by Ruby Molloy
The door finally opens inwards and there she is―Molly. Her hair is perfect, her skin clear, and her blue eyes remind me of the flowers glued to the basket in Boyd’s kitchen. She’s beautiful. And totally natural. She kisses Boyd on the cheek while I try and figure out the nature of their relationship.
When they separate Molly offers me a small smile. “Hi, you must be Kayla. Boyd’s told me all about you. Come on in.”
Boyd’s told me all about you? What’s that supposed to mean? Did he tell her the good things? How I clean and cook and tidy his apartment? Or maybe he told her the bad stuff, like how I abandoned him in the park on the hottest day of the year.
I follow behind while Molly and Boyd walk side by side, my gaze sweeping round the large hall. It’s decorated with plants that reach for the ceiling and antiques that have been beautifully restored. Light streams in from the living rooms and I expect Molly to show us into one of these, but she heads towards the back of the house, into the kitchen. It’s enormous. The kind of kitchen you see in British dramas, with banks of cupboards and acres of floor. At its centre is a rectangular table with a mug of something close to one of its corners. Next to the mug is a bundle of papers spilling haphazardly toward the edge.
“Take a seat while I put the kettle on. Or would you prefer something cool to drink?”
“Coffee’s good,” says Boyd.
“Kayla?”
“Same here, thanks.”
While she’s making our drinks I observe Boyd. He seems relaxed, but he’s watching Molly. She catches him in the act and smiles. That’s when Boyd does something weird. He returns her smile―in full.
Beneath the table my fingers curl around the wooden seat in silent rejection of the yearning his smile has unleashed.
“I don’t mean to be rude,” says Molly, “but I need to leave in an hour. I’m staying with Harry’s parents for a week.” She looks to Boyd. “I’m not sure if I told you or not?”
“You told me,” he says.
“Good.” She hands us our mugs and takes a seat. “Tag stopped by yesterday.”
“He did?”
“Yeah. He said he wanted to check I was okay to drive up to Tom and Sandra’s on my own.”
“And are you?”
“God, not you too?!” She smiles my way as if we’re sharing a private joke. By the time I manage a smile of my own it’s too late. Her attention’s on Boyd once again. “I’m fine, Boyd. It’s only a hundred miles or so.”
“We’re just looking out for you, Moll, that’s all. Harry would’ve wanted it that way.”
“I know and I appreciate everything you’ve done, Jack, honestly I do. I’m getting better. I’m even thinking about moving back to my apartment when I return. I think it’s time. Mum and pop have been great, but it’s been three months now and I think I need to start living again.” Her voice falters when she says this and her eyes fill with tears.
I’m a bitch for wishing I could cry so prettily.
“I feel guilty for even trying to move on. It doesn’t matter how many people tell me Harry would have wanted it this way, it feels wrong. All I ever wanted was Harry. I don’t want to forget him or what we had.” Her tears spill over and Boyd reaches out, snagging a tear with his thumb. It’s all very intimate and I’m uncomfortable, wishing I was anywhere but here. Molly wipes away one of the tears he missed. That’s when I notice the diamond engagement ring on her left hand.
Shit. Poor Molly. That’s the reason behind the long phone calls and Boyd’s infinite patience. Realising this, and witnessing her grief and their obvious closeness, I feel like an intruder. I don’t understand why Boyd insisted I come with him.
Boyd addresses Molly with a simple, “Hey”. It’s little more than a sound really, but the way he says it, with that expression on his face, it’s gentle and caring. “You won’t forget him, same as me and Tag won’t ever forget. We’ll always remember Harry.”
“You’re right. We’ll always have Harry.” Molly regroups and her gaze swings away from Boyd and over to me. “Sorry, Kayla. I didn’t mean to get all emotional. You probably think I’m a complete mess, but every time I think I’m getting better, it catches up with me again.” She wipes her cheeks with both hands and tucks her feet up on her chair. “Tell me what it’s like working for Boyd.”
“I love it,” I say, sweeping a hand through the air in Boyd’s direction. “He’s a wonderful boss, you know? So easy-going. He never raises his voice or complains and he’s so tidy I barely have to lift a finger.”
