by T M Bashford
After leaving Brett on Sassy, I had run up the beach for miles before finding a taxi to take me to the airport. There, I booked the next flight out, not caring where it took me. Samoa was supposed to be paradise, but it had taken Shae from me and I couldn’t stay there a minute longer. The journey took me via Papua New Guinea, where I dozed in an uncomfortable chair before catching the next flight to Sydney.
Craving a shower, the mirrors reflect my movement toward the bathroom. I expect to see the shadows under my eyes, the stubble, how pale I am, but I don’t expect to see the eyes that stare back at me—empty and dead.
Over the following weeks, I shadow Dad’s colleagues—my colleagues—appoint a mentor, and devour company documents and news clippings. If I’m to take over Dad’s empire, I need to learn fast. I consider getting an art degree on the side but every time I do, I’m walloped by the memory of the sketches Shae had scribbled over, crumpled and discarded. I can’t draw any more.
I’m in the gym each day at six. The punching bag gets a pasting, then I’m off to the office for business meetings and company training, rarely returning before eight for dinner. After that, there’s more document reading and a final boxing session before I lay in bed, battling to sleep. Tonight, I give up on getting any shuteye at three a.m. and read some notes I made during an earlier meeting. There’s a soft tap on my door. Jamison pokes his head into the room.
“I saw the light on,” he says, “and I took the liberty of making you some tea.” His bushy eyebrows are pushed up like question marks.
I’d barely spent any time with Jamison since my return and hadn’t indulged in any kitchen visits to talk with a pot of tea between us. I suppose I’m avoiding a discussion about what had happened because it hurts, and I can’t form the words. Instead, Jamison hovers nearby, and I’ve kept myself occupied. I expect he’s waited in the kitchen late into the night, hoping I’d come for tea and sandwiches or hot chocolate and chocolate chip cookies as I had in the past.
A ripple of guilt makes me swing my legs out of bed. “Thanks, Jamison. Come in.”
“I took the liberty of making one for myself, too.” He marches over to the table and chairs by the window, settles the tray, and begins to pour, his back as straight as if there’s a wooden plank permanently fitted to the inside of his suit jacket. I pull on a dressing gown.
“Working?” he asks. “I’m afraid you’re turning into your father.”
I don’t know how to reply. I had avoided becoming like my dad for most of my life, but I learned too late that he was a great man. He believed in what he was building, built businesses which benefited society, and sent profits to countries in need. He wasn’t the stone-hearted, hard-nosed capitalist I had thought him to be. I had always criticized him for the lack of balance he had in his life—especially after Mom died. He had left Jamison to father me and I’d resented that, even though Jamison is as dear to me as any father.
But I have no one to disappoint if I work twenty-four hours a day. No one is going to miss me.
I sit and take a sip of tea. “Is mimicking Dad such a bad thing? As he did, I’m discovering the job is a good distraction.”
Jamison sits deep into his chair, unbuttons his suit jacket, and crosses his legs. “It depends on your reasons, though. He was building something—creating jobs, providing for you and your mother. He loved everything he did. It was a hobby, therefore working all those hours the day delivered wasn’t a chore.”
I shrug, dismissing the hint.
“But you toil away like it’s a punishment,” he adds.
“I’ve got a lot to learn in a short amount of time.” My gaze settles on Jamison’s concerned face. “I’ve got a lot to prove… a lot to live up to.”
“Your father didn’t become the man he was overnight—and certainly not at the age of twenty-four.”
I nod in acknowledgment.
“Miss Love? Is the Vega Corporation helping to distract you from a broken heart?”
I put the teacup on the saucer and spin it around. “I’ll get there, Jamison. For now, this is working for me.”
Jamison sips his tea and I get up and open the French doors to let in some night air. I’m tortured by the sight of Sirius.
“How are you finding everything at the office?” he asks. “Are your colleagues helpful? Professional?”
