by Allie Little
He passes the bottle across and I sip, resisting the temptation to guzzle it all in one go.
“And the dreams. They’re so vivid and real. But they’re always about mundane stuff, you know? Like we’re sitting on the deck, talking. Or surfing at Palmy. I thought by now they would’ve eased off, but they haven’t.”
I think about it from his perspective. “You get to see him, I suppose. In your dreams.”
“Yeah, and I was worried I’d forget him. That he’d become this vague distant memory. I was shit scared I’d forget what he looked like, sounded like, and all the happy, stupid stuff we did together. But that hasn’t happened.” He exhales loudly, looking at the sky.
I wipe sand from the bottle and pass it back less gritty.
He looks over obliquely and gives a half-smile. “You know what? I never talk about Charlie, except to my family. There’s something about you that makes me spill my guts.”
I smile and say the silliest thing. “Well it’s nice to know I can make you spill your guts.”
He puts the Baileys down, digging the base into the sand. His eyes go all deeply intense, looking across at me through the star-lit night. “Come here,” he says, holding out an arm.
With those words, jumpy nerves fire straight across my belly. And I know I want him. Want to be closer to him, here on the dune. I squirm closer feeling awkward, like I can’t look him in the eye because suddenly he’s too close. Too real. Too intimate. He snakes an arm around me, lying it lazily across my shoulders. I snuggle into him with a rising heart rate. He’s so warm in the breeze blowing lightly off the sea.
He squeezes my shoulder. “So you’ve always lived here? Been a mid-north coastal girl?”
I shift again. “Yeah. Boring, huh?”
“Are you kidding? Not at all.” He pauses. “So how old are you, anyway?”
“Eighteen. How about you?”
“Twenty.” He tilts his head to get a better view. “So you just did your HSC?”
“Yeah.”
“So do you know what you want to do?”
“You mean apart from surfing? What more could there be?” I joke.
He laughs. “Yeah, apart from that.”
“Well, I love to surf, and I love to run. If I could do both every day forever, that’s what I’d do.”
A chuckle rises from his throat. “Even as an old wrinkley? I’d love to see that. But it’s not realistic though, hey?”
“Not realistic enough, unfortunately. But mostly I just need time. To work it all out, you know?”
He thinks briefly, twisting my hair softly through his fingers. “So what was your best subject at school? What are you good at?”
Usually this line of questioning would induce me to teeter on a ledge. Balancing perilously, up really high. But for some reason, here with Jack under the wide blanket of stars, it’s just not. “Probably English. I can write.”
“So why don’t you? You could write about stuff you love. You know, be a sports writer or something?”
I realise I hadn’t considered anything of the sort. “I deferred Communications because I didn’t want to go this year. It just felt like too much pressure.”
“From your parents?”
“Mum mainly. Dad’s happy if we’re happy.”
He rubs a thumb over my shoulder. “Well, you need to work out what you love and what you’re good at, then combine the two of them. You can’t go wrong with that formula, I reckon.”
First sensible thing I’ve heard. I look up, meeting his eyes in the soft subtle light. Orion glows with a distant flicker, burning in the sky. My lungs contract in the shrinking space. Up this close it’s difficult to breathe, but I take a stab otherwise I’ll pass out on the sand. The interval bounces with tension and time draws out. Lengthens with anticipation so I’m time-warped and yearn-ful. Not just for him, but for the safety of bearings. Because up until now I’ve been idly adrift.
He takes my hand, threading large rough fingers through mine. Tilting his head our gazes lock, and suddenly I’m psychic. I am one hundred percent certain this is going to happen. This. With him. Deliriously trapped in motionless time. And when his lips reach for mine they taste of hot toffee. Syrupy sweet in liquid heat.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I wake with a smile, breathless. For a moment I think I’ve dreamt him, along with the starlit beach and brilliant sky. Did that really happen? Was I actually under the stars, enfolded so completely in Jack’s arms? I remember his breath and intrepid hands, so self-assured and forthright. His face right up close, and eyes that burrowed to my soul. The way he kissed me like I was beautiful. He almost made me believe.
