“I’ll give you ten grand,” I say, pushing my fingers against my eyes. This is so fucked up.
There’s a pause before, “Make it twelve and I’ll think about it.” The line goes dead.
I groan—I drop my phone on the couch, put my hands over my face, and let out a long, frustrated groan. Fuck. After all this time, why the hell does she keep using him against me? I swear I’ve spent the last thirteen years with my balls held firmly in her vice-like grip while she’s called the shots and poisoned my son against me. She twists every situation so I’m the bad guy and she’s the poor abandoned woman who wouldn’t hurt a fly. Hate is a word I rarely use, but I’ll use it where my ex is concerned. Narcissist also comes to mind too, but I feel that’s used a little too loosely nowadays.
There have been times where I’ve wanted to give up the fight and let her have what she wants, which is me out of the picture. At first, she hated me because I wouldn’t forgive her affair, and then it morphed into this wild need to crush me. Google my name and you’ll find a bunch of unpleasant allegations about me, all unfounded and only published inside gossip magazines. But once that shit is out there, it sticks, and I’ve been forced to defend myself in the court of public opinion more than a few times. But again, I wouldn’t let her win. I worked too damn hard to let her affect my career with her pettiness, and when she couldn’t mess with my career, she messed with my relationship with my son. And I still won’t go away. I’m not going to let her ruin me. I’m not going to let her destroy what sliver of a connection I have with my own kid. I believe that if I get a good solid block of time with him, I can turn things around, get him to see that I’m not the evil arsehole his mother paints me as. And if I’m lucky, when he turns eighteen next October and finishes school, he’ll choose to come visit me himself.
I don’t know. Maybe that’s just a pipe dream. But I have to give it a good go. Otherwise she wins and all these years of fighting will have been for nothing. Fuck, I hate this.
Dropping my hands, I move to the fridge and grab a beer, tapping off the cap before heading out to the deck, needing some fresh air to clear out the buzzing in my brain. I stand at the railing, sucking down my beer while I stare at the calm ocean. Serenity.
This view was my sole reason for buying this place. Being near the ocean centres me. When I was a much younger man, I was prone to angry outbursts. I took a lot of what I had in life for granted. That included my marriage and my family. While I never cheated, I wasn’t a good husband to Tash. I fell prey to the same cockiness that a lot of footballers succumbed to—believing my own shit. When enough people tell you how awesome you are, it ends up going to your head. Add to that a hefty salary and media attention, and you have yourself a recipe for the most arrogant pricks on the planet.
Not that Tash was some paragon of virtue. She had her issues too, and at the end of the day, we never should have married each other. She chose me because she wanted to be a WAG and I was her ticket to achieving that goal. She liked the money. She liked the way people treated her and the doors being my wife opened for her.
I married her because I was an arsehole who thought landing the hot model most guys could only beat off over was the epitome of ‘making it’. Then we added a kid to the mix and, well, you see where that got us.
“I could never be upset with you… My home is your home, sweetheart. You know that. When do you need to be out?”
Turning my head to the side, I find Esme sitting in the dark on her deck. She’s talking on the phone and…she’s vaping?
“The end of December? What in heavens? Was he ever going to tell you?”
I sniff the air, the unmistakable earthy musk filling my nose. I move to where our decks join and lean over my railing so I can see her past the privacy screen. She spots me right away and we exchange a smile.
“Just do whatever you need to wrap things up on your side. I’ll clear out the other two rooms and you can stay as long as you need.” She gives me a look that means she’s asking if I’ll help with that. I nod like I’m saying ‘of course’ then she says, “It’s no trouble at all, dear girl,” as she rises from her seat and offers me the device.
I take it and inhale, letting the smoke fill my lungs before holding it in. It doesn’t take long before my mind is light with synthesised happiness.
“It’s good stuff,” I say, the smoke escaping as I hand the vape back to her.
She shrugs and takes another pull as she listens to her caller then offers it to me again. I refuse. I don’t mind a drag, but I’ve never been one to get baked at every opportunity.
