by Lily Malone
It’s velvet. Stars like fire-flies, air that laps my skin like silk.
‘It’s beautiful alright,’ Brayden says.
He’s right behind me. So close, the hint of body heat against my back is a magnet. I’m standing at the void, where space drops away to form the steps. Space in front of me. Brayden behind.
To the depth of my soul, I know which way I want to sway.
Brayden lifts the hair at the nape of my neck, letting his warm breath wash my skin. My knees shiver. Everything shivers. Never — not eight years ago and not in the Pro Shop today — have I been so aware of him.
His fingers trace the line of my neck, splay across my shoulder where my shirt scoops away, then back, tousling that lock of hair that falls back in place. He hasn’t touched me with anything except searching fingers and his breath, and yet I’m on fire. Burning.
Then suddenly cold, as Jack’s voice ghosts through my thoughts.
None of this would have happened if you weren’t so fucking frigid.
‘Where did you go, Jenn?’ The words rumble from deep in Brayden’s chest.
‘I’m here.’
‘Not true.’ His hand tangles in my hair, exerts the faintest pull. ‘You’re over-thinking.’
His words start the raw-onion prickle behind my eyes.
I don’t think I’m frigid. I don’t feel frigid. But what if I take things that far with Brayden and I can’t… we can’t… How do I even start to explain the gory details to him when I don’t have the answers myself?
Brayden wraps his arms around me, rests his chin in the hollow of my collarbone and nuzzles his whiskers into my cheek. He hugs me close.
Kind, loving warmth flows through me, and as my anxiety subsides my body melts back.
He knows the exact moment I relax, because he whispers, ‘So, can we neck now?’
It makes me giggle. He sounds like Clint Eastwood.
‘In your dreams.’ I pat the forearm he’s looped around my ribs.
‘Sweetheart, you will be.’ Brayden turns me out of his arms and we head into the sleepy beach house, and our two separate beds.
Chapter 21
Next morning, for the first time in the ten days that I’ve been here, dull grey light filters through the blinds. Even the birds’ singing sounds subdued.
Seb is having a sleepin, so I wiggle out of bed as quietly as I can and get dressed.
I’m filling the kettle when Brayden appears, sleep-rumpled and shirtless. He’s such a big body in the snug kitchen. My eyes get snagged on his chest and I can’t look away. Tap water slops over the kettle’s open rim, rushes down my hand. That, and his slow, crooked smile, lets me know I’m staring.
I screw the tap to off. Wish I could turn my hormones off so easily. ‘Could you put a shirt on or something?’
‘I woke up a bit hot.’
Amen to that.
‘Didn’t you sleep well?’ I ask, trying to focus on that tiny vertical crease between his eyes, and not…anywhere else.
‘I could have slept better.’ He puts two hands behind his head to wrap elastic around his hair. It makes the muscles at his biceps leap.
‘I guess there’s a lot of you to fit in a sofa bed. Did your feet hang out?’ I put the kettle on the gas, ignite the burner.
‘My feet weren’t the problem.’
‘Oh.’ Oh.
He’s flirting with me. Flirting. I’ve forgotten what that sounds like.
Brayden strokes my flushed cheek. ‘I’ve made you blush.’
‘There’s a lot of hot air in here this morning.’
He laughs, and his hand drops away. He leans against the sink and crosses his arms, watching me watch the kettle.
‘It won’t boil any faster.’
‘It might. Don’t be such a pessimist.’
His fingers spread toward me on the countertop, gently tapping toward where my hand rests on the laminate. When they touch, he starts tracing his index finger around the outlines of my hand, like it’s a pencil in a child’s drawing game — only his touch is all adult male and it has my heart wanting to beat out of my chest. Up and down his finger skims — lingering in the cleft of each deep valley — nudging my fingers apart to make room for his.
He’s only touching your fingers, Jenn. Your fingers!
‘Look at me.’ He tugs lightly on my thumb before he starts the return journey.
My gaze meets Viking blue eyes that aren’t exactly flirting any more — they’re too stormy for that. He turns my hand over, holding it palm-up in his, and draws me toward him.
