Chapter 33 #2
‘It’s not really a decision you can find middle ground on,’ I say, running my fingers along her arms, from her elbow to the
tips of her fingers and back.
‘You know what you said the other day, about how I shouldn’t have been the one to look after Tahlia? I think that’s why I’ve
never wanted kids. I can’t handle the thought of doing that again. I know it’s supposed to be different if they’re your own,
but . . .’ She sighs. ‘I don’t want that.’ She meets my eyes and adds flippantly, ‘My ex’s mum called me selfish for it. To
my face.’
‘I hate that whole family, I swear.’
‘It’s not their fa—’ She catches herself, and then she prises my hand from where I’m white-knuckling the sleeve of her jumper
and says, ‘No, you have a point. They were awful.’
‘I just . . .’ I exhale slowly and restart. ‘I genuinely cannot fathom how anyone could look at you and think you were lacking
in any way. And then make you believe it was true. It’s a fucking travesty, Dylan.’
There’s so much affection on her face that I’m pretty sure I’m set for life. I won’t need it from anyone else. It’ll be like
glitter; I’ll find pieces of her in every decision I ever make going forward, and even when I think I’m done, she’ll be there.
‘You’re worth more too, you know,’ she says quietly.
There’s a lump in my throat, so I redirect in one of the only ways I know how. ‘If you want to make nosy shits uncomfortable
when they ask why you don’t have kids yet, I recommend telling them you had cancer. Works like a charm.’
She laughs with a wince, which was the exact response I was aiming for. ‘I’ll give it a shot,’ she says flatly.
We move at exactly the same time, both shifting closer to the other, and even our accompanying laugh is in sync too, which
only makes us laugh louder, momentarily drawing the attention of David and Patrick on the other side of the fire. They give
each other knowing looks that I pretend I don’t see.
‘I’m convinced I’ll be the fun uncle,’ I explain. ‘It was always Ava who our neighbours called on to babysit when we were
younger. She was weirdly good at it. Like . . . You know those people who hate animals but animals flock to them anyway, and
they have to reluctantly accept it? That’s Ava, but with kids.’ Dylan mulls this over. I wonder if she’s experienced Ava’s
patience, or her unflinching, quiet protectiveness. ‘I was never interested, though. It’s hard enough keeping myself safe.
Can you imagine me looking after an entire human being?’
‘Poor child,’ Dylan says. ‘They’d never stand a chance.’
When I bark out a laugh, it feels like a weight’s lifting. It’s rare that I talk about this topic at all, let alone with any
kind of levity.
‘Since I had all my treatment, there’s not been much going on, you know,’ I motion vaguely to my crotch, ‘down there. When
I was first diagnosed, I could’ve frozen a sample. I think they probably expected me to. But honestly, everything was moving
so fast, everything was going so wrong, and I was so young and afraid and unwell that I couldn’t imagine having a child when I was barely surviving myself. And
now, it’s unlikely I could have kids biologically, even if I wanted to.’
It’s been years since I had this confirmed, but I could count on one hand the number of times I’ve said it out loud.
‘Was that difficult to come to terms with?’ Dylan asks, plait hitting her shoulder when she cocks her head. ‘Even if you knew you didn’t want children, it still must’ve been jarring to have the choice taken away from you.’
‘I’ve never thought about that before,’ I say carefully, and she patiently waits while I come up with my answer. ‘I’m sure
I had it easier than most because I never had that desire to be a parent in the first place, but yeah, maybe it was still
hard. It was a loss, I guess, of a future I never wanted, but a choice I thought I’d always have available.’ She considers
me carefully, and I admit the truth. ‘Mostly, it just felt like yet another way my body had let me down. That was the hardest
thing, for me. All these years later, and a part of me is still ashamed at my body for not doing what it should.’
‘It hasn’t let you down,’ she says, soft as the breeze. ‘You’re still here.’
She draws a line with her finger over my sweatpants, precisely where the scar from my hip operation is. Her touch burns through
the material. A reminder. Maybe a relief.
‘I saw what me being ill did to my parents. It almost broke them. So maybe it’s cowardly, but not a single part of me wants
to risk experiencing that.’
‘It’s not cowardly.’ She keeps her gaze on her finger moving over my thigh, tracing where the tattoo of the clasped hands
is. ‘I can’t imagine there’s anything scarier than letting your heart live outside your body.’
‘I agree.’
She doesn’t look up when I say it, and I’m glad. If she did, maybe she’d see the look in my eyes and figure out that for weeks
now, I’ve been handing her my heart, piece by tiny, fractured piece, and she doesn’t even know she has it.
I need someone to keep hold of it when I’m gone.
For the rest of my night, I try to keep my mind away from the inevitable goodbye we’re approaching, and it feels good. Living in the moment is what I do best, after all.