With a shrug, she blows out the smoke and gestures for me to come to her side of the deck. Of course, I oblige the request.
Normally, I climb around the screen like a kid, but with my knee still strapped from my fall, I take the long way, grabbing a couple of extra beers while I’m at it. Conversation is better at night with a drink in hand.
She’s finished with her caller when I get to her and I hand her an opened bottle, which she lifts in thanks as I sit.
“That was Darcy,” she says, nodding at the phone that’s face down on the table. “She and the kids are going to be staying here for a while.”
“A while?” I lift my brow. I’d be lying if I said she didn’t cross my mind more than once today. Primarily because I’m still kicking myself for jumping into bed with her. I want the chance to redeem myself, show her I’m interested in her. The sex part—if it happens again—is a bonus.
“That husband of hers is a piece of work.” Esme shakes her head. “He’s cleaned them out. Lost the house and left her with a mountain of debt she can’t possibly pay.”
“That motherf—” I stop myself before I say the whole word. But seriously, who the fuck does that to his wife and kids? It’s bad enough he left, but what fucking arsehole leaves his wife with intentional debt and without a roof over her head? His kids…
“No. I think you’re right to say it. He definitely is a motherfucker. They’ll be here a few days before Christmas, so we’ve a couple of weeks to get those rooms cleared out. The kids need to finish off the school year and Darcy needs to organise storage of whatever personal belongings the bank isn’t claiming. What an absolute nightmare. Someone needs to make that man pay for this.”
“If the courts don’t get him, I will.” I clench my fist and my knuckles pop. I don’t tend to go around hitting people, but some circumstances call for busted faces and broken bones.
“Oh, that’s very sweet of you, dear.” She pats my closed fist. “But it won’t be necessary. I’ll put a vex on him, make it so his junk won’t work anymore. Testicular cancer will be the least of his worries.”
“He left without warning too, didn’t he?” Darcy didn’t give me many specific details during our chats but what I did know made my blood boil. I wasn’t an awesome husband, not by any stretch of the imagination, but one thing I did do right was remain faithful. From the sound of things, Darcy’s husband was running around behind her back and left her to go and experience new pussy without hiding it anymore. Her words, not mine. I don’t know the guy personally, but I’m pretty sure my old violent streak will struggle to stay dormant if we ever come face to face. In my book, you don’t step out on your woman. Ever. If you want to sow your seeds, have the decency to break it off so you’re single first. The cheating culture was the one major thing I hated about rugby.
“Walked out the day they discovered he was cancer free. Has nothing but farts for brains that man,” Esme says, and I try not to laugh—I obviously have the humour of an eight-year-old—because she’s dead serious right now. I wipe a hand over my face to keep it even as she picks up her vape then titches when she realises it’s empty. “Who leaves a twenty-year marriage without saying goodbye to his kids?” She’s shaking her head, picking up her beer and lifting it to her lips.
“Arseholes,” I state.
“Exactly.” She drinks her beer and sits silently for a moment, her glassy eyes looking past me a
s she works her lips back and forth. I hate seeing such hopelessness in her eyes. “I shouldn’t even be speaking to you about this. It’s not my story to tell.”
“I won’t repeat anything.”
She pats my hand again. “I know you won’t. But, still, Darcy is about to move out here with the kids. She’s still processing—hasn’t even told Archer yet.”
“Does her daughter know?” I barely met Abigail in the two and a half weeks they were here, but she seemed like your typical teen: angry at the world, trying to find her place in it.
Esme nods. “Didn’t take it well, apparently. And Darcy isn’t great with confrontation, so she’s trying to find the right time to tell Archer. We’re all sworn to secrecy.”
“My lips are sealed,” I assure her, nodding with my brows knitted because I don’t think there will ever be a right time. Archer is a smart kid, so he’ll pick up that something is going on.
“Thank you.”
“Darcy isn’t hoping he’ll come back, is she?” The thought and the question jump into my head at the same time.
“Kevin?”
I nod, and Esme smiles like she knows more than she should.
