Chapter 28
Twenty-Eight
is it so terrible to want to be remembered?
Max
‘This is bad.’ Dylan’s voice is muffled against the pillow as she comes back to earth, flopping down on to her stomach.
‘What is?’ I set my hands on either side of her head and she turns awkwardly under my weight to meet my lips from the side,
cheeks flushed, eyes a little hazy. The kiss is messy and uncoordinated, but it’s sweeter than it should be, after everything
we just did.
‘What did you mean by “this is bad”?’ I ask again, lowering to my side and propping my head on my fist.
She presses her face into the pillow with a groan and then rolls until she’s facing me too. ‘What’s bad, Max, is that whoever
I end up with is going to have a lot to contend with.’
‘Consider this my parting gift. You get to think of me every time you sleep with your husband. You’re welcome.’
Her mouth falls open, but a smile teases the edges. ‘It’s not his fault he’s only had a relationship with one other person.
You have more experience. It’s not a fair comparison.’
‘Here’s an idea,’ I say, peeling back the strand of golden hair clinging to her jaw, ‘maybe you should just pick a husband who’s better at sex.’
‘Leave my husband alone.’ She’s grinning now, and I’m reminded that this is one of my favourite versions of her; playful and
open and looking at me like she’s a little hungry. ‘He has lots of other things going for him.’
‘Oh of course, like a lifetime ISA and an extremely diversified stock portfolio.’
‘He’s nice.’
‘Hate to say it,’ I lower my voice and shuffle even closer, ‘but he’s boring.’
‘He’s dependable.’ She pokes me in the chest and I cover her hand with my own.
‘Is he good to you?’ The question shoots out of me before I know it’s coming. What was an easy volley before is now a game
where we might’ve lost the ball. But I need to know the answer. I need to know she’ll be okay.
The wind chimes sing in the breeze. After a few moments, she nods. ‘Yeah. He is.’
My fingers thread hers. ‘Does he make you happy?’
Her brow knits for a second, and then her face clears, bright as the early-morning sky outside our window. ‘I think so.’
I lift my shoulder in a shrug that’s more casual than I feel. ‘Then maybe I like him.’
She burrows into me, and I hold her close while our breathing settles. My brain drifts to a dark, cobwebbed corner, where
shadows whisper ugly things and remind me of everything I can’t have. Because it’s never been about not wanting this, not really. It’s that I can’t justify it. I won’t risk someone thinking I’m a solid place to land, when all I am is
a series of moments that might scatter in the wind.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ she says, and it’s a lighthouse in the night.
‘That’s unlike you.’ The covers rustle around us as we pull ourselves up against the headboard.
‘Why did you bring a whole box of condoms with you?’ She tugs the duvet up to cover herself, and the question is so different from my wretched thoughts that it forces a sputtered laugh out of me.
‘Why didn’t you?’ I lean over her to pick up her water bottle from her nightstand, unscrewing the lid and passing it to her. She takes a
few sips before passing it back to me. ‘Little Miss Prepared didn’t think it would be wise? Safe sex is no joke, Tiny.’
She levels me with a look. ‘I didn’t expect to be doing this, obviously.’
I wipe a hand across my mouth and set the bottle on my bedside table. ‘Would it be arrogant to say that I did?’
‘Yes,’ she says, but it’s accompanied by a grin.
‘I was disgustingly drunk that day we met at the party last year and I still remember thinking you were unreal. So maybe it wasn’t that I expected to be doing this,’ I lean in and kiss my favourite spot by her ear, ‘but I really, really hoped.’
‘There’s still a part of me that finds it hard to believe you think about me like . . . that.’
I shake my head against her neck in disbelief, nose brushing the skin. ‘Were you there just now, when I begged?’ My teeth
graze her throat, right where her heartbeat thunders, and I murmur, ‘Do you think I often beg, Dylan?’ I pull back to analyse
her. Bruised lips, forehead damp with sweat, careful smile. I can’t help what comes out of my mouth. ‘I think about you probably
too much.’
Soul-destroying eyes flick up to mine, and something stretches between us, some invisible string that’s getting shorter and
shorter by the day.
‘What I mean,’ I let the string slacken and lean in to kiss beneath her jaw again, ‘is I thought about you a lot, before we
started doing this.’
Let her remember I’m exactly who I said I was, and that this situation is exactly what we agreed it would be. Let her think
I’m not feeling things I have no right to be feeling.
She whispers, ‘I thought about you too.’
I let out a laugh. ‘I know you did.’
As my lips drift along the silk-soft skin of her neck, her shoulder, her cheeks, she combs her fingers through my hair and asks, ‘How are you always so confident?’