Molly’s disbelieving laugh is a soft puff of air.
“She doesn’t believe me, Boyd. Why is that, do you think?”
“Kayla.” His voice is a warning.
“You’re too modest! You shouldn’t be so shy.” His green eyes narrow when I playfully slap his arm, the movement causing my bangles to jingle against one another. Molly’s eyes widen. I get the impression she’s not used to people acting this way around Boyd. Her stunned, slightly awed laughter rings out again, and Boyd’s gaze swings from me to her, taking in her happy expression as if it’s unfamiliar.
“Maybe” I say with a hint of malice aimed at Boyd, “you should flip the question, Molly. Maybe you should ask Boyd what it’s like having me work for him.”
“O-k-a-y,” Molly says, glancing between us with interest. “Boyd, what’s it like, having Kayla? Oops. I mean, having Kayla work for you.” Her smile is one of innocence, but I’m pretty sure that was deliberate. Ten out of ten if it was.
Boyd considers the question for a while, his gaze meeting mine, challenging me. “It’s like being in a lap bar, twenty-four-seven.”
I’m barely aware of Molly’s gasp. I’m staring at Boyd, waiting for him to apologise. But he sits there, a cocky tilt to his mouth, his expression unrepentant.
“Oh my God!” Molly’s words are whispered, but I hear them as if she shouted them at the top of her lungs. I scrape back my chair and walk from the room. Boyd’s voice chases me down the hall, but I’m out of the front door and walking down the street.
He can’t catch me, not with his broken leg, but even so I walk as fast as I can, past the car and on down the street, my flip flops tapping out a furious rhythm. I stop at the junction on the corner, debating which direction to turn, as if it matters.
“Kayla!”
It’s Molly’s voice. She’s following me, her bare feet making slapping noises against the concrete squares. “Please stop! My feet are killing me.”
I roll back my head and stare at the sky, blaming fate, life, whatever it is that’s in control of my life right now, because it sure as hell doesn’t feel like it’s me.
“Are you okay?”
Damn, she’s fast. She reaches for my arm and I twist away. I’m angry, so damn angry, and though it’s not aimed at her, I don’t want her in my space. “He’s a jerk! Who the hell says things like that?!”
“I know. You’re right, he’s a jerk, but at least with Jack you know what he’s thinking.” She raises her eyebrows, twitching them up and down. It’s comical, even on her beautiful face, but I don’t have it in me to laugh.
“I hate it when he does that, when he turns me into a sex object. Like I’m nothing but a body to him.”
“You’d rather he didn’t fancy you?” Her disbelief is evident.
I flounder, tempted to enlighten her on equality and women’s rights. “He doesn’t fancy me, Molly. Boyd’s a player. Every woman is a challenge to him. And even if he does like me that way, I don’t care. As far as I’m concerned he can go take a running jump.”
“Yeah, not much chance of that at the moment, with the leg and all. Look, why don’t we go back inside and you can tell Jack exactly what you think of him. See how he likes it the other way round.”
I think about it. I think about all the things I’d like to say to Jack Boyd. How he’s a sexist pig, cocky and arrogant and annoying as hell.
“Well, I could ...”
Molly tucks her arm through mine. “E
xcellent. I can’t wait to see his face when you tell him. I bet he’s standing by the door, waiting.”
She’s wrong. He’s in the kitchen, right where we left him. He’s moved position slightly, in that his back’s to the table and his legs are splayed out before him. He doesn’t look concerned. In fact, I’d say he looks the opposite.
Molly chooses to stand opposite Boyd; a ringside view. Only the doorbell rings and she begrudgingly leaves.
I lean against the door frame, my arms and legs crossed. He stays where he is, doing nothing, saying nothing, while I keep on staring. He’s perfectly comfortable with this. At least I think he is, right up until I see a muscle twitch in his jaw.
“You fancy me, Boyd?” I hadn’t planned on saying that. It just shoots from my mouth like water from a tap.
He says nothing.
“Molly thinks you do. Is that why you say these things to me? Why you watch me? Am I getting to you, Jack?”
