Page 114 of Interlude

41

Sky

Speakingto Dylan before I slept filled me with a giddy happiness that everything he says about loving me is true. Each day I spend with Dylan encourages me to think this might work. The further we entangle our lives the harder it will be to disentangle. Dylan's right—I can't apply logic to love; especially my skewed logic.

The truth is I care about Dylan. I'm passionately addicted to him physically but also see part of myself mirrored in him. I could be fatalistic and agree we were "meant to meet", perhaps we were because this situation goes beyond what I admit. If love is craving to be around someone, being soothed by his presence and not having to find the right words when alone with him, then I'm falling in love with Dylan. If I change my definition of love from living side by side in a house in Bristol, to a scary, consuming need for someone I resisted for those two weeks, then I'm not falling for Dylan—I’ve crashed into a scary place where I am in love again.

The one thing I can't let go of is the sneaking fear our colliding worlds will explode, taking me with them.

I switch on my laptop and I'm faced with the possibility this happened sooner than I thought. On my favourite Blue Phoenix stalking blog, I find pictures of the band at the after party that Dylan complained he needed to attend. The most prominent picture is Dylan with a celebrity singer I've vaguely heard of. My stomach tightens in horror. A stunning woman in a blue dress, which exposes more of her than the material covers.

Kissing him.

I refresh the picture twenty times, studying the blurred pixels. Maybe they're not quite kissing? The refreshing doesn't wipe away the image of their lips locked or her sitting on his knee.

The alarm I set on my phone to leave for work on time sounds, and I rub my eyes. I can't deal with this right now. In a haze, I head out, fighting tears all the way. I sit on the ordinary bus amongst everyday people leading monotonous lives. This is my life, not the ridiculous Dylan fantasy. I let down my defences, and was screwed over again.

Halfway through the day, my phone buzzes. A text from Dylan. The coward doesn't even have the decency to call me.

I ignore him, shaking so much afterwards that Jenny, my boss, asks if I'm okay. I nod through tears and a false smile, and then switch my brain off.

His intermittent calls and texts through the day are also ignored.

Ignored.

Ignored.

At this point, I switch the phone off. Then I check my favourite Blue Phoenix stalking site once more. They're in Europe for another day, and amongst their entourage is the girl in the blue dress.

* * *

Anger.Hurt. Betrayal. A bottle of wine and a family size bag of crisps. That's what I work my way through. Deja bloody vu.

I bunker down with the wine, crisps and a book. Why does this tear at me more than Grant? Grant was my life for five years; Dylan, five minutes.

I wake with my book on my face and a sore neck as the home phone rings incessantly.

"What?" I snap when I answer.

"It was Jem," Dylan says.

"I think it was pretty obviously you!"

"I meant he took the photo and leaked the picture."

"Oh, so he forced her to sit on your knee and play tonsil tennis?"

"No, Sky, she sat on my knee, gave me a brief kiss on the mouth and he took a picture. Two seconds later, I was nowhere near her, I swear. Were my hands on her? No. Were there any other pictures? No."

Brief kiss on the mouth? What the hell?

"Why would Jem do that?"

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