annual scholarship and gave them a generous donation. I never got the chance to make amends with her. One night, plus my set of choices afterward, screwed up everything. Between Jem and me and now between you and me.”

  He leans against the wall, hands buried in his jacket pockets, back to staring at his boots.

  Yes, if I want to let his past end any chance we had and if I believe that Dylan hasn’t changed, that he deserves to be punished for his mistakes forever.

  “Dylan, look at me.” He turns his tired eyes to mine. “Lily. The sex was a hundred percent consensual? There was no coercion at all?”

  “She didn’t say ‘no’. I asked her more than once if she was okay with what we were doing. There was no doubt, Sky.”

  I study his expression, willing him not to look away because if he does, I won’t believe his words. Dylan’s face holds a distant truth.

  He didn’t do this. He didn’t rape her.

  “Why did you have sex with her and make things worse? You’d done enough harm.”

  “I don’t know,” he says and returns his gaze to the floor. “I wish I hadn’t. First, I put her in the position that almost got her assaulted, and then, I did something that left her feeling violated.”

  Wrapping my arms around my chest, I fight to absorb the facts. Is Myf right? Was this all revenge by Lily? I can’t blame her; Dylan used her, but this is extreme.

  “Dylan, I don’t understand why you walked away and let me think you raped someone. You should’ve told me and given me the chance to make up my own mind.”

  Dylan pushes a hand into his curls and holds his hair tight for a moment. “I’m a fucking coward, Sky. That’s why.”

  “You had no idea how I’d react! What you’ve told me makes me feel sick, but can’t you see the difference between what you were accused of and this?”

  “Kind of.”

  Something’s missing. Either that or Dylan has an impossible time forgiving himself for the past.

  “How did Lily know where I was?”

  “Jem. He’s a whole other story and I don’t want to talk about him.” His voice hardens. “He destroyed this.”

  The sound of car tyres sloshing through the streets fills the following expanse of silence between us. My head spins as I try to take in the fucked up lifestyle Dylan lived. The Jem he describes looking for something real from an ordinary girl could easily be the Dylan I met in the summer. My head hurts in confusion. Who is the real Dylan Morgan out of all the ones I’ve seen?

  “I get from your silence and body language this hasn’t changed anything?”

  “This is a lot to think about, Dylan.” Something is missing, confusing gaps around events and decisions made. I don’t believe I have the full story.

  “Yeah, I bet. The mistakes I make in my life are bigger than other people’s because I have bigger opportunities to fuck things up but this doesn’t mean I regret them any less.”

  For a moment, I think he’s going to reach out to me and my betraying body wants to hold this sad man. He’s suffering for past wrongs he’s allowing to shape his life. I remember his words from Broadbeach, how he can’t breathe and things are killing him. Dragged back into his past, and stuck in the world he wants to escape, has killed more of the man he was by the sea.

  “I don’t know what to say; this isn’t what I expected you to tell me,” I say hoarsely.

  “I’ve said enough then?” Dylan rubs his eyes and watches for my response.

  Again, I fight the pull to him. The aura around Dylan was never bad, always lost and painful.

  “I understand if you can’t accept what I did, and hate that man, but you know now.”

  I can’t process this all in the moment, and I stare at the sleeting snow.

  “I brought you something,” he says. Dylan pulls a package from his pocket, a small box wrapped in holly-patterned Christmas paper. He watches me then hesitantly puts the gift on my coffee table.

  “Why?” I ask hoarsely.

  “In case I don’t see you again, I wanted you to have this.” He indicates the box.

  A painful ache begins low in my stomach at the idea of finding Dylan again and him walking away forever. My lack of response gives him the wrong impression and he sighs quietly.

  “Okay, well, I guess I’ll go.”

  I stiffen as he steps toward me, and places a kiss in the centre of my forehead. Closing my eyes, I hold my breath against the scent and warmth of this man, who I foolishly want to be mine.

  “Happy Christmas, summer Sky. Thanks for listening to me.”

  A tear escapes and I scrub at it with my sleeve. “I don’t hate you,” I whisper.

  “Thank you.”

  The gulf left by Dylan when he walks out of the flat pulls me to a place I can’t breathe. As I sit on the sofa, the barely held back tears spill. He waited four months to tell me these facts. Dylan is holding onto this to confirm he’s no good. What he was involved in was wrong. They were actions of an amoral man, one who now has morals and who wants to change. Why did he leave as soon as he told me, as soon as I started pushing for more information? I need to absorb this and there’s a lot I suspect I haven’t been told.

