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Diana studies me carefully, waiting for my response. “Even if you're right, I don't know what you think we can do about it.”
“Not we,” she says carefully. “You.”
“Me?”
“You know how to have fun, Dylan. You know how to live life and make the most of every opportunity. Show my daughter. Take her rock climbing and abseiling. Help her to relax andunwind before you leave. Teach her how to live one day at a time.”
“Even if I wanted to do that, I'm not sure why you think Claire would ever listen to me.”
Diana stares me down. “You get under her skin and that's the way you like it, but don't try to fool me; the two of you care deeply for one another.”
“Yeah, she's like a sister to me.”
The words taste false and stale, and Diana looks anything but convinced.
“I see how she looks at you and how you look at her. You two can lie to each other all you want, but don't bother lying to me. I see right through it.”
Her eyes are piercing, and I get the feeling she's seen through every act I've ever put on in front of her where Claire is concerned. “You've never said anything about it before.”
“I didn't see the point before now. I've always known you were going to leave on this trip of yours one day. As much as I would have liked to have seen you kids together, I knew that if you were involved, it would have broken Claire's heart to see you leave.”
Guilt and shame wash through me. Why did I let myself sleep with Claire? Whatever happens next, I'm going to hurt her.
“Dylan, please,” Diana says, moving forward so she's perched on the edge of the couch and can cover my hand with her own. “Claire needs a friend.”
“She has friends, Diana. They all look out for her.”
“But they're not like you. She needs your friendship. I'm asking you to do this as a favour. For me.”
I open my mouth and close it again. What am I supposed to say? “Okay.”
She pats my hand. “Good.”
“I'll try, but you know Claire is stubborn. There's a good chance she'll laugh in my face when I tell her I want to be her friend.”
There's an even better chance Claire is going to slap me upside the head when I tell her I have no intention of sleeping with her again. I'm not, however, going to mention that to Diana. The woman loves me like a son, or so she says, but even Claire's mother doesn't believe I would be a good bet for Claire romantically speaking.
“I know you can be just as stubborn,” Diana says. “Don't take no for an answer.”
Claire needs my friendship more than she needs me as a lover. As for how to break the news that I'm not going to continue what we started last night? I need to work that one out quickly.
13
Claire
I'm so busy looking at Dylan's motorbike in the middle of my mother's driveway that I hit the curb and drive up onto it. I immediately correct my mistake, letting the car drop down into the gutter, before I park outside my mother's latest abode.
Mum has changed her home address more times than I can count. At first, it was Dad who was the catalyst for our gypsy-like existence. Instead of working a predictable and safe nine-to-five job, he renovated the houses we owned. Each time we moved, we were met with a house that was practically crumbling down around us. Then Dad would fix everything, and as soon as the place was liveable – sometimes even beautiful – we would move into another dump. I was never able to call one of those houses home.
And when Dad fell in love with the idea of studying under a guru to gain spiritual enlightenment, he moved overseas as if his wife and children were holding him back from self-realisation. Instead of being bitter and angry about it, like I was, Mum maintained she could do everything herself. And that, of course, meant continuing to move around. She insisted we continue to move because it kept her creativity fresh.
Sometimes I think my mother moved because she didn't know how to stay in one place after so many years of moving around with her husband. Other times, I wonder if she genuinely believes that living anywhere for more than a year equals ‘stagnation’. Is it any wonder Mum and Dylan get along so well? They are two peas in a pod.
Quite frankly, I'm looking forward to a little stagnation if it means permanence and setting down roots. I eye Dylan's bike again. Well, just as soon as I've had enough fun.
I didn't expect to see him until Thursday. I was counting on the time between then and now to get a grip on the tumult of emotions I feel every time he crosses my mind. Perhaps I should have expected to see him here, but I've been so busy trying not to think about Dylan and our night together – and failing – that I forgot he usually visits my mother on Sundays.
Turning off the car engine, I contemplate how I'm supposed to look Dylan in the eye in front of Mum and not blush the colour of my deep red jumper. How am I supposed to pretend I'm not revisiting the memory of his hands and mouth all over me? My mother will know something is off since she rarely misses anything. People might think she has her head in the clouds, but Mum's intuition is as close to a sixth sense as they come.
