‘You know what I can’t help but think, old bean?’ Vince asks mischievously.
‘What?’ Ged looks up, out of breath.
‘Your parents have had an awful lot of sex on that bed. Might have even been the exact spot you left the scrotal fold.’
‘OH MY GOD!’ Ged jumps up with a start, wrinkling his face. ‘You’re a sicko.’
‘I’m not the one sleeping in there, mate.’
Ged glances at the now-tainted bedding, pained. ‘Trade?’
‘Nope,’ Vince says. ‘Not a chance.’
‘Come on,’ Ged whines. ‘Somebody trade with me. Hamlet?’
Vince shoots me a look.
‘Sorry, dude.’
Ged stomps out of the room, throwing open the door to the back balcony. ‘Forget it, all of you!’ He huffs. ‘I’ll sleep outside.’
‘Isn’t it supposed to rain tonight?’ Len says. He’s leaning against the wall with his hands behind him, relaxed now that we’re here. I don’t want to ruin it, but my mind’s still overflowing from overhearing.
‘FUCK!’ Ged screams; it reverberates across the green expanse below, so loud that we laugh.
‘Happy birthday,’ I tell Len again.
‘’Tis,’ he responds.
Later, we order pizza and huddle by a fire pit out the back. The sky is extra bright here. There’s so much of it, and it’s nice to get back to normal for a second. To be away from the city. Exam papers. Parents.
We eat with a chaser of Ged’s home brew, which tastes like there’s a very real possibility it’s made from water stewed in an old boot. There’s cake courtesy of Harrison’s mum, and we all crowd around the formica table in the dining room to sing ‘Happy Birthday’.
‘Make a wish!’ Ged commands.
Len leans over to blow out the candles in one go.
‘What’d you wish for?’ I ask.
‘Nothing.’
‘Vladimir Lennon!’ Vince exclaims. ‘You must wish for something.’
Len shrugs easily. ‘If I tell you, it won’t come true.’
‘Presents,’ Harrison dictates. ‘Open mine first.’
Len opens a copy of his favourite Led Zeppelin album on vinyl. Vince goes next, handing over a tiny package wrapped in tinfoil.
‘Eyeliner.’ Len reads the packet.
‘It’s the sort Russell Brand uses,’ Vince explains proudly.
‘Er, cheers, mate.’
Ged produces a card with several scrunched vouchers to a steak restaurant haphazardly stuffed inside, and tickets to some big football game next year.
I pick up my present last. I bought it months ago, and am secretly relieved nobody managed to top it.
Len looks at me suspiciously, undoing the masses of cork-coloured wrapping paper. ‘Definitely a Hamlet present,’ he says, ripping through the last sticky-taped layer with his teeth. I always overdo it, wrapping and re-wrapping until it’s perfect.
Once it’s finally free he flips it over in his hands, reading the cover. He pauses for a beat too long, then opens to the publication page.
It’s an early-ish edition of The Catcher in the Rye. I’ve always found it a bit cliché that it’s his favourite book, but then he made me read it a year ago. It suits him.
His eyes shoot up to meet mine. ‘You spent money.’
‘Yeah, well. Deal with it.’
He stares at the book some more, running his finger over the dust cover.
‘Thanks,’ he says.
‘Just remember to mention, when you tell the story of this momentous occasion, that my present was the best.’
Unexpectedly, he hugs me. He’s careful to keep it sufficiently stiff and awkward-looking, but his arms are hot around my back. I catch sight of Vince standing off to the side, studying us, and pull away.
We disperse after that – Ged retreats to the den to set up an air mattress, Harrison goes for a shower, Vince skulks to our room to text a girl.
I clean up the kitchen while Len stands outside on the balcony, looking at the charcoal cluster of clouds covering the tip of the mountain. When I’m done, I join him, leaning against the timber railing and wishing I’d brought a coat.
He’s smoking one of the cigarettes Vince passed around earlier. He coughs and holds it out towards me; I wave it away, watching for a bit as he exhales smoke rings.