“Yes, they are. It’s coming together. The hardest part is the hate mail. People tarnish every rich man with the same brush, believing him to be greedy, heartless, and hard-nosed. They hate me because I’m wealthy. Someone even made a death threat because they think our company is supporting terrorists and as I’m head of the company… it’s just not true. I didn’t expect any of that.”
“I assume the police have been informed.”
“There’s a whole company process we follow. It’s not the first time this has happened.”
“Perhaps that’s why your father had this estate secured and a guard stationed at the gate. Arnold, your driver, is ex-FBI.”
“He is? Great.” I don’t mention it to Jamison, but I worry about backlash from Eddie. What if he’s after revenge and this is a way of getting it? I inspect the high brick walls covered in vines that surround the house. “Then there’s the trickle of letters from people claiming that they’re the love-child of my dad and they should inherit his estate.”
“It proves the average person can be as greedy and unscrupulous as the clichéd image of a wealthy businessman. Except these members of the public are lazy, too—attempting to make money without working for it.”
“I’m a target, Jamison, a lone fish in a pool with people throwing spears at me, wanting me gone for no explicit reason. How did my father live with that?”
“I suppose he focused on all the good he was doing.”
Not for the first time, I wish I’d reunited with my father sooner.
Jamison clears his throat. “Master Brett telephoned this morning.” My body clenches, the breath frozen in my lungs. “He asked you to return his call.”
“Thanks.” Like that’s ever going to happen. The silence is long, and Jamison takes his cue and tidies the tray.
“Night then, Drew.” I cut to him. His expression is charged with double-meanings—sympathy, confusion, sorrow, fondness. He’s never called me anything other than Master Drew and since Dad’s death, it’s either sir or Mr. Vega. We’ve argued about it; I always hated the formality of it—how it made me feel like he was a servant when he is closer to an uncle.
“Night, Jamison.”
He balances the tray and leaves the room.
“Jamison,” I call. He opens the door again, his wayward eyebrows pushed up. “If Brett should phone again, please tell him I’m out—no matter what.” Jamison strains to keep his expression blank. He’s entertained Brett with cookies and hot chocolate since Brett and I first became friends twenty years ago.
To: Drew [email protected]
From: Brett [email protected]
Subject: Checking in
Hey mate,
I hope you’re okay. Jamison said you’re fine. Can’t seem to reach you by phone. You’re probably screening my calls. I understand you’re angry, but please remember we both thought it was over between you.
We’ve moved to California. Shae’s finishing college then plans to solo sail around the world. Not sure how I’ll cope with her leaving, but that’s a year away—it’s not the easiest thing to organize. She’s fine, by the way. I know you worry about her.
My parents have agreed to enroll me at UCLA as long as I study law. Whatever, eh?
Guess you’re pretty busy taking over your new empire. Have fun with that. Don’t forget us little people.
Brett (who still sees himself as your best mate if you need one)
Shae
Having spent most of the last five months either on a boat or in Samoa, I wonder if returning to the crowded, traffic-ridden California is another bad decision. I long to wake on Sassy instead of the small room
I rent in West Hollywood from Emily, my old college roommate, where sirens, car horns, and loud voices are a constant backdrop. Emily graduated and lives alone after a recent break up with a boyfriend.
Despite living in a city with a population of millions, I need my invisibility cloak more than ever. I’m the girl who killed her partner, and people are either impressed and slap me on the shoulder or they are wary and whisper behind their hands.
“I assumed guys would be more mature once they left college,” Emily says. We’re both carrying grocery bags up the hill to the apartment. “But they’re just as bad. I might have to target the over thirties to find someone half decent who isn’t playing the field.” She blows irritably at her blunt cut bangs, her blond bob swaying around her cheeks.
My mind wanders to Sassy. Before I left Samoa, I visited George to ask him to tow her to his jetty, but his cottage was locked up. I waited for two hours before leaving a note in his mailbox suggesting Sassy could be his new pet project. I must call the Coconut Palm Beach Resort where he teaches surfing and get his phone number.