“I don’t think she could stand to be in the same room with him. She just… She has a very gentle heart and I think she’s hoping he’ll at least speak to his kids to explain why he left.”
“I can understand that.”
“Can you? I don’t understand it at all. Rip the Band-Aid off, I say. Expose him for the selfish bastard he’s always been. If he doesn’t want that amazing woman and those gorgeous kids then he shouldn’t be spared a fleeting thought, because I’m sure someone”—she pauses and looks at me—“will be happy to be the kind of man she needs.” She sits back in her seat and waves a hand. “But I’m harsh and impatient, and Darcy is kind and loyal. It’s why that man could take advantage of her all those years. She always sees the best in people. I don’t need to tell you how worried I’ve always been for her.” She often spoke of Darcy as though she were a bird with her wings clipped. “Her sister is just like their mother, barrels through life like a big wrecking ball, going after what she wants, never taking shit from anyone. But Darcy was always a dreamer, always a hoper. I don’t think I’ve ever told you, but once she brought home this awful stray dog who bit everyone that came close to him, including her. Everyone agreed that he was dangerous and needed to go to the pound. But not Darcy, she put so much love on that animal, that it loved her with every bit of his little doggy heart. He still hated everyone else, but Darcy was special. I suppose she always thought she could do the same thing with humans, why she married a man who was quite harsh. She always thought love could fix things.” She touches her fingers to her lips as she stares off, thinking.
Knowing this wanker manipulated Darcy really pisses me off. From what I can tell, she’s the whole package. She’s intelligent, beautiful, kind, thoughtful, sexy…although I don’t know if she believes that about herself. To even consider that he belittled Darcy fucks with my brain. Over the years, I’ve seen plenty of players manipulate their women, some of them even took things physical, and I hope to God that wasn’t the case here.
“Was he cruel to her?”
She inhales like she’s surprised I’m sitting here. “Not physically. But mentally, yes, he treated her as less than himself. Was always very controlling and used love as a weapon. One of those men who seems like a nice man, but won’t let his wife have any other interests besides taking care of him.”
“Doesn’t sound like love to me.”
“No. It doesn’t, does it? I think he loved that she loved him, if that makes sense.” She sighs then frowns at her now-empty beer bottle. “I need to shut up.” She smiles and meets my eyes. “Booze and dope are making me chatty.”
“Why don’t you tell me about your craft group then?” I figure a change in subject will keep both of us from feeling guilty about airing someone else’s dirty laundry. But in a way, it’s good to get a bit more background information since I can’t seem to get Darcy out of my head. She’s been through a lot, so I’ll have to be patient, which isn’t going to be a problem for me. When I’m this interested in a woman, I tend to see that interest through to the bitter end. I’d rather go down fighting than not fight at all, so I won’t pretend that I’m not pretty fucking excited that Darcy’s coming back so soon. She only left this morning, and I already miss our daily chats. Not that I struggle for company—I’ve got plenty of friends to call on and plenty to do work wise—but Darcy very quickly became my favourite part of the day. The next two weeks are going to pass slowly. I wish I had her mobile number so we could talk. But then, she’s got enough on her plate right now. I still can’t believe that bastard cleaned her out.
“Craft group. You don’t want to hear about a bunch of old ladies getting drunk and gasbagging, do you?”
I grin. “Of course I do. Surely you’ve been up to some kind of shenanigans lately.” Esme’s ‘craft group’ is comprised of four other women in the complex who like to mix cocktails more than they like to do craft. They get a few drinks into them and get into all kinds of trouble. Some involving the cops, but we don’t talk about those times…
“In that case, have I got a story for you. See, we took up quilling, which is when you wind up strips of card to make pretty pictures. Carla showed up with the supplies thinking we were supposed to be crocheting.” She pauses to giggle, which makes me smile. “Anyway, we were drinking whiskey sours and crocheting with Carla, and you won’t believe what she had us making. Willy warmers.” She throws her head back and cackles so hard her shoulders bounce.
“Willy what?”