‘Are we going to talk about what happened last night?’ he murmurs. ‘Something upset you. Made you stop.’
‘You make it sound like I did something I should regret.’ It’s my turn to tease.
‘Who did something they should regret?’ Emmy asks both of us, putting her head around the doorframe, breaking the spell.
‘Not me,’ Brayden says.
I hold his gaze. ‘Not me either.’
‘Look at you two. I thought I heard a pair of doves cooing outside my window last night,’ Emmy says, yawning.
‘You wouldn’t have heard World War III last night, Em,’ Brayden says.
She harrumphs at him. ‘Don’t you own a shirt? This isn’t boot camp.’
‘That’s what I said,’ I add.
Brayden gives my hand one last squeeze, before he lets me slip away. I get teabags, coffee and sugar from the pantry. Milk out of the fridge. Cups.
There’s a shrill squeak from my bedroom. All of us hear it.
‘Can I get him?’ Emmy is already stepping to my bedroom door.
Brayden sidles beside me. He makes it hard to concentrate on the simple task of putting my teabag in the cup. Darn thing keeps missing.
In my bedroom, Emmy baby-talks to Seb.
The kettle whistles. Steam pours from its spout. As I lift it off the burner and it falls silent, Brayden brushes me, gently, but very deliberately, with his hip.
‘Will you knock it off? I’m holding a hot kettle.’
He brushes the hair from my shoulder. ‘I’ll miss waking up here with you tomorrow.’
Hot water sloshes in the cup because my hand trembles as I pour. ‘This is highly unsafe, Brayden.’
‘Tell me you’ll miss waking up with me too.’
I put the kettle on the burner before I really do someone an injury. Brayden’s hand lingers at my throat, proof of what he does to me right beneath his fingertips.
‘Tell me,’ he says again, closing the tiny gap between us, holding my neck lightly in his hands with his fingers splayed across each shoulder. His thumb strokes from my jaw to my throat and fluttery sensations start in my stomach, turning the muscles of my legs butter-soft.
‘I’ll miss you.’
‘Say “waking up with you”.’
Surrendering to his hands, his voice, I quarter-turn my head. The bone of my cheek connects with his, our lips are inches apart, and my words come out on a sigh. ‘I’ll miss waking up with you.’
‘More doves cooing.’ Emmy stands in my bedroom door, Seb in her arms, a spark of satisfied mischief in her eyes. ‘But are you sure it’s age-appropriate for little children?’ She looks at Seb and answers her own question. ‘I didn’t think so.’
Seb grins.
Brayden grumbles good-naturedly and his hands fall away.
‘Go get that shirt, hey?’ Emmy says. ‘You’ll put Seb off his breakfast.’
***
After breakfast, we’re all sad and a bit lazy, and no one’s terribly inspired to do much except sit on the porch with toast and the second tea and coffee of the day. Seb plays with a snail silly enough to have made its home in his black plastic pot.
Emmy suggests the beach. This, I think, is to save her from watching the snail blow white bubbles of snot-like slime over the back of Sebby’s hand. Otherwise, it’s to save the snail, full stop.
There’s a bank of clouds low on the horizon and the day has that oppressive feel of
summer rain. By half-past ten when we’re ready for the beach, we’ve all shed layers.
I’ve been to Darwin with my sister, years ago when she won a mystery flight. It was November and we landed at the airport in the middle of the wet season build-up. I drank two litres of water that day, and I don’t think I needed a bathroom break once.
This weather reminds me of that.
Geographe Bay is leaden, flat. Like liquid solder, waiting for a spark.
Emmy and I sit on the dry sand high up the beach, watching the same aluminium boat nose along the shoreline, checking crab nets. Today the boat is a match for the colour of the waves.
Brayden has gone for a run. I can see him far to our left, a dark blip on the white radar of the beach. Sebby followed him for a while, getting nowhere fast on his chubby toddler legs. He’s back now, chasing seagulls in big loops up the dunes.
‘I don’t want to go back to work tomorrow,’ Emmy says, running sand through her hand.