“Did you hear me?” Emily stops. She’s puffing from the incline of the road.
“Sorry. I was preoccupied.”
“Still moping about Drew?” She rolls her brown eyes and we continue walking. “I’ve survived a dozen break ups. You need to find a distraction—another guy usually works.”
“Not moping. Thinking about going sailing in the Christmas break,” I lie.
“You’ve just started teaching at your old yacht club and now you’re craving a sailing holiday?”
“Teaching is different than going alone.”
“Haven’t you had a gutful of the ocean? Shouldn’t you be moving on and making changes? Go party and replace that plate of deliciousness.”
“I owe Ryan for giving me my old job, so no late-night partying for me.”
Emily stops walking again. I turn to her, wondering what I’ve not heard this time.
“Well, hello, gorgeous,” she says as she peeks past my shoulder.
I peer up the hill toward our apartment. Brett is marching closer and waving.
“Shit,” I say under my breath. Some part of me is happy to see him. We became friends while in Samoa and shared some great times, but most of me wants him to stay away. Sometimes, I have nightmares about the time he put a gun to his head because I wouldn’t kiss him or love him back, and I’m aware he’s unpredictable enough for that to be repeated in some way. But he also brings out the ‘fixer’ in me. Despite all he’s done, I worry about him. He needs help because of the kidnapping and how his father treated him. I know what it’s like to have a father who makes you feel unloved. I want to fix Brett, or at the very least, help him get on the right track. I nearly succeeded in Samoa. He was a different person—the real Brett—until the kayaking day.
“Hope you don’t mind me dropping by,” he shouts and marches toward us. “If I wait for an invite, I might never see you. It’s been at least two weeks.”
Emily looks from me to Brett and back again. His pace quickens and he strides straight into me without slowing down, bear hugs me, and lifts me clear off the ground. My cheeks burn. When he plunks me down, he holds my shoulders.
“You seem okay. Functioning at least.” He chuckles and takes my shopping bag. I surreptitiously sniff for alcohol and he passes the test. His expression turns from concerned parent to shunned lover. A shadow crosses his face and his eyes scald mine. “Did you miss me?” he growls.
Emily’s jaw hits the pavement.
I place my lips into a smile. “This is Brett. Brett, meet my friend, Emily.”
“Hey, Emily,” he says, but his gaze doesn’t leave my face. He’s cut his hair and his bangs don’t reach the tip of his nose anymore. “What Shae meant to say is ‘This is Brett, my best friend in the world, the one who’s always there for me and who’s moved here from Australia to make sure I’m okay’… that Brett.”
“I think you’ll find I’m her best friend,” Emily quips.
“We should collude then. We’ll soon have the Gotta Go Girl back in the game.” He finally peels his gaze from me and turns to her. “Emily? You’re the girl Shae stole the name from.”
Emily gives me a pointed stare. “You need to fill me in, bestie, cause I’m a bit lost here.”
“When I arrived in Samoa, I was worried about being identified so I used your name. First one that popped into my brain.”
“I’m honored.” Emily adjusts the bag in her arms.
“Let me take your bag,” Brett says. He pulls it from her grasp without waiting for an answer and takes mine as well.
We turn toward what is now home and Brett tells us he’s enrolled at UCLA and lives nearby, but in this traffic, it’s an hour’s car trip.
“You look too old to be a student,” Emily says. “I mean that in a good way.”
“Dropped out of a business degree in Australia, then went traveling. I’m trying to finish it over here. Shae and I are helping each other get our lives sorted.”
“You’re welcome to come over anytime,” Emily says.
Brett’s eyes graze over me. No wonder I prefer solo sailing—my life just got complicated again.