‘How’s it feel, then?’ I ask after a while. ‘The big one-eight.’
He turns around, thoughtful. ‘Dunno. Ask me tomorrow.’
‘You don’t feel a profound new sense of adulthood?’ I press.
‘Did you?’
I cast my mind back to my own birthday in January. We went to dinner in the city and everyone got so drunk that Gran ended up in a fight with one of the wait staff.
‘Hmm. Not really, I guess. We should, though, shouldn’t we? It’s supposed to be profound.’
‘You can’t choose what’s gonna be profound, Hamlet. It surprises you. That’s the point.’ He sucks in smoke, looking out over the valley, his eyes fiery and far away.
I take a breath. ‘Listen. Are you, like … okay? Your dad …’
I don’t know if what’s going on between us means I can’t say it, or that I can.
‘Is an arsehole,’ he finishes. ‘I’m aware.’
I get the sick feeling again and drop my voice so it’s barely audible. ‘You can talk to me, you know. You should talk to me. That’s how this works.’
His face is polished steel. ‘And if I said I hated him? What would you say?’
‘Um.’ I’m thrown by the tone of his voice. ‘I’d say …’
‘Exactly.’
‘But—’
‘Look. I’m not you, okay? I don’t need to sit and analyse every fucked-up thing.’ He gives me one last disappointed look. ‘Forget it. I’m going inside.’
I try to catch his arm but he shakes me off, turning on his heel with smoke still dripping from his mouth.
I go to bed with a lump in my stomach.
Everybody leaves early the next day, loading cars with duffle bags (or bin liners, in Ged’s case) under a cloud of fog.
‘Let’s wait a bit,’ Len says quietly when he comes to grab my stuff.
I’m lying on my made bed, tired but wired; Vince snored like a freight train the entire night.
I stare up at him, trying to read his face. I’m (very) aware that this is the only time we’re likely to get alone alone for the foreseeable future, and so I nod.
We wave goodbye to Vince and Ged in his beaten-up BMW, then Harrison in his Swift. When they’ve all disappeared around the bend at the end of the road, he speaks with no preamble.
‘Last night.’
I take a deep breath. ‘It’s okay.’
‘I …’ He looks up at the downy gloom over our heads for what feels like a long time. ‘I’m not good at this.’
‘I shouldn’t have pushed you—’
‘It’s not that. It’s just – there’s stuff I keep the lid on because I have to.’
‘I get it,’ I say, wanting to smooth out his conflicted face, even as Internal Henry screams, WHAT STUFF? I want to keep him here, like this.
‘I don’t usually talk much, to people that I’m …’
‘Well,’ I say slowly, sucking in grey sky. ‘That’s fine. You don’t need to.’
Len lets out a breath. ‘Usually, I kind of … lose myself in them for a bit. And this is like the opposite. And – I’m trying, you know?’ He’s looking at me like he wants me to understand.
I walk over, my shoes crunching on the gravel, and wrap one arm around him. He hesitates, then presses his chin into my shoulder.
‘You are very trying,’ I say to make him laugh, and he does. Soft as the trees.
The mist sticks around all day, a filmy coating hung
on everything like magic. Len insists on taking hundreds of pictures, some of which I reluctantly star in. There’s one he shows me that I actually like, where it looks like I’m wearing the weather.
I watch him, with his camera and his hair falling over his forehead, pale and drawn in wind. All the world slow. It’s just now, here, this.
Night falls in fast peach-tinged stages, as though it knows as well as we do what we’re going to do with it.
We sit next to each other watching TV for a bit – a re-run of The OC. There’s a kissing booth and much colourful clothing. Everyone’s favourite emo nerd, Seth, is upset his girlfriend won’t publicly acknowledge their love.
When the episode reaches its crescendo, he stands on top of the booth, and declares himself in front of everyone. Emilia has issues with shows like this – she always says the portrayed teenage experiences are unrealistic.