I sigh happily and roll over, grabbing for my phone and flipping it open. No messages. But was I really expecting one? So soon?
At about 9.30 I surface, padding barefoot through the house. Through glass doors to the deck I see the river. A big glassy mirror, all shiny and new. And Dad’s in the shade, favouring the newspaper over the view. He looks peaceful and quiet, like he’s enjoying the solitude. Somehow it seems a shame to encroach.
He spots me and smiles. I move outside, the rickety bench swaying with my weight when I sit. Up close he looks tired and grey; exhausted. Like light has been sucked from an ageing soul.
“Want a cup of tea?” His sunglasses are so dark I can’t make out his eyes. And I find this disturbing.
“Yeah, but I’ll make it, Dad. Don’t get up.”
“I don’t mind,” he persuades, pushing up slowly with his arms. He’s grown old today, like life has caught him from behind. I listen as he fills the electric kettle, followed by the whir and bubble of water as it heats.
Over the boil of the kettle I hear the slap of thongs on the side path. Ben appears around the side of the house, throwing his wet tub onto the deck. Wax, sun cream and wet boardies spill across the timber.
His eyes light, eager for the kill on captive prey. “Hey, Sammy. Thought I shouldn’t disturb you this morning. Seeing as you might’ve had company.”
I blush. “No. I didn’t have any company, thanks Ben.” And suddenly I wonder why I feel the need to elaborate. Whose business is it anyway? Certainly not Ben’s.
He waggles his eyebrows. “Had a good night, then?”
I realise it’s time to tilt the conversation. “Yes, thanks. And yours, Ben? Thought you might’ve been too trashed for an early today.”
“Nothing that a bacon and egg roll didn’t remedy.” He looks over his shoulder, glancing at Dad through the kitchen window. He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “So what did you guys do after you bailed?”
I groan. “Do you need to know everything?”
He tips his head back and laughs. “Yes actually, I do. Spill.”
“God, Ben. We sat on the beach. Stop pestering me.”
He rakes a hand through his hair, ruffling out the water with a knowing smirk. “He seems like a good bloke, anyway. Not that my opinion should matter.”
“Exactly. Your opinion doesn’t matter. But yes, he is nice,” I say, smiling. And I’d really like to wipe that smile off my face, but it stubbornly remains. A visible vestige. I’d like to keep Jack secret. Save all of him, just for me. Withhold all knowledge. But it doesn’t seem like that’ll be possible. Especially with Ben around.
Dad puts my cup of tea down on the weathered table and plonks back into his chair.
“Thanks, Dad.” I glare at Ben, warning him to remain silent. He flings me a what are you talking about? look and I narrow my eyes.
“Missed an awesome surf, guys. And why didn’t you come down this morning, Dad?”
Dad gives a wan smile. “I felt a bit tired, Ben. A little breathless, too.”
I glance across and he’s grey. “Are you okay, Dad?” It’s strange, because Dad’s never sick. Stressed and exhausted yes, but never sick.
“I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. I just need a holiday,” he answers hastily, but I’m not swayed.
Mum arrives home with a meta
llic clatter of keys. Brandishing a brown paper package, she shakes it through the glass doors to the deck. Dad gives her a clandestine nod and saunters inside. They speak together in hushed tones, lowered to a barely audible level. And something seems off today. Not right at all. Dad fills a glass with water from the tap and swallows a couple of tablets.
“What do you reckon that’s about?” I ask Ben.
“No idea. Maybe he really is sick?”
We look at each other. Is it serious? I mean, why else wouldn’t they tell us what’s wrong? My chest fills with worry.
***
The day is well underway when I get the chance to corner Mum. I don’t much like asking her for anything, but my gut tells me something’s wrong. My eyes feel all puffy and gritty, but I push the self-inflicted sensation away. It was two a.m. after all. Last night with Jack was dreamlike. So perfect it makes my heart ache. And when he dropped me home I fell into a beatific sleep. But today I have woken, thudding heavily home to reality.