Despite living an hour apart, Brett visits me often, bringing magazines, curry dinners he’s cooked himself, Cokes, and humorous college stories. He even whisks me to Disneyland. He’s relaxed and friendly, and I enjoy his company. Maybe I can get him back on track after all. Once the holidays kick in, Emily, Brett, and I take road trips to Mexico, Vegas, and north to Sequoia National Park. Brett is nothing but charming and makes us laugh. He helps me forget my severed heart for a while. My family thinks we’re getting together, and they’re glad—I told them Drew chose a different life to the one I wanted, and we split up.
In my weaker moments, I Google Drew. He’s a media magnet, often photographed arriving at public social events or in a box at a big football game. Sometimes he’s pictured after an announcement about the Vega Corporation, wearing a suit and shaking someone’s hand. I browse the photos, numb with confusion and longing. It’s as if we never happened. But it always turns to anger. He’s the one who gave up on me and left. Never again.
One day, at the end of January—two months after we left Samoa—Drew is on the front page of the yachting magazine I subscribe to. He’s pictured at a Royal Sydney Yacht Squadron jetty, part of a group of men with the harbor and several yachts in the background. Apparently, Drew joined the private club late last year and is a keen crew member. As a result, he’s agreed to finance Australia’s challenger boat for the America’s Cup.
A part of me is proud he’s continued sailing. But I’m engulfed by a clogging sadness knowing we’ll never sail together again.
If I’m to move forward, I need to stop delving into his world. I vow not to Google him again.
Drew
Colbie finally returned to Sydney after staying in Samoa for a holiday, and after her parents begged her to return for Christmas.
“Hello, moneybags,” she says down the phone. “I had to get your number from your office and even then, I had to get approval from this guy named Jamison. How posh.”
“Sorry. I’ll give you my cell.”
“Ooh, a direct line to the most eligible gay bachelor in Sydney.”
“Gay bachelor?”
“Don’t you read the news? Apparently, you go to parties, regattas, charity events, and award nights, but always without a date. They’re speculating that you’re gay.”
“There are worse things they could speculate about. What else are they saying?”
“That you’ve joined some Royal Yacht club. Eddie didn’t put you off, then?”
“No. In fact, the club’s become my second home. I met this guy, Christian, and he’s helped me improve my skills.” When I’m sailing, my heart uncurls from the tight ball it has rolled itself into. At least for a short time, I’m calmer. It’s not that I want to feel closer to Shae—I know that part of my life is over—but sa
iling makes me content, yet strong and in control, unlike at any other time. The yacht club saves me, and I no longer work sixteen-hour days or find reasons to work on the weekend.
“My parents have asked to meet you,” Colbie adds. “I told them you’re pretty dull and self-important, but they haven’t let up.”
“They understand we’re just friends, right?”
“Course. You’re too much of a good guy for me. They’d love you and we can’t have that. Heard from Shae?”
“Nope.”
“She still got your heart, then?”
“Yep.”
“Are you ever going to tell me what happened?” she asks.
“In fifty years when it doesn’t hurt to think about.”
The news that I’ve agreed to finance the Australian challenger for the America’s Cup distracts the media from my sexuality. Being involved in the race also means I meet like-minded people and travel to watch races all over Australia, New Zealand, and even Europe. Unlike my dad, it helps me achieve the balance I’ve always hoped to have in my life, except that I’m the loneliest man on the planet.
To: Drew [email protected]
From: Brett [email protected]
Subject: Life on Mars
Hey mate,
It’s been a while. Figured I’d touch base.
LA is pretty mad—but I embrace the madness. Americans embrace life with both hands—my kind of people. I’m absorbing the culture from Mexico to Vegas, I’ve met Mickey Mouse, and surfed on the equivalent of Bondi Beach.
I click on the attachment, a photo of Shae and Brett, arm in arm at Disneyland.
Uni’s okay, Shae’s even better. I’d say ‘hi’ from her, but you’re a bit of a taboo subject and she doesn’t talk about you. She’s sailing a lot—trying to teach me—