They seal it with a kiss, and it’s … surprisingly unbearable. Len snorts softly at Seth Cohen’s use of tongue, but the line where our legs touch feels more like it’s covered in embers than denim.
‘You hungry?’ he asks once it’s dark, snapping me back to the present.
I swallow. ‘I could eat.’
He heads to the kitchen and opens a pizza box.
‘Ah, the continental option.’
‘Shut up. I don’t see you contributing anything.’
We set about preparing our meagre meal, both of us quiet. Len reheats pizza and cuts up the last bits of cake. I source ice cream from the freezer to go with it, spooning it into Ged’s mum’s weird glass bowls.
It feels oddly domestic, bumping shoulders in the kitchen like this. Not that we haven’t hundreds of times – but there were always other people in the background. Being alone makes everything charged.
Also, he keeps brushing his fingers maddeningly across every part of me he can reach. Even the skin of my forearm has become an erogenous zone. (Much more of this and I’ll actually catch fire.)
We make the mutual decision not to chance it with Ged’s brew. Len finds some Coke with a questionable use-by date, which he pours into two tall mugs emblazoned with the logo of Ged’s dad’s football team.
We clink.
Dinner is good in a way it only ever is when you’re starving, so we finish quickly, then throw our plates in the sink to deal with in the morning.
‘I can’t believe we actually still have to go to school in a week.’ I groan. ‘I’m not ready.’
Len is silent, swishing a tea towel across the bench. I’ve broken the unspoken rule we’ve been operating under: don’t mention what happens After. When things go back to normal, back to the way they were before.
(But they won’t, surely? They can’t.)
He finishes drying the bench and hangs the towel on the oven handle.
I screw up my courage. ‘If—’
He kisses me, pressing me up against the bench. My body responds immediately, like always; I push back, grasping his face between my hands. His mouth is urgent on mine.
‘Whoa,’ I gasp between kisses. I try to wrench myself free, to hide the effect this is having, but he holds me in place with his hips.
‘What?’ he breathes right in my ear.
The charge sparks, explosive.
I stare at him with my breath stuck in my throat, and then push him sideways, towards the bedroom.
‘Are you s—’
I cut him off with a kiss of my own. It doesn’t match the skill of his, but we’re neck and neck for force.
Maybe it’s last night, or the fact that reality is flexing its jaw on the horizon, but for the first time this year I know exactly what I want.
I’m vaguely aware of the door being opened and closed. I hold him against it, and he makes a sound against my cheek.
I don’t know what we’re doing.
I don’t want to stop.
Len guides me backwards, onto the bed. We line up perfectly, every inch of me arching towards him like he’s the sun.
He presses against me, and it feels – God, so good, like light on the other side of my skin. It’s just us, here. I can do what I want with him (to him), all the desires that’ve been stacked in my head blurring together.
I try to memorise each moment, but there’s too much to be distracted by. He’s holding himself up on his hands. My thumbs graze his hipbones and the belt loops on his jeans. I grab those and pull. Closer, not close enough.
He reaches for the hem of my T-shirt and yanks it up over my head. I do the same with his, and then it’s all of us pressed against each other. Every drop of blood in me rushes to the surface. My fingers ghost over his back, his shoulders, the hollow of his stomach.
There’s a hurried unbuttoning of jeans; I kick mine away clumsily. It’s like my skin’s come off. It’s there again, the pull in my stomach: strong as home. He stares at me so hard I have to look away.
His mouth makes its way down my neck to the spot where it meets my shoulder. I feel the imprint of his lips on my skin like a brand. I feel it everywhere. I try not to make any embarrassing noises, and fail.
He’s better at some parts than me – the, er, French-derived parts. Expert, really. I keep getting tripped up by my teeth. But when I thread one leg through both of his, he shivers and whispers ‘shit’ into my hair.
Is this normal? I don’t know. I just know I’m dissolving, as though my atoms might split on the spot and burst me apart.
