Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
it’s very important to de-stress
Max
It’s not until we’ve confirmed everything, one coffee pot and many texts and calls and screenshots later, that we remember
we were supposed to be going on that hike Dylan was excited about. She tries to hide her disappointment, but I know better.
But I also know she’d do this all over again, if it meant her sister was okay.
After a quick visit to the kitchen, I find Dylan in the dining hall exactly as I expected: brow furrowed, checking her phone
for updates, and fiddling with her friendship bracelet, the way she always does when she’s anxious.
‘That’s it,’ I declare, stretching out a hand. ‘You, Dylan Reid, are not having fun right now, and we need to rectify that.
On your feet.’ She complies, frown deepening, and I call out to Fiona and Greg, who are a few seats down and have also forgone
the hike. ‘You joining us?’
We all cross the threshold to the kitchen and find the resort chef, who’s set up a little cooking station for us. ‘Eileen
here is going to show us how to make Welsh cakes.’
And so, we get to work. I help Dylan tie her apron, and Eileen’s jazz playlist accompanies us while we wash our hands.
‘This wasn’t on the schedule,’ Dylan says, handing me a tea towel. The movement exposes the tiniest flash of skin between her stripy top and dungarees.
‘Can a man not organise an activity for his roommate-with-occasional-benefits?’ Her eyes widen in warning, but the others
are on the other side of the room, paying us no attention. ‘I thought maybe a new recipe could be today’s new thing you try.
I remembered you telling me you liked to bake.’
‘I did tell you that,’ she says quietly, gilded strands swinging as she cocks her head. ‘A while ago.’
‘I just wanted you to do something you enjoyed,’ I explain, any ounce of teasing gone. ‘You’ve been on edge all morning, and
I figured this might be a nice distraction.’
Her expression softens, eyebrows pulling together. ‘Thank you. For this, and for helping with everything else.’
I think about little Dylan, barely in double digits, taking on responsibility for her mum and her sister and getting so used
to the weight of it that she’s surprised when the load is lightened, years later. Despite the shitshow of what happened to
me as an adult, Ava and I got to be kids together. I get it now, that Dylan sacrificed her own childhood to let Tahlia have
that.
I rub at my chest, then cough and try to get my head back on straight. Dylan is not supposed to be burrowing her way into
my already fragile heart, and I sure as hell need to stay out of hers.
‘Go on, say it once more. I didn’t hear you the eighty-seven times you’ve thanked me already.’ She gives me an unconvincing
glare. ‘If you’d gone back to London, who else would I have flirted with?
‘Literally everyone in this room,’ she says flatly. We move back to our station, and there’s a surge of satisfaction when
she shifts closer to me. ‘You would’ve had the bed to yourself if I’d gone.’
‘Oh, I dunno,’ I bring a mixing bowl closer, ‘I don’t mind sharing. Minus the mounting.’
‘You do that a lot.’
‘Mounting? God, if only you’d let me.’
The palest pink hits her cheeks, but she folds her arms and leans a hip against the counter.
‘Deflecting. I’m trying to thank you. Any time I’ve panicked since we’ve been here, you’ve talked me down, or talked me up, I guess.
I hate to say it, because I know your feelings on the word,’ she shrugs, ‘but I actually think you might be very
nice.’
‘Nah. Not me, sorry.’
Her mouth hooks up at one corner. ‘You are. You’re nice to me.’ Her smile wavers. ‘You know how to make an impact, Max Monroe.’
My head aches a little, that dark place in my brain always far too close for comfort, door swinging open no matter how many
times I try to lock it. Because isn’t making an impact what I’m striving for, every day I’m still around? Being so loud and
bright that I burn a mark into people’s lives? That I exist in their dreams, their memories, on their screens, that I make
an impact, however small?
‘You’ve made this trip fun for me,’ she goes on, oblivious to the way my brain has spiralled.
‘That was the plan.’ My exhale shifts her hair. ‘And it would’ve been a shame to cut it short before you’d finished doing
what you needed to.’
‘And what do I need to do?’
‘That’s for you to decide.’
She releases a huff of annoyance, like she wishes someone would tell her. I brush a strand of hair behind her ear, the pad
of my thumb resting on the pulse point there.
‘What about you?’ She moves closer, lifting her chin to look me in the eye, her folded arms sandwiched between our chests.
‘Is there anything that you want to do?’
Wild heartbeats and panting breaths. A safe way to feel alive. ‘I can think of a few things.’
Her eyes drop to my mouth. ‘Like what?’