‘Neither does Brayden.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
We boat-watch and beach-watch, and I Brayden-watch surreptitiously. He set off running like a man with a bucket-load of sexual frustration to burn. I know how he feels. I’ve had that jittery buzz in my bones since breakfast.
‘I’ve been thinking, Em.’
She glances at me over her sunglasses. ‘About what?’
‘Do you think your folks would mind if I stayed at the beach house another few weeks? Say, to the end of February? I’d pay them rent if they want. I’d obviously pay the power and water bills and give them something toward rates.’
‘I don’t think they’d want anything, Jenn. This place is their tax dodge. They don’t want to earn any income from it.’
‘Yeah, but… I feel like I should contribute something. Maybe I could buy them a coffee machine.’
‘Now that would be cool,’ she says, smiling. ‘But you don’t need to do that. Buy Mum a bunch of flowers and the old man a box of chocolates or a bottle of wine or something, and they’ll be happy with that. They’ll want the house at Easter — they’ve brought foster kids here for a week at Easter for years. I’m sure there’d be no drama with you being here till then.’
‘Okay. Thanks, Em. But can you double check with them and let me know?’
‘Sure.’ She reaches out to rub my arm. ‘I’m so happy for you. I know it’s been a crappy time with Jack, but you’re coming out the end of it. You look so much better than last Thursday. This place is good for you.’
‘That’s what Brayden said.’
‘Course he did. You being here is good for him too. He’s been moping around all these years trying so hard not to make a move on you.’
He has? ‘He has not.’
She nods. ‘When you first got with Jack, Brayden was dark for months. I think he tried to exorcise you with a bevy of blondes.’
‘He had one with him at your twenty-fifth. What was her name? Sandy? Mandy?’
‘Candice. Candy.’
‘She seemed nice.’
‘She was. But they weren’t right for each other. She wasn’t you.’
The dark blip that is Brayden gets steadily bigger. His cap is pulled over his eyes, and I can see the tails of his hair flicking at his neck. Somewhere in the run he’s taken his shirt off, it’s tucked into the band of his shorts, flapping with each stride.
‘Close your mouth, Jenn, you’re drooling,’ Emmy says beside me.
***
Brayden holds my hand on the walk to the shack. Where we touch, our skin is gritty, greasy with a mix of sunscreen, sand and sweat. I wouldn’t change a thing.
Emmy trails behind with Seb, pointing out ants, flowers, bees, any critter that crawls or flies. The humidity has brought flying ants out of hiding, only many of them aren’t flying. They’re crawling on the bitumen and on the treated pine poles flanking the path.
Leaves on the peppermints hang limp.
Cicadas, birds, and silence are the only sounds, plus the shuffle of our sandals, and the occasional exclamation when Emmy or Seb spot something exciting. A bottletop. A twig. A caterpillar. Wonderment is all relative when you’re my son’s age.
‘Have you got any more writing jobs lined up this week?’ Brayden says.
‘I’m going to Perth tomorrow afternoon. I’ll stay with Emmy Monday night and I’ve got a place in Scarborough to write up for Nathan on Tuesday.’
We reach the beach road.
‘I’ll be going to Jack’s place while I’m in Perth.’
Brayden glances at me. ‘Yeah?’
‘I need to get more of my stuff, more clothes for Seb. He has some toys and books that were mine when I was little — things my parents sent when he was born. They’re special. I have some paintings, things I don’t want Jack to throw away in a garage sale.’
When I look back, Seb has given up walking, Emmy is carrying him.
‘We’ll probably be gone when Seb wakes up from his sleep,’ Brayden says, running his thumb over the back of my hand. ‘My flight to Newman is at five-thirty tomorrow morning. I’ve got a few things to do this afternoon when we get back to Perth.’
Now my feet brush the beach house lawn instead of gravel. The steps loom, all weathered and worn, paint-peeled, rough.
Words stick in my throat.
‘What is it, Jenn?’ He presses gently.
‘It’s just me being an idiot. I’m going to miss you.’
His fingers squeeze. ‘I’ll be back. Now that we’ve finally found each other, I’m not letting you go.’
***
It doesn’t take them long to pack after lunch.