“Mum, is Dad sick?” Better to get straight to the point. The lounge room is immersed in darkness and she’s ironing in the gloom. It’s so shadowy I can barely make out her cheerless features.
She glares at me like an intruder, the iron suspended in her hand. Dad’s police shirt lies crumpled beneath it. Openness isn’t one of her personality traits, which is strange because she demands it from others, prodding and pushing to unearth what she hungers for. Like a vulture waiting for the carcass, picking out the eyes.
“He’s had a rough couple of weeks at work, Sam. He’s a little under the weather.” She dismisses my concern through the hiss of the iron.
“But what do you mean, exactly?” I persist, needing to know.
She sighs. “Well Sam, he’s run-down. The doctor is keeping a careful eye on him.”
“For what?”
She frowns, as if my questions cause her great inconvenience. “To check he’s okay. Running some tests. That kind of thing.”
The worry creeps through me. “Okay,” I say, unconvinced. I can tell she’s not telling me everything. Keeping it buried, because that’s what she does. And I should’ve known. Spending time with mum is always fraught with tension. Today is just like any other.
She rests the iron on top of the ironing board, focusing entirely on me. She glares intensely in my direction, warning me to back off. “Now don’t go bothering him with your silly questions,” she snaps. And her message is loud and clear.
***
My room is my haven. A refuge from the cold. It’s quiet in my solitude, the only sound the splash and gurgle of a placid river at low tide. Today my room is dark, even in late afternoon light. One small lamp shines from above my bed, and the floor is still littered with clothes.
Ben hangs his head around the architrave. “Hey, Sis. I’m heading back home to Sydney.”
I’d forgotten he was leaving. “Oh, okay.” I get up, feeling like lead.
He moves closer, giving a more serious look. “Can you let me know if you find out what’s wrong with Dad?”
“Of course. I did try, but Mum’s not talking.”
“It might be nothing, like he says. I tried too, but like you got nowhere.”
I give a defeated shrug. “It might be nothing. But it definitely feels like they’re hiding something.”
Ben nods, giving a half-smile and backing from the room.
“Hey, Ben?” I call after him.
He pops his head back in, arching his dark eyebrows. “Yeah?”
“I never asked about Lily. I wasn’t really sure if I should. But … are you okay?”
“Yeah. She moved back in with her parents at Collaroy. We’re just doing our own thing.” He seems to accept this, like he’s recovered from the raw ache of anguish. “I’m cool.”
And he seems it, too. Seems better, anyhow. Better than he was.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It’s quiet in autumn. The world clutches for sleep after the wild buzz of summer, and the days are hot, especially for March. The light is softer and a golden haze hangs like a delicate drape; gossamer over the globe.
It’s quiet at lunch too, though that’s not surprising for a Monday. Riley shuffles around with a self-satisfied smirk, humming to the radio. I watch him. After my night on the beach with Jack, I realise the conflicted attraction I felt for Riley doesn’t even compare.
“How was the party?” he asks when he spots me. Party? Oh god, the dance party. It seems like forever ago.
I laugh. “The party? Oh ... it wasn’t really my thing.”
He looks at me with a smug expression. “That’s what I told them.”
“Who?”
“Gemma and Emily. I told them you don’t like that kind of thing, and they’d be lucky to get you along. Seems I was wrong about that.”
“Seems you were right. They were lucky to get me along. I was the unlucky one, having to endure it.”
It’s his turn to laugh. “Maybe you’ve got to learn how to say no.”
“I think you might be right.”
“So,” he announces, thinking aloud. “What’s on the menu today? You better make a start on the green curry and muffins.”
Weird combination, but do-able. “No worries,” I say, turning to search for ingredients. I pull them out individually, setting them on the counter.