Again he says nothing, but there’s fire behind those green eyes. I saunter towards him, rolling my hips, flicking my hair over my shoulder. When I reach him I bend and whisper in his ear. “I hope it’s true, Boyd. I hope it’s driving you insane; wanting me, knowing you’ll never have me. Because you won’t, Boyd. Ever.” I catch his lobe between my teeth, biting softly before pulling away.
A deep line has formed between his brows, and his hand―the one that was lightly resting on his thigh―is now balled up tight.
I step away, smoothly, before he can grab me. “I’ll wait by the car.”
I head outside, offering a quick goodbye to Molly, who’s taking delivery of a pink bouquet.
I feel like a bitch, the way I spoke to Boyd, but I feel empowered too. I’ve never acted that way before, teasing a guy, taunting him for wanting me. Seems like Boyd brings out the worst in me.
I wait by the car, with my back to the house, watching as a woman cleans the windows of the house opposite, her ladder creaking as she nears the top rungs. She stretches to reach the top of the window and when she’s done, she shoulders her ladder and carries her bucket to the next house.
A fly buzzes around my head and I swat it away, tensing when I hear the sound of Boyd and his crutches approaching. I turn, ignoring him. Molly’s standing on the steps, watching. I wave her goodbye and get into the car.
Boyd takes his own sweet time. I refuse to help. Instead I take out my phone and catch up on my emails. There’s a response to a job application I submitted last week. They want me to attend an interview and even though it’s only waitressing, it’s better than nothing.
The passenger door opens and I slip my phone back into my pocket while Boyd stashes his crutches. As soon as he’s seated and his door’s closed I pull away from the kerb.
“Thanks for waiting,” he says.
I ignore him. That is, until we get to the junction and I can’t remember which way to turn. “Uh, which way?”
“Right.”
I edge out into the traffic and Boyd says, casually, “You got anything against turning right?”
I glance at him, confused, until it clicks that I got my right and left mixed up. I never do this. Never. “You’re a jerk.” I say.
“I’m a jerk?” He leans against his door, facing me. “Because you turned left instead of right?”
“You’re a jerk for comparing me to a lap dancer.”
He shrugs as if I’m overreacting and he’s in the right. “That’s the way I’m wired. I say what I think. Nothing I can do about that.”
“You could try.”
“But then I wouldn’t be who I am.”
“Which is a jerk.”
“You wanna say that one more time?”
I glance over at him, aware I’ve pushed him to his limit. I figure now is the perfect time for a period of silence. I spend it savouring my earlier win over Boyd; that and doing a U-turn at the earliest opportunity.
Now that we’re heading in the right direction Boyd seems keen to restart the conversation. “What did you think of Molly?” he asks.
I shrug. What does he want me to say? That she’s wonderful? That we bonded? “She seems okay. I mean she’s clearly upset about her fiancé and she’s obviously very fond of you ...”
“Don’t go overboard with the praise.”
“What? Are you keen on her or something?”
The traffic has stilled and I’m able to shoot him a glance. His dark brows dip low, emphasising his anger. “You were there, Kayla, so I know you heard her talk about Harry. You think I’d do that? Hit on my dead friend’s fiancée?”
“No. I didn’t mean ...” God, what did I mean? “I’m sorry―”
“Forget it.” He stares out through the window, jaw solid, arms folded across his chest.
“I’m sorry, Boyd, really. That was way out of line. I know you’d never do anything like that, hell, I don’t even know why I said it.” I consider reaching out and touching him, but then I see his expression. “I’m sorry, okay?”
He considers my apology and just when I think he’s about to revert back to being a jerk, he surprises me.
“Apology accepted,” he says.
I release my upper lip from between my teeth and offer a feeble smile. “Thank you.” He shrugs, like it’s all the same to him and I can’t help asking, “Why did you want me to come in with you, anyway?”
He’s slow to answer. “I thought you’d take her mind off Harry for a while. It worked. First time I’ve seen her laugh in a long time.”
I’m so caught up in what he says that I don’t notice the car in front has stopped until it’s almost too late. My foot hits the brake and our heads lurch forward.