At one point, Fiona and Greg decide that early October is the perfect time to go skinny-dipping, then Arun compliments Eileen’s
food and that somehow turns into him becoming a romantic prospect for her granddaughter, and then Bertie pulls out a battered
guitar from a case and starts to sing and I try really hard not to make fun of him for it. I’m doing a good job until I catch Jude’s horrified expression over the fire and have
to press a silent laugh into the back of Dylan’s head.
We reminisce and laugh and toast marshmallows and rinse our sticky hands at the water’s edge, and it’s the perfect end to
a perfect trip.
Eventually, everyone heads back up to the cabins, calling out goodbyes and promising to be ready for our ten o’clock departure
tomorrow, and maybe, if I weren’t so focused on Dylan, I’d notice how Jude and Toby hang back, just the two of them, shoulder
to shoulder.
‘What are you thinking about so loud?’ I ask, following Dylan through the gate and sliding the lock behind me.
She looks straight ahead, puffing up her cheeks and releasing the air slowly. ‘Big things.’ When we pass the reception, she
swallows heavily and says, ‘I got a text from Tahlia today.’
‘How is she?’
‘She’s really good. Having the best time. Because, I guess, she’s figuring it all out for herself.’ Our fingers brush as we
walk along the smooth path, and she continues, ‘I should figure my life out too. I’ve been thinking a lot about what I should
do when I get back.’
‘What’s the verdict?’
‘I think,’ she slows and I match her pace, ‘I’m going to see if I can defer the job I’ve got lined up. And I’m trying to come
to terms with the possibility that the deferral may end up being permanent.’
The lump that’s made an inconvenient home in my throat recently rises a little higher. She’s giving herself a chance, finally,
and fuck, at least I have that. At least I know that when we part ways, she’ll be putting herself first.
My hand finds hers and squeezes. ‘That’s huge.’
She looks at me, hazel eyes wide. ‘Do you think it’s a good idea?’
‘Do you?’
‘The idea of going back to a life that’s exactly the same as the one I left has been eating away at me. Making me feel trapped.’
She adds in a quiet voice, ‘And I feel like I’ve only just started to stand tall.’
‘Then it’s a good idea.’ I lift our joined hands and press a kiss to hers, and I feel deep in my chest how badly I’ve screwed
myself over with this. The reminder that life goes on without me is an ache as much as a comfort. I want her to be happy,
but it doesn’t make it sting any less. Send me a postcard from that bright future of yours, I want to say. I’ll be here.
‘I know you’ve probably had epiphanies on Mount Kilimanjaro or whatever, but this place has shifted my perspective.’ She takes
a deep breath to say, ‘It’s you, too. The way you’ve been aggressively telling me to live for myself.’
‘I can be wise, sometimes,’ I say, trying to lighten the weight that may or may not be crushing my sternum. ‘If a little bossy.’
‘A lot bossy,’ she agrees, offering a smile that I mentally tuck away for later consumption. I’ll swipe through my favourites
in a slideshow: the playful ones when she’s trying to get a rise out of me, the bashful ones when she’s made a joke and someone
else has laughed, the ones that press directly against my mouth, the breathless ones when she’s heavy-lidded and satisfied,
the ones that come with a bonus firework of a laugh.
‘Do you have any ideas for what you’ll do instead?’ I ask.
‘I don’t have a concrete plan. Just dreams, maybe.’
‘I think dreams might be the best type of plan.’
We’re on the main path to the cabins now, walking our daily kaleidoscope with every colourful door we pass.
‘I have a little bit in savings. Not a ton, but it’s something. I was thinking of using the money to travel for a few months.
I don’t think I’m ready to do anything wild yet, so maybe I’ll explore Europe a bit first.’
Images of Dylan in various locations across the Continent flicker across my brain. Eating ice cream by a lake. Hiking a waterfall. Pink cheeks in the snow.
A cruel part of my brain inserts me into some of these images, too, taunting me with things I can’t have.
‘It sounds like a good start,’ I say. ‘What about after?’
‘I don’t know. I love the sea. I think maybe I want to live on the coast someday. I can’t explain it, but I just feel right here.’
‘Me too,’ I say, though I’m almost certain that it’s less to do with the place than the person I’m in it with.
‘I want to wake up to the sound of seagulls and watch the sunset over the ocean and become one of those really annoying people
who goes in the sea every day, even in the winter, and tells everyone they meet about the benefits of cold-water swimming.’
Our laughs mingle with the sound of wind chimes, and we stand there by our blue front door, facing each other. I don’t know
how long we stay like that. Time functions differently when it’s just the two of us; each second feels weightier, fuller somehow,
made of some other, denser fabric.
I thought she looked pretty on the beach earlier, with the golden-hour sun shining down on her, but it’s nothing compared
to this. She’s become her own light source. I don’t know if it’s optimism, or excitement, or the simple knowledge that she’s
on the precipice of something new, but it brings fire to her eyes and turns her smile into something so bright, I know I should
look away.
But I don’t, because I’m a masochist, if nothing else.
‘Whatever you do, you’ll make it great,’ I say. When I bring my hand to cup her cheek, she holds it there. ‘And you’ll make
it yours.’