I press my lips to hers once more and pull myself up to her eye level. ‘How would you feel if I told you I was shy as a kid?’
She releases a surprised laugh, and I continue, ‘I’m serious. You know how usually they separate siblings at school? Our primary
school was too small, so Ava and I were in the same class. It took ages for them to diagnose me with dyslexia because Ava
would sneakily help me with all my work, so no one knew. But I was really quiet in class because I thought they’d find out
I’d been faking it the whole time. I thought they’d find out I was stupid.’
‘You’re not stupid,’ she says, lines creasing her forehead. ‘You weren’t.’
‘You’re right, I wasn’t. But Ava was, you know, Ava. Quick-witted. Too smart for her own good. And she understood everything straight away. It got to a point where I was jealous
of how easy she found school, and all the positive attention it got her. I was insecure and started acting out. Nothing major,
but enough to draw attention in a different way. Being loud. A bit chaotic. And I liked it. I liked that people stopped expecting
me to be someone I wasn’t anymore. It all came much easier to me than schoolwork ever did.’
I push a lock of hair behind her ear and say, ‘It wasn’t until I got my first camera that I had something that, one, I was
actually interested in, two, was fully my own, and three, was something I was better than Ava at.’
‘And now here you are.’
‘Here I am. A phoneless content creator on a trip he was paid to make content for.’ I stretch my arms above my head with a
groan. ‘You know, considering the entire reason I’m here is to convince other people to visit, David seemed surprisingly unbothered
when I told him I wouldn’t be able to deliver what I was hired to do.’
‘You were hired to promote this place. You can still do that.’
‘I was hired to make the snappy travel vlogs I’m known for. I’m good for this week’s video, but it’ll feel like overkill making them in that style with my big camera.’
‘Toby’s promoting the resort using his fancy camera.’
‘Yeah, but Toby’s nature work is his entire brand.’
‘You don’t think your stuff would speak for itself?’ I don’t reply, and she continues, ‘What made you fall in love with making
travel content?’
It feels like a lifetime ago now, discovering the spark that came from exploring somewhere new for the first time. But losing
my phone has been a breeze I never expected, buffeting me closer to that feeling again.
‘I think I loved capturing the whole essence of a place. How it’s always the sum of its parts; its landscape, its history,
its people, everything working together in a very specific symphony. I guess it’s how I feel about most things. I’ve always
found it weird reducing something’s beauty to its individual parts.’
It’s not just careful hazel eyes, or hair like sunlight, or selflessness, or dedication, or a heart bigger than there’s space
for. It’s all of it.
‘Do you enjoy what you make now?’
A humourless chuckle rumbles through my chest, and I tuck my arms under the duvet. ‘That’s a big question.’
‘Was you launching your phone off a cliff a cry for help?’ she teases, waiting for me to smile before she does too.
‘Maybe it was.’
She moves her hand along the duvet, pushing down on the air bubbles. I feel it press against mine through the material. Then
she peers at me and says, ‘I asked you this ages ago, but your answer was . . . I just don’t think you told me the truth.
Why did you change your video style so abruptly?’
‘Including my face gets more engagement, and more engagement means more opportunities. More opportunities mean more money.’
She watches me like she’s waiting for me to elaborate. Like she doesn’t believe me. ‘You don’t care about the money.’
‘Not really, no.’
Under the duvet, I let my fingers drift to my hip and skim the smooth line of my scar. It’ll always stand out against the rest of me. It’ll always be a reminder of the damage.
‘The switch happened after you first got sick, didn’t it? You changed your style not long after you came back from the break
you took to heal.’
I’ll never fully heal, I want to say. But I’m really good at pretending.
‘Yeah. After everything, I think I like having proof I was somewhere. Putting myself into videos does that.’ Proof I was here,
within the comfort of this cabin. Proof I’ve wandered across salt plains and volcanic beaches, proof I’ve dived into glacial
water and geothermal springs, proof I’ve explored dense forests and mountainside villages. Proof I’ve lived. ‘I get to exist
in a million places, in a million ways.’
Like a cloud over the sun, Dylan’s face changes. ‘You want to be immortalised.’
It’s quiet in the room, only the low hum of the radiator to break the silence. Then my breath comes out in a ragged sigh.
My voice isn’t much better. ‘I want people to remember me. Is that unreasonable?’
‘No. That’s not unreasonable.’ She moves closer, finding my hand under the covers. ‘I’d have a hard time forgetting you even
if I wanted to, Max.’
Maybe it’s a coincidence when she squeezes my hand three times. My heart can’t tell the difference.