“Dammit, Boyd, why’d you have to go and say something nice?! ”
He grins in a way I haven’t seen before. It’s sexy, if you discount the arrogance. Heat pools in my stomach and I smack the steering wheel in frustration. “Don’t do that!”
He lets out a laugh and I stare at him open mouthed. How can he do this? How can he have me hating him one minute and drawn to him the next?
The blare of a car horn from behind has me refocusing and I pull away sharply.
Boyd curses.
I smile.
Chapter Five
Empty
KAYLA
I glance up from my phone and call across to Boyd. “A friend of mine wants to stop by tonight.”
“Yeah?” Boyd’s only half listening. He’s watching TV. Arsenal are playing and they’re drawing one-all, with ten minutes before the final whistle. He’s leaning forward in his chair, his forearms resting on his thighs.
“Is it okay if he stays the night? He’ll get here at six and be gone before you wake in the morning.”
“Sure,” he says, eyes on the game.
“His name’s Adam.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll try to keep it down while we’re having sex, but you should know that when I’m with Adam I have a tendency to howl like a dog.”
“No problem.”
I give up and go fix lunch.
It’s not much, just cheese and ham sandwiches. I’m all out of ideas. Who knew that coming up with something new every day was so frigging hard?
Boyd likes thick bread with mammoth fillings. Yesterday, I made ham and pickle, piling it ridiculously high just for the hell of it. I waited for him to complain, but he said nothing. Pretty much how it’s been since we visited Molly’s on Sunday: conversation limited, eye contact slim to zero.
Seventy-two hours of being cooped up with a non-communicative Boyd, rain hammering down outside like it’s been storing it up all summer―which it has, I guess―it’s enough to drive a girl insane.
I carry Boyd’s sandwiches and drink to where he’s sitting. He reaches for it automatically, his eyes never straying from the TV screen. I go and sit at the table, eating my own sandwich and contemplating what I should wear for tomorrow’s interview. It’s a high-end restaurant so I’m thinking I should wear a cream blouse, tight black skirt a
nd flat pumps.
“You have any crisps?”
I blink and raise my eyes to Boyd. He’s staring at me impatiently, as if I’ve already taken too long to fetch them. Grabbing a packet from the cupboard, I open it en route and pour them down onto his plate from a height. One or two miss and land in his groin.
“What the fuck?” He sounds pissed.
“You’re welcome,” I say, using the exact same tone.
This is how it is now.
But that’s okay. I’ll be moving out in one and a half weeks. Everything’s arranged. Wanda and Steve will drive Boyd to the hospital to have his cast removed and I’ll head home at the same time. I haven’t seen my apartment in week and it’s not like I love my bedroom. I mean, what’s to love about a single bed and a window overlooking a car park? But I am looking forward to having my own space. A space that’s Boyd-free.
And yet, somehow, the thought of not being around Boyd anymore makes my stomach cramp. I wonder if he feels the same way? Unsettled, as if we’ve somehow missed an opportunity? Or is he counting down the days, scratching them out on his calendar as if he’s counting down to Christmas?
The afternoon drags by when Arsenal lose the match and Boyd’s mood crashes. I keep out of his way by cleaning the bathroom and putting fresh sheets on my bed in advance of Adam’s arrival. I can’t wait to see him. He was my very first friend in Liverpool and it’s been six months since I’ve seen him. I guess this visit will be the last for a while, now that he’s moving to China.
Adam’s what I call geeky-handsome. He’s tall, with dark hair, and he wears glasses that emphasise his pale blue eyes and amplify his air of geekiness. He’s super intelligent too and plays guitar like a rock god. His long-term partner, Cheng, is back home in China, so it’s only Adam tonight.
I make a special effort with dinner. Everything has to look perfect; I slice the carrots on the diagonal, trim the broccoli into bonsai trees, and mash the potatoes until they’re pale and beautifully creamy. Okay, I cheated with the mash potatoes. They’re pre-made, though I’ve thrown the evidence in the bin. Adam’s successful. Always has been, always will be. He while he can charm a rabid dog he can just as easily scare it away with his lethal glare. And now he has this great job in China where he and Cheng will live happily ever after.
