Chapter 32
Thirty-Two
always make time for a DMC
Dylan
‘Stop texting Max,’ Jude accuses.
‘I’m not!’ I reply indignantly, putting my phone face down on her coffee table. ‘He doesn’t even have a phone.’
‘He has a laptop,’ she says knowingly, wiping a small spill with her sleeve.
I sink further into her sofa and glug my wine. Jude’s cabin looks much the same as mine and Max’s, only hers has approximately
ten times the belongings scattered across every surface: clothes, makeup, sci-fi-looking hair tools. It smells of the expensive
perfume that alerted me to her presence on the train all those weeks ago.
‘I was replying to Ava, actually.’ And Ava’s brother. Deleting and retyping the message with unbelievable precision in the hope of seeming less drunk than I am.
‘Does she know about you two?’
‘No. Maybe? I don’t know.’ I play with the stem of my wine glass. ‘She didn’t want me to get involved with him. She told me
it was a bad idea.’
‘Have you considered that she told you it was a bad idea because of him, not you? Because she knows the kind of person he is, and she knows the kind of person you want?’ She settles back on the sofa. ‘Besides,
isn’t it kind of weird and possessive to dictate who your sibling gets involved with? If you’re both consenting adults with
a fully developed frontal lobe, who’s it hurting?’
‘The friendship, if things get messy?’
‘I don’t think you’re giving the strength of your friendship enough credit. If things go badly, you’re still adults. You can
get through it. It’s probably not as big a deal as you’re imagining.’
‘Maybe you’re right,’ I admit. ‘Have I just been in my head about it this whole time?’
‘That would be extremely out of character for you,’ she says smoothly.
The comfortable warmth of the wine loosens my limbs. ‘You know, you and Ava are kind of similar, actually. You don’t let people
take you for a fool. You’re independent. Good at standing on your own two feet.’
‘Do you really think you’re bad at standing on your own two feet?’ She scoffs. ‘You do that and carry other people on your shoulders. That’s way more than I do.’
‘It’s different. I feel like I . . . need people around. And I’ve always felt kind of pathetic for that.’
‘Wanting people nearby isn’t a character flaw, Dylan. It’s human. In fact, wanting anything isn’t a flaw, but I get the feeling you think it is.’ The sofa rustles as she adjusts position. ‘Do you think you’ll stay
in London permanently after this?’
I want to repeat the answer I’ve been spouting this whole trip, my whole life, even. That London’s home, and where I should
be, because it’s where my roots were planted twenty-five years ago. But the word permanently throws me off. It feels less like a comfort than it used to, to have things set in stone. It feels a little like a trap. ‘That’s
the plan at the moment.’
She appraises me, like she knows that even the concession of ‘at the moment’ is momentous. ‘Are you excited for your grad
scheme to start?’
‘I’m excited to be working a job that pays more than minimum wage.
’ She gives me a flat look and, finally, I release the truth like a sigh.
‘No. Not really. I don’t think I’ve ever been excited for it.
’ My chest feels a little lighter at the admission.
My shoulders ache a bit less. And the world is still turning, the wind is still singing through the eaves.
I press my head against the back of the sofa.
‘It made more sense to me before. Get a good, stable job I can rely on, work hard, keep my head down, provide for my family.’
‘What about what you deserve? Do you really intend to do something you don’t want to for the rest of your life?’
‘Isn’t that what most people do? Get a job that’s just a job? It’s always felt like a sacrifice worth making, to me.’
‘If it were only for a short time, then fine. Taking a shitty internship to reach a promotion? Okay. Being frugal while you’re
saving for a house? Sure. Sometimes discomfort comes before a win.’ Her dark eyes lock on mine. ‘But it sounds like that discomfort
is never going to end for you. It sounds like you’ve actually factored in being miserable as if it’s a given, but it really shouldn’t be. This is your life you’re talking about.’
A realisation punches me in the gut. ‘I’m going to regret it, aren’t I? Sticking with my plan the way I have been?’
‘I know you’ll succeed in all your goals if you try, but I think you might end up feeling like something’s missing. Whether
that’s next year, or in a few years’ time, or when you retire.’ Her smile’s gentle. ‘I don’t want to tell you what to do—’
‘I thought you loved telling people what to do?’
She laughs that same cackle that endeared her to me on the very first day we met. ‘Fine. But you need to know that your own
happiness has to be part of the equation. Whatever you choose.’
I groan softly. ‘Can’t I just wait until I’m in a safe position to take risks?’