I mix up a batch of raspberry and pear, and then a staple blueberry. Having made them so many times I could do it while I snore. But it’s therapeutic and allows me thinking time. About Jack and the beach. And Dad, too. Nothing’s come to light since Ben left. It feels like the truth is obscured by shadow. I won’t discover anything from Mum. So I’ll need to go directly to the source – Dad.
Gemma walks in, all lithe and willowy. She shoots me a glance, smiling briefly. “George wants to see you,” she drawls.
I swivel to look at her. “What does he want?”
“I’m really not sure.” She doesn’t elaborate. Even if she knows, the chance of her telling me is pretty slim. She’s in one of her petty moods. The moods I put down to low blood sugars.
I tie on my Café Blue apron and walk to his office, my mind racing over what he might want. He sits behind his desk, chewing mindlessly on the end of a pen. When I knock he glances up.
“Sam. Please, come in and sit down.” He motions with his hand.
I feel like a naughty child being summoned to the principal, except I can’t think what I might’ve done wrong.
“Thanks.” I do as I’m told, perching on the edge of the seat opposite him. Am I waiting for the axe to fall? Is he cutting staff? Cutting hours? It has been quiet since the summer holidays, but Easter is almost upon us.
“So, Sam. How do you feel about this job?” He regards me closely, narrowing his eyes.
“Have I done something wrong?” Because if I have, I’d prefer to get straight to it.
“No, not at all. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
Relief washes through me. Although it’s not the best job in the world, I need it. “I like the job. And the hours are perfect.”
He studies me. “I have to say you’ve impressed me, Sam. The day Riley called in sick, you managed like a pro. You worked hard, took on more duties. You’re a no-nonsense, no-fuss kind of employee. And I like that.”
Oh god, where is this going? “Thanks George,” I say, feeling I should. He just spent the last thirty seconds praising me, after all.
“I want to give you more hours, more responsibility, but I need to know you’re serious about the job. Have you thought about getting your Chef qualifications?”
“Um, no. Not really.” Not at all. This job is good for now, but cooking in a stifling kitchen is not something I see myself doing for the next ten years. Hell, not even for the next two.
Irritation flickers in his eyes. “Well, you should. You’re good at this, Sam.” He considers the schedule in front of him. “So, about the hours ...”
I cut him off. “George, I don’t think I can. I already do
five shifts, and two of them are almost doubles.”
His face bunches. “You and Riley are a great team. I really don’t want to hire anyone new. But the owner has instructed I do so, and specifically asked me to approach you first. He knows his staff because I keep him informed. And despite my recommendation that we make do, he wants to give the place stability apparently.”
The owner? The one I’ve never met? A glimmer of resentment builds. Regardless of whether I take more shifts here or not, George will need to hire more staff. He knows it, too. The summer period was ridiculously busy. We only just made it through unscathed.
“So this job is a time-filler for you, is it?” A gleam of annoyance shines from his eyes. I haven’t seen that before. Maybe I should take it as a compliment, like I’m part of the furniture now. Because he really seems to want me around. Or this mysterious owner does.
My brain scrambles. “No, not at all. I like this job. I just can’t do more hours.” Standing my ground is making me increasingly nervous.
He sighs. “All right, then. You better get back to work. The lunch rush will be hitting us soon.” Dismissing me with a wave of his hand, he breaks eye contact like he’s done with me. For now, anyway.
The day drags and my sparkle has gone. I’ve checked my phone at least eight times in the hope of hearing from Jack. Still no message, and it’s been two days. Maybe the other night meant nothing to him. It was just kissing after all. Particularly beautiful kissing. So maybe I need to put it into perspective. But how do I do that? An evening full of exquisitely long, toffee-kisses replays through my mind. He tasted so sweet, like sugar under the stars. Despite my uncertainty I smile. I can’t help how he makes me feel. And I still can’t believe that it actually happened.
Exhaustion overwhelms me and I’m desperate to lie down. But I still have to get home. My feet ache and my head’s so weighty it feels like a ten pin bowling-ball perched on my neck. I grab my bag and head out the door.