“Willy warmers.” She wipes a stray tear from her eye. “They’re little penis pockets.”
“What?” Now I’m laughing.
“Look it up on your phone.”
I do as she says and find these strange-looking socks that cover your dick and your balls and tie with a string around your waist. Why a bloke would ever want one is beyond me. “Did she know that’s what they were?” I ask, holding up my phone only for Esme to lose it, laughing so hard that the sound becomes a wheeze.
She shakes her head. “She thought they were children’s toys. They were animal designs—chickens, elephants, snakes—and it wasn’t until we put them all together and looked properly that we realised that it was shaped like a dick and balls.”
I have tears and my stomach hurts from laughing.
“She said she found the pattern on Pinterest when she was searching for animal pouches. Was going to give them to her grandkids to keep their canteen money in.” Her laughter becomes a squawk and I can barely breathe.
“Oh my God, imagine you hadn’t realised.”
“I know.”
I wipe away my tears, now running down my cheeks. “What will you do with them now?”
“Oh, that’s easy. We’re making more to sell at the Bayside Hospital fete at the end of March.”
“The hospital is happy for you to do that?”
“Oh no. We’re saying they’re coin pouches. We want to see how long we can get away with it for.”
“You ladies are evil.” I shake my head, still laughing as I wipe at my cheeks.
“We’re crafty, actually. You should come. It’ll be hilarious. You’ll be the only one in on the joke.”
FOURTEEN
DARCY
“I’m probably too old to be asking this, but I have a grave concern about spending Christmas at Nana’s,” Archer says in his usual thirty-year-old scholarly way. He’s taking a pause in the marathon Roblox session he’s been having on his iPad from the back seat of the car since we left Bairnsdale. All I want to say is thank God for portable Wi-Fi. That is quite literally the best invention of the twenty-first century and makes long road trips a breeze for parents. (Unless the Wi-Fi won’t connect, of course.)
“What’s that, mate?” I glance at him via the rear-view mirror and he’s got his mouth all twisted and his nose crinkled up
in thought.
“Well, it’s just that we always have Christmas in the same house and I’m worried that Santa won’t know where to go,” he admits, mumbling that last bit as his eyes dart towards Abigail.
“Oh my God, Archer,” she shoots over her shoulder. “You are not that naïve.”
“If you don’t believe you don’t receive,” he yells back, and suddenly our peaceful car trip is a yelling match.
“Enough, enough,” I say to them both. “Abigail, quit harassing your brother, and Archer, don’t yell at your sister. Of course Santa will know where you are, you needn’t worry.”
“Yeah, because it’ll be Mum and Nana doing the gifts,” Abby mutters under her breath. I shoot her a wide-eyed look that says, ‘shut your mouth’ and she just rolls her eyes and looks away.
“How does that song go?” I ask, giving Archer a flash of a smile as I glance back at him before returning my eyes to the road. “He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake.”
“Stalker.” Abby coughs out the word, which I ignore.
“That means that no matter where you are in the world, Santa keeps an eye on you. And on Christmas morning, your presents will be under the tree and your stocking will be full and it’ll be just like it normally is.”
“But at the beach,” he chirps. It’s been the source of his excitement the entire time we were packing up our belongings. I say belongings, because the bank will be selling our furniture too. Kevin really did a number on our finances and I’m going to need a good lawyer to sort this all out. God only knows how I’ll afford one.
“And without Dad,” Abigail adds and then we all go quiet. I can’t fight about this with her again. She’s gotten to the point where she thinks I’m purposely keeping her from seeing or speaking to Kevin. But at least she hasn’t been nasty enough to spill the beans to Archer. He’ll still get the illusion of a nuclear family for a while longer. Thankfully he hasn’t really asked much about his father, but then, he’s never known a time when Kevin didn’t go away on his ‘trips’. Archer’s been the least of my worries, which I’m grateful for, because with Abby so snappy and the head-spinning legalities of an impending bankruptcy, I don’t think I can handle another peep of negativity. I’m barely holding on as it is.
Love is a Beach: a romantic comedy Page 9