‘Unfortunately, I fear the point of risks is that you’re never in a safe position, but you do it regardless.’
‘Max said something like that once.’
There he was, next to me at the Blue Lagoon, trying to convince me to put my fears aside and jump.
I’m scared.
You’re allowed to be. But you do it anyway.
‘Poor guy’s going to be lonely tonight,’ Jude taunts, flipping her hair to the opposite shoulder. ‘I stole you from him on
your birthday for this sleepover. Wonder what he’d planned for you tonight. Probably something scandalous.’
My pulse stutters at the thought. My pyjama set feels too hot suddenly, the buttons too tight.
I don’t meet her eye when I ask, ‘Do you ever think about him like that? Now?’
‘Never.’ She grimaces, tucking her legs beneath her. ‘I’m not harbouring some long-buried passion for that man, I promise.’
I can’t imagine looking at Max and not feeling my entire body ignite, wanting to feel him against me, to hear his laugh shake
the room.
‘And even if I was, it’s not me he’s interested in.’ I try as hard as I can to hold back a smile, and her face softens. She
asks gently, ‘This is more than physical for you, isn’t it?’
‘He’s just . . .’ I can’t forget that she was Max’s friend first. As much as I trust her, I don’t want to risk her telling
him anything I don’t fully understand myself yet. ‘It’s been fun. He’s good at . . . yeah.’
Her eyes narrow. ‘If I could remember any of it, I’m sure I’d agree.’
‘Maybe let’s not talk about when you two were together from now on.’
‘Got it. Good boundary.’ I don’t know why her words warm me, but they do. ‘For what it’s worth, if it were something you were
interested in, I think he has it in him to be a good partner. Deep, deep,’ she sips her wine, ‘deep, down. He just needs to
get his head out of his ass.’
I think I agree, and I don’t know if it’s delusion or hope that lights me up inside. I sip my wine before replying, ‘I’d like
something long-term. That hasn’t changed.’
‘We can’t force people to be someone they’re not,’ she says solemnly. ‘We can only nudge them towards admitting who they are.’
‘Did you steal that from Bertie?’ Another laugh shoots out of her, and I redirect the conversation. ‘What about you? Any updates on Toby?’
‘I’ve never encountered a man so dead set on ignoring someone hitting on him.’ She lifts her wine to her lips but doesn’t
drink, instead saying, ‘Look, I’m never going to pressure someone into doing something they don’t want to do, but I swear
he does want something. He blushes every time he talks to me, and sometimes, if I catch him unawares, there’s this look in his eyes. But I think perhaps he and a certain someone abide by the same masochistic rules of denying themselves the things
they want.’
She takes a pointed sip of her wine and I huff a laugh.
‘Do you see yourself ever settling down with someone?’ I ask.
She grimaces. ‘I doubt it. I’m far too happy living alone, and I can’t imagine ever giving that up for anyone.’ She pauses
for a second and says, ‘And they’d have to be able to handle me.’
Her expression turns doleful and I bump my fluffy-socked foot against hers. ‘Handle you?’
‘The world wants women to hate themselves a little, and I just don’t,’ she says simply. ‘I like who I am, and I’m not willing
to squash myself down to fit into someone else’s idea of who I should be. For some reason, that really gets under some people’s
skin.’ She points at her phone next to mine. ‘You should see some of the DMs I get. I’m lucky I have high self-esteem. Which,
I suppose, was kind of their issue to begin with.’
Her forehead creases, and guilt washes over me. I’ve seen loud, confident people like Jude in the past, and my instinct has
been to be jealous, or think they were too much, simply for being comfortable in who they are. I don’t ever want to think that way again.
She continues, ‘It makes men feel small, knowing I don’t need them. And when they feel small, they act out.’ She sighs, swirling
her wine around her glass. ‘So it’s short-term only. I don’t give them a chance to talk me down before I get rid of them first.’
I think about my last relationship. The insidious comments to make sure I stayed pliant.
How I stopped suggesting doing things I wanted because I knew Jeremy would shoot them down or complain.
I knew, deep down, that I didn’t like how I felt around him, and I let him continue.
I willingly gave him all these pieces of me even when I knew I’d never get anything in return, because I thought that was all I deserved.
I chipped away at myself, and for what? I would’ve stayed if he hadn’t cut things off, and maybe that’s the worst part of all.
‘You’re stronger than me. I didn’t even let myself admit that my ex was keeping me down until months after we broke up.’