‘You know what.’ My voice is thick, and I analyse her whole face; blushed cheeks, outrageously thick lashes around hazel eyes,
perfectly defined Cupid’s bow on lips that I know firsthand can do mind-altering things. Thumb sweeping along her jaw, I continue,
‘In your hands, remember?’
I follow the line of her neck until my thumb rests in that little dip between her collarbones that I want to press my tongue into. But then her phone chirps, and she pulls her weighted gaze away from mine to say, slightly breathlessly, ‘I have an update from our siblings.’
My blood’s still pounding, but I shake the feeling free. Dylan angles her screen my way and presses play on a video. It’s
Finn and Tahlia in the car singing along to some musical medley; theatre-kid Tahlia providing incredible vocals from the back
seat.
‘Your sister’s really good,’ I say, bending to her phone to hear better. ‘And Finn’s really . . . enthusiastic. Has a lot
of passion.’
I check my own phone and see texts from Ava that I must’ve missed.
Ava: you know I love ABBA, but this is too much
Ava: I don’t have the heart to tell Finn that he’s not on Tahlia’s level
And then, time-stamped two minutes later, another message.
Ava: never mind, turns out I do have the heart
Dylan watches the video again without sound and her shoulders loosen. I pull her soft body against mine, and murmur into her
hair, ‘She’s okay. You can relax.’
She pulls back and I want to photograph the unspooling of every emotion in her body; relief in the loosening of her muscles,
contentment in the curve of her mouth, trust in the way she lets me hold her.
‘Are you all ready?’ Eileen asks, and Dylan and I release our hold on each other. Physically, at least.
‘Shitting hell,’ I groan, accidentally wiping cake mixture into my hair approximately four seconds after I cleaned it up from the last time.
Dylan bites down a grin, analysing the number on the scales as she sifts flour into her bowl. ‘Are you good?’
Soft jazz plays over the speakers and rain lashes against the windows, and part of me is glad we didn’t end up on that hike.
I catch Dylan’s eye. ‘Do I seem good?’
Another glob hits the counter from my hair, and she flings a hand to her mouth to hold back a laugh, but it slips through
her fingers, too bright to be contained. It’s the kind of sound that feels like the first fizz of champagne on your tongue;
delicate, golden, gone before you can catch it.
‘I don’t know what I’m doing,’ I say, looking between two tubs, trying not to focus on how that sound fills me up. ‘How did
I forget the sugar? And how do I even know which one of these is sugar and which is salt?’
‘A great first step is to check whether it says “salt” or “sugar” on the tub,’ she says.
‘Can’t move the tub, actually. I have dirty hands.’ I lift them out of the bowl, where I’ve been rubbing the mixture together. ‘They’re covered in batter.’
‘Dough.’
‘A deer?’
‘You’re ridiculous. Get back to kneading,’ she says through a grin, and I know I’d get dough in my hair ten times over if
it meant she’d look like this again. When she’s finished with her own task, she pushes the scales and a tub towards me.
‘Caster sugar. Eighty-five grams.’ She watches me measure haphazardly, hands loosely clasped in front of her on the worktop,
and I can tell she’s holding back from doing it for me. ‘I don’t understand how you can make your mug brownies in the dark
with zero calamities, but this is like a whole NASA operation for you.’
‘Excuse me for being bad at following new instructions.’ I go back to combining the ingredients with my hands. ‘I need you to stand over my shoulder every day for the rest of my life making sure I stay on track.’
It comes out without thinking, and it takes a few moments before I realise the implication of what I’ve said. Luckily, Eileen
comes over and the moment’s gone.
‘This consistency looks perfect,’ she says, analysing the contents of Dylan’s bowl. She graciously decides not to comment
on mine.
‘Overachiever,’ I tease, but Dylan meets my eye with a proud smile.
I get through the rest of the process without incident, kneading and shaping and frying, and, all things considered, the end
result doesn’t look terrible. Fiona and Greg expertly dance around the kitchen while Dylan and I are frying our cakes, and
I pretend I don’t notice the longing on Dylan’s face as she watches them, because it’s easier that way.
Eileen tries everyone’s cakes and eventually declares Dylan the winner, despite the fact none of us were aware it was even
a competition.
‘Did you add lemon zest?’ she asks as she chews. ‘The flavour’s divine, especially with the blackberry jam.’
‘I love lemony things,’ Dylan explains. ‘It felt like a nice addition.’
‘Dylan fixes things you didn’t even realise needed to be fixed,’ I say easily. ‘She’s pretty much a genius.’
Her face contorts as she frowns, blushes, and attempts to tamp down a smile, and if that’s not the perfect Dylan trifecta,
I don’t know what is; bothered by me, blushing at a compliment, and, for some reason, reluctant to let herself be happy about
it.