  This won’t be the last time I see Dylan.

  I pick up the package from the table and unwrap the paper as if the box might explode.
Despite the shape, I’m relieved the box doesn’t contain jewellery. Instead, a small, black USB sits inside.

  My laptop rests on the kitchen bench and I plug the USB in with shaking hands. Is this more photos? The stick contains an mp3 file titled ‘Summer Sky’. Tears welling already, I double click.

  An acoustic guitar accompanied by Dylan’s voice fills the silence of my flat and the remaining parts of my heart are lost as I take in the words:

  Life in a bubble is fragile

  and full of temporary bliss

  We floated along without a care

  from the time of that first kiss

  I was so unknown to you

  but you showed me another side

  of how our love could protect us

  while we stayed safe inside

  My summer sky, my summer sky

  I want this life to be just you and I

  I’d give it all up and that’s no lie

  for my summer sky, my summer sky

  At the chorus, I hit the cancel button, unable to listen to any more.

  The simple beauty of the music and tone of Dylan’s voice is at odds with the man he described to me ten minutes ago. A shallow, selfish star who treats everyone around him like shit, the kind of man who would abuse others and not care about the consequences is not the man singing this song.

  A tiny piece of paper is folded in the bottom of the box and I read the words:

  Tomorrow? xx

  My stomach flips over and over. He hasn’t given up, but I’m not sure I’m ready to let him back in.

  I carefully put the USB into the box and close the lid before placing the gift on the kitchen bench. Then I pick up and re-read Dylan’s card, tracing my fingers over the letter x’s. The confusion I had about Dylan earlier today has morphed into turmoil.

  Chapter Five

  Sky

  The day after my visit from Dylan I ended things with Ryan. Dylan brought into sharp focus how wrong the relationship with Ryan is. Ryan was the rebound but not from Grant, from Dylan.

  Am I clearing the way for re-starting things with Dylan? Have I reached that level of insanity? His story disturbed me, but put into perspective of what I originally thought he’d done, what he told me is a small relief. But I’m certain something else underlies the story, and that I received a sanitised version. This story doesn’t seem enough to make him walk away like he did.

  My opinion of Jem has sunk to pond life, and his decision to visit Lily last summer and dredge the events up pisses me off. Whatever Dylan says about this being his fault, Jem ignored a girl clearly telling him ‘no’ to sex.

  I check out Dylan’s story about going to rehab shortly afterward and the dates match. Three days have passed since he came over and I’ve heard nothing from him or Myf. Maybe Myf was right; Dylan needed forgiveness and now he has that, he can move on. But I’m not the one who should be forgiving him, Lily is.

  Heading into my first Christmas alone, I toy with the idea of what to do and where to go. My parents are separated and I’m not keen on my mum’s new family. She stupidly had new children in her late forties so I have a ten-year-old brother who is spoiled rotten and I don’t like to be around him.

  Dad lives in Spain now. My brother, Connor, lives in the States with his American wife. Flights to the US are out of my current budget and I think Christmas in the heat of Florida would be odd.

  Tara again invites me to her place for Christmas. She has a new man in her life and I have no desire to invade their love-struck first Christmas together. I picture Dylan’s estate in all the Christmas glory. What will Dylan do for Christmas? Does he have family to go to?

  Christmas alone sounds sad, but this is what I want.

  ****

  Dylan

  Myf taps her fingers on my dining table with one hand and sends a text with the other.

  “I don’t want you alone over Christmas,” she says.

  “I want to be alone. I’m sick of everyone in my face for the last four months,” I retort, placing my bare feet on the table.

  Complete fucking lie. I want to be with Sky.

  “I’d ask you to come to Oxford with us but…”

  “I know, you’re spending Christmas with Miles’s family and they don’t know me.”

  “If we’d gone to stay with my family, you know I wouldn’t hesitate to invite you.”

  “Stop apologising, Myf.”

  My soul aches to return to St Davids, to spend a family Christmas in the place I grew up, but I don’t have anyone to go to. Fuck knows where my dad is; I haven’t seen him for years, not since he came begging money from his rich son he hadn’t seen for ten years. Since Mum died a couple of years ago, I haven’t been back.

  Everywhere I turn in life there’s emptiness.

  “Did you speak to Sky?” she asks hesitantly.

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  “And I spoke to her,” I say gruffly. Since I saw Sky and left the song with her, I’ve waited for her to contact me. I have to hope the words speak to her. Sky is the first to hear the song. I can’t face sharing the rawness with anyone else and can’t listen myself now I’ve finished.