‘That’s because they’re sneaky with it.’ Her voice is stern, despite the drunken slur to it. ‘And you’re stronger than you
know. I don’t think you could be held down now.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what it’s like to fly.’ She analyses me, mouth lifting in a small smile. ‘Anyone who’s worth anything won’t be intimidated
by your wings, because they know you’d come back to them, if you wanted.’ She groans and flings the last of her drink back.
‘What the hell was that? It’s the wine, I swear. It turns me into a poet.’ She slurps the dregs. ‘A bad one.’
She gets to her feet and pats me on the head, and her words settle into me as she digs through the fridge. ‘You know,’ she
says, ‘I reckon you should focus more on your hobbies when you get back, especially now that you won’t be looking after your
sister so much.’ When I get back. It’s an uncomfortable thought. ‘It feels like a good start for finding what actually makes you happy.’
I’m about to agree when there’s a knock at the door. Three raps. My heart stalls.
‘Who’s here at this time?’ Jude asks, wine bottle still in her hand as she goes to check.
I know who it is before I see his shape outlined in the doorway. I recognise the deep timbre of his voice even if I can’t
hear what he’s murmuring to Jude. When his eyes meet mine over the back of the sofa, Jude turns to face me with a knowing
look. ‘You have a visitor.’
She walks back to the coffee table to top up our glasses, and I unfold myself to greet him.
Max’s hood is up, but he drops it when I reach him, revealing messy hair that’s begging for my fingers to run through it.
I think of quiet afternoons spent with his head in my lap on the sofa, of laugh-drunk kisses and fingers knotted in strands, of gentle mornings brushing our teeth side by side, my free hand at the nape of his neck.
Because now I know the tender things he likes when he lets himself be vulnerable, and he knows what I like, too.
‘Hi,’ he says, almost shyly, if such a word exists in Max Monroe’s vocabulary. He presses his side against the doorframe,
forever at ease.
‘Hi,’ I say back.
His throat works as he hands me a familiar green object, cold from the fridge. ‘You forgot this.’
Our fingers brush as I take it from him. ‘You came all the way over here to give me my water bottle?’
He smiles sheepishly, like I’ve caught him out in a lie. ‘Maybe I just wanted to see you.’
‘You see me all the time.’ I wonder if he’s thinking the same ridiculous thing I am. I’ll miss you tonight. It blooms in my chest like ink in water, spreading out in every direction until I can’t see where the tendrils end. My brain’s
working too slowly to translate his silence, so I ask, ‘Was that all?’
I’ll forget it by the next day, but leaning against the frame, the side of his head pressed to the wood, he says quietly,
‘Not even close.’
In that moment, his expression is so desperate, so beautiful, it feels like I’m looking at a fallen star. Like he’s already
gone, and he’s just waiting for me to catch up to the fact.
I sway forward slightly, whether because of the wine or that inexorable pull to him, and he plays with the collar of my pyjama
top for a few moments. His hand drops and he clears his throat to say, ‘Just wanted to check Jude hadn’t drunk you into oblivion.’
‘I’m not far off.’ I find myself tugging at my collar where he left it, as if my brain is trying to preserve his touch. ‘Do
I seem drunk?’
He lets out a chuckle. ‘A bit. Your messages were almost incomprehensible.’
‘Oops.’ He laughs again and this time I join in. ‘Do you need me to translate?’
His hair falls into his eyes when he shakes his head. ‘I said almost incomprehensible. I understood you perfectly.’
He usually does.
I swallow. ‘Do you want to join us?’
I want him to say yes. I want him here. Not just here here, but here with me, as often as possible. And I know I shouldn’t, but it’s getting harder to ignore how my soul feels
at ease when he’s near, how I’ve never liked myself more than when he’s nearby, how the only part of me that’s pretending
now is the one that acts like I don’t like him in terrifying ways.
‘I’ll let you two have your night,’ he replies. I reach up to brush the hair away from his face and he inhales deeply. His
voice is hoarse when he says one last time, ‘Happy birthday.’
‘Thank you for everything you did today.’
The ground sighs and settles beneath me when he smiles all the way up to his eyes, and I want to live in the feeling it gives
me forever, warm and safe and happy.
‘It was my pleasure.’ He dips his head to press his lips to my temple. ‘I’ll see you when you get home, Tiny.’
And there it is. In creaking floorboards and wind chimes tinkling outside the window. In three knocks on a door and a mattress
warmed by a familiar body. In a coffee pot on the counter, in a bathroom that smells of lemon body wash, in two water bottles
laid on their sides in a tiny fridge.
Home.