I wonder if it’s the same for him. I don’t have much time to wonder anything, though, because his hand slips down between us, warm and insistent and trembling slightly.
My eyes fly open.
He smiles breathlessly, teeth a flash of white in the dark.
‘Do … do you want …?’ His voice is rough.
I’m already nodding.
Now. Here. ‘Yes.’
18
I wake to birds chirping outside the window, and the cold of alone. I sit up, and look at the indent in the left side of the bed.
This is it, then: the running. I try to breathe evenly, calculating whether I’ve got enough cash for a cab ride back.
‘You’re awake.’ He’s standing in the doorway wearing yesterday’s clothes and my Converse. ‘I thought you’d gone comatose.’
‘Hey.’ My voice cracks. It makes my whole neck flush, remembering why.
‘Come on.’ He throws a T-shirt at me, smirking. ‘Breakfast.’
I find my jeans balled up under the bed and pull them on. There’s embarrassment curled hot on my chest like a cat, purring in wait.
(I can’t believe I did those things. We did those things.)
I make my way into the kitchen and sit down at the table.
Insecurity skitters through me. I run back over everything, looking for the moment. (I did something wrong – I must have.) There’s a mark where I think I bit him, but that didn’t feel like a misjudgement at the time – it made him say, ‘Hen-ry’.
I jump when the toast pops. He spins around and puts two eggs onto a plate, then grabs the toast and plates it up too.
He puts the food in front of me and I stare, confused.
‘What?’
I clear my throat. It’s scratchy, like I’m hungover. ‘I thought, when you were gone …’
He laughs. ‘Oh, man. You thought I left?’
I pick up my toast and chew.
‘I’d never just strand you here.’
I can feel myself going red. ‘I mean. Maybe, if you regretted …’
‘Get over yourself.’ He rolls his eyes, then looks at me quickly. ‘Do you?’
The fear prickles again. But … ‘No. You?’
‘I really, really don’t.’
We drive back at lunchtime, the fog cleared and the offensively bright sunlight back in all its glory. Len still drives too fast; the Pis
sar cries in protest, stalling twice. I clutch the safety handle so hard the whole way down the mountain that my fingers cramp.
When we get to his place, Lacey’s watering plants out the front. She gives me a knowing wave.
Len touches my shoulder when I walk around to swap to the driver’s seat. It’s quick, but I still think maybe there’ll be a hole in my jumper when I check later.
‘Good game.’ He tips his chin.
‘Did you just—’
His face is brilliant under the sun, grinning.
As soon as I get home, Dad shouts, ‘HENRICUS REX! That you, mate?’
I walk through the empty house, out to the studio. ‘Yeah.’
‘How was it?’
(Hen-ry.)
‘Um. Pretty good.’
‘What’d you get up to?’
(Can’t you tell? From my face? Can’t everyone?)
‘Oh, you know. Same as always.’
I dump my backpack and toe off my shoes: Len’s Vans, because he’s holding my mustard Converse hostage. They’re tight in the toes, but I kind of like it.
Mum’s at work, so it’s just Ham and Dad in the studio.
Ham’s brown eyes are looking through me with that laser-beam vision kids have that sees into your frigging soul. ‘You look happy!’
‘Mmm. I think I am.’
‘Then I am as well!’
I’m also drenched in sweat – whatever cool change we had has well and truly dissipated, and we’re now living in a furnace. I wrench the studio window open and a paltry afternoon breeze pants against my forehead like a senile dog.
I can’t even turn the air conditioner on – Reuben ‘environmentalist’ Hamlet is morally opposed (not opposed enough to have them removed, though, because it’s Queensland).
I give Ham a bit of ‘special sculpture’ clay to play with and spend the rest of the day helping Dad pack his real sculptures into the van, carefully wrapping them in plastic and insulation.
The lifting and packing feels routine after a while, and the physical exercise further increases the rush still running through me.
I used to relish these times: when I’d get Dad all to myself and it was just us for hours, not saying anything but still being together.
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