  Myf stands and approaches, then grabs my head and hugs me into her stomach. “Dylan, bach, I’m worried about you. I wish you’d told me before about what was happening with you.”

  Her Welsh endearment pulls me to the childhood I was just trying to forget, and I wrap my arms around her waist. She’s right, but she’s not the answer.

  Chapter Six

  Sky

  Three days after our meeting and Dylan is still firmly stuck in my head. The events he described have buzzed around, as I fluctuate between being disgusted with him and relieved he isn’t a rapist. Anger edges in too, that he made the decision to walk away for so long before telling me. The Dylan I met in Broadbeach was running away, and he ran again when he had to face this. The fact he came back and spoke to me speaks more to me than the words.

  I need to see him again; the half hour visit isn’t enough after months of silence. His hesitance once he finished his explanation and my stunned reaction didn’t end the meeting the way I hoped. How did I hope? I’m unsure exactly, despite the fantasist inside wanting us in each other’s arms, everything solved. There wasn’t any resolution to either the situation or our relationship. Did he just want to explain? Or did he want to see me? The lost Dylan eyes held something I recognised from the summer when he looked at me, something I didn’t want to see. I saw how much I ache for him reflected back in his own gaze.

  When did he write the song? Why did he let me hear the words? Hearing Dylan sing words he wrote about me twisted more pain through my heart. Is he telling me he feels the same as when he wrote the song in the summer?

  My phone rings in the night, invading my dreams and when I wake up it stops. Gritting my teeth, I drift off. The phone rings again and as I’m half-asleep; I don’t answer. On the third ring, I check the time and know who’s calling. What is it about Dylan that makes him call or visit me at ungodly hours?

  “Dylan,” I mutter.

  “I know, shouldn’t wake you but I wanted to hear your voice and listening to your voicemail repeatedly wasn’t enough.” His voice is low, slurred but wherever he’s calling from is quiet.

  “Are you drunk?” I ask.

  “No.”

  Right, sure.

  “Why are you calling me?”

  “You didn’t call me,” he says simply.

  Unsure how to respond to this, I don’t.

  “Did you open the gift?” he asks.

  Instantly, a lump catches in my throat and I can barely answer. “Yes.”

  “Did you like the song?”

  “It’s a very beautiful song,” I say quietly.

  “You don’t like the song?” He sounds disappointed, like a boy whose parent has rejected a painted masterpiece brought home from school.

  “You hurt my heart with the words, Dylan.”

  The line fal
ls silent and I wish I could see his face. “Yeah, sorry, but you had to hear it.”

  “Thank you for sharing.” The late hour and the touching on the raw emotion from the song aren’t helping me keep control.

  “Have you thought anymore about our conversation?” he asks quietly.

  I sigh; I should’ve expected this. “A lot. I believe you, but there are gaps, Dylan. Some of what you told me doesn’t make sense “

  “Will you let me take you on the date we never had and I can explain anything you need me to?”

  I rub my eyes, amazed at how easily he slips back into his insistent behaviour. “It’s late Dylan; can we talk about this later?”

  “So no?”

  “I was sleeping, you woke me up. I’m not in a good mood.”

  “Sorry, I forgot how late it was when I called. Can I call you tomorrow?”

  I can’t help myself, and whisper, “It’s always tomorrow with you.”

  “Always, until you’re my today.”

  When Dylan ends the call, I lie in bed, listening to my heart whooshing blood through my ears. I try desperately to ignore the surge of hope and desire. Can the real Dylan please be the man I fell in love with, the one I just spoke to?

  ****

  Two days later, the butterflies swarm around my stomach, as I pace the flat looking out of the window every five minutes expecting Dylan’s arrival. Myf was right. I have to listen to my heart and trust what he’s telling me. I agree to meet Dylan again, and lie to myself that the only reason I want to is because I want to fill in the gaps.

  He arrives at the door wearing a leather jacket with a grey scarf wrapped around his neck, strands of his curling hair stick out of his black beanie. His face is reddened from the short walk from the car to the flat, and the wary look is on his face again. There’s an awkward moment where we almost hug, but we are both too scared of rejection I think, and then we leave. The snow from the last few days melts in the winter sun, turning to grey slush on the pavements. Dylan’s car is parked a few hundred metres along the road and we tread carefully toward it.

  I slide on the slush and Dylan catches my elbow. Even though I’m wearing a thick coat, the sensation of his hand on me sets the butterflies in my stomach into a frenzy.