Emmy throws her arms around my neck. I’ve said goodbye to her a zillion times over the years, but this time it is different, and we know it. Our hug says so.
‘See you tomorrow night,’ she says. ‘You know where I keep the key if I’m not home when you get there.’
I nod.
Then it’s Brayden’s turn. My arms cling hard to him, sensing muscle and sinew under resilient skin. He’s showered since his run. The hollows of his neck smell of soap.
I don’t want him to let me go, but he does.
‘Five weeks is nothing, Jenn. I’ll call you in a few days, okay?’
‘Okay.’
A kiss on my temple. ‘Say seeya to the little guy for me.’
‘I will.’
Just before he climbs into the driver’s seat he pulls me tight, plants a quick, fierce kiss on my lips. It’s over before it’s begun, and leaves my mouth feeling bruised.
‘Five weeks,’ he says. ‘Then you and me start this thing for real.’
‘I’d like that.’
I step away from the car, and waggle my fingers goodbye as the Pajero reverses out the drive.
Five weeks.
It feels like forever.
Please let it be long enough.
Next time I see him, I want to make love with him. I want to share everything I am with him. I don’t think I ever wanted anything so bad.
***
When Seb wakes up that afternoon he runs from room to room, as if he thinks Brayden and Emmy are playing hide and seek and any second now Em will leap from behind the couch, shout ‘Boo’ and make him jump.
It’s like watching a puppy wander through a house when its owner goes out. Kind of heart-breaking.
Finally, pointing at the bedroom off the lounge where Emmy’s been sleeping, he looks at me — eyes saying perfectly what his mouth can’t.
‘We’ll see Emmy tomorrow, Sebby,’ I tell him.
‘Ray. Ray?’
Is he trying to say Brayden? I think so. How cute. ‘We’ll see him soon too.’
Then I stoop to his level, and he comes to me for a hug.
‘Who is this, Sebby?’ I say to him, poking myself on the chest. After waiting for a few hopeful seconds with no reaction, I supply the answer myself, ‘I’m Mummy, Seb. Mum-my.’
I don’t think he gets it.
‘Mum-my.’
Chapter 22
The girl who answers the phone at Victoria Park Medical Clinic when I call first thing on Monday morning explains she’s from a temp agency, and she’ll have to check to see whether she can get me an appointment with Doctor Garner at such short notice.
‘I know the doctors always leave slots vacant for emergencies,’ I say.
‘No one’s told me anything about that as yet I’m sorry.’
‘Well, can you ask someone?’
‘The practice manager is not at her desk. You could call back in half an hour.’
In half an hour, those emergency slots may well have gone. I know that, even if the temp doesn’t. Rubbing my hand through my hair, I try again. ‘When is the earliest appointment with Doctor Garner?’
‘I don’t have any slots for Doctor Garner, at all, until Thursday next week,’ she says. I swear she sounds about twelve.
‘What about Doctor Stanlake?’
‘Let me check.’ There’s a gap while she checks a diary. ‘No. No. Hold on. Yes. I can get you in on Friday afternoon at three o’clock.’
I flick my pen, a bit like a cat might flick its tail if you rub its fur the wrong way. ‘I can’t do Friday. I’m calling from Busselton and I’m only going to be in town today and tomorrow.’
‘Oh. What about seeing any of our other doctors?’
Tempting as it is to make yet another doctor sit through the entire history of my dodgy vagina, and all the reasons I need an STD test, I say, ‘Thank you, but I really want to see either Cara or Joanne.’
‘Well, I’m sorry, like I said…’ she’s sounding a bit testy now. In the background I can hear the other line ringing.
‘Would you please ask Doctor Garner or Stanlake — ’
‘Hold on, the practice manager is back,’ the temp interrupts me with relief, and promptly puts me on hold. I get about thirty seconds of a woman caller to a radio station, trying to answer ten music questions correctly in a minute, to win a thousand dollars.
The announcer stumps her with question six, ‘What is Bob Dylan’s real name?’
Ha. I laugh. ‘Robert Zimmerman.’
‘Pardon?’ says the twelve-year-old temp, returning to the line.
‘Sorry, not you, something on the radio.’
