The Harper Effect

by Taryn Bashford

  ‘We won’t leave you with Mr Cranky,’ says Jacob.

  ‘He’s not cranky,’ I snap. ‘Well, he is. But he’s allowed to be. You’re aware of the situation. Just grow up.’

  ‘You’re no fun anymore,’ retorts Jacob.

  I bite back my retaliation – that I’d rather spend time with Colt than him – because I realise it might actually be true.

  Aria clears her throat. ‘Do you want us to leave you and Colt alone?’ She arches an eyebrow. Jacob scans from me to Aria and back again.

  ‘He’s my training and doubles partner. That’s it.’

  ‘What? You don’t see that gorgeous smile – when he chooses to reward us with it?’

  ‘I am here,’ says Jacob. He mopes sulkily toward the fridge to fetch a beer.

  She’s playing the Making-Jacob-Jealous game.

  I retrieve Mum’s juicer to make non-alcoholic drinks and we join Colt, but while the three of us try to lighten the mood on either side of heavy silences, Colt focuses on the tennis court, lost in his own hell.

  In one of the silences, Aria watches me but flicks her eyes to the sky when I catch her. It seems like she’s always doing that these days, like somewhere on my face is an answer she’s looking for. And tonight, when she talks, it’s rarely to me, but part of the discussion as a whole.

  For the first time ever, the Raggers run out of conversation and after another beer, Jacob puts on some sixties music from Dad’s record collection – he loves to play with the turntable. Colt returns to earth and is smiling again, although he refuses to join Jacob in a beer. He talks to Aria about her planned trip to Europe, giving the traveller’s point of view on the various airports because they’re all he gets to see on tour. She leans into him as he reveals which countries use holes in the ground for toilets, which airports are renowned for their prompt delivery of food poisoning, and which airline employs the most attractive flight attendants.

  I like how he smiles and doesn’t rush his words. Each frequent glance my way feels as though he’s untying me and willing me nearer. An apology of sorts.

  Something inside me chafes away, like a snake shedding its skin.

  Aria goes to bed first, after presenting Colt with a double-sized ham and salad sandwich because she heard his stomach rumble. She even kisses him goodnight on the cheek. A tipsy Jacob dodges the clearing up, leaving Colt and me to stack dishes and wipe countertops.

  ‘I’ve never realised how lazy Jacob is – he eats and leaves,’ I say.

  Colt is quiet and pensive until we finish, then he carefully hangs a dishtowel and says, ‘Want to go for a walk? I’m wide awake.’

  ‘Sure.’ I check the clock. Almost midnight. Guess he wants to talk – not something to pass up.

  I fetch the camping lantern from the deck and we cross the silvery lawn toward the woods, our low voices muffled in the soft night air. The path is narrow and we walk in single file until it opens up nearer the river. The trees have shed most of their petals and they’re silky underfoot – in the muted light the ground looks like it’s covered in lilac snow.

  Hanging the lantern on a small branch of the Mother Tree, I sit on a large rock protruding over the water. Colt joins me, still lost in thought, and we listen to the chatter of the river. I take a leaf out of Milo’s book and wait for him to speak when he’s ready. Shuffling forward, I dip my feet in the cool water.

  ‘You were right, you know. I should loosen up,’ he says finally, staring at a whirlpool created by the rocks. ‘It’s a bit of a sore point – I don’t want to get wound up, but I can’t help it. I worry I take after my dad – and what if I become him?’

  ‘Hopefully the only thing you inherited from him is tennis talent.’

  Colt dips his feet into the water next to mine. To keep him talking I add, ‘You’ve had a lot to cope with. It’s not a surprise you’re a bit – serious.’

  A smile quivers on his lips. ‘Serious? Is that what I am?’

  I shrug. ‘There are worse things. I mean, you had to grow up fast. You had a tough childhood and still you need to take care of your dad and make these tough decisions. It’s serious stuff.’

  ‘His psychiatrist – she said I need to stop doing everything for him when he’s released from rehab. Says there’s helping him and there’s babying him. I need to let him stand on his own two feet – it’ll give him a focus, a reason for getting up in the morning. But how am I supposed to do that when he’s either fried or hungover?’

  ‘What happens when you’re away?’

  ‘I try not to leave for more than two weeks at a time. Natalie checks on him. And I come back to a house that belongs in someone else’s life. If I let him get on with things – who knows what’ll happen?’ As Colt speaks, I glimpse the boy in him, the one I saw at the practice courts, the one who doesn’t want to lose his dad.

  ‘See? Another tough choice. How do you concentrate when you’re on tour? I don’t think I could do it.’

  He looks bashful. ‘I get even more serious.’

  ‘Yeah. I noticed.’ I shove his shoulder. ‘You’re better than you were, but your game face is seriously scary. What goes on in your head before a match?’

  ‘The day before, I visualise my best serve with a wrist snap, my best lob, best footwork, best everything. Over and over. And I visualise winning. It keeps Dad out of my head. On the day of the match I make myself angry. I go into myself, isolate myself. I think about my mom dying – the funeral. I conjure up things in the past that make me angry. Then I’m fired up for the match, ready to slaughter anyone who tries to stop me winning because if I can make it on the circuit I can solve all the problems in our life.’

  Colt’s game face. ‘No Purple Time for me,’ he adds. ‘Zero memories that cause the warm bath effect.’ His eyes move from grim to shining. ‘Having you around helps, though.’

  A pulsing drumbeat strikes up in my chest. I don’t dare ask why and instead pick at the fallen blossoms on the rock, throwing them one by one into the river.

  Colt’s chest heaves. ‘Psychiatrist says I’ve got to encourage him to get rid of Mom’s stuff.’ He pulls his feet out of the river and props an elbow on each knee. ‘You should see his bedroom. It’s floor-to-ceiling boxes – full of Mom’s things. There’s only room for his bed.’

  ‘He’s kept her stuff all this time?’

  ‘Not just her possessions – the pip from the last peach she ate, the glass from the orange juice she drank that last morning, her toothbrush, fingernail clippings he found in the bathroom bin –’ He blinks away tears. ‘Messed up, right?’

  Every part of me wants to hug him, but he’s beyond comfort, and what I’m feeling for him is scarily new and powerful and shouldn’t even exist.

  ‘Want to climb the tree again?’ I was going to ask about the ‘Darling Madeline’ letters, but I think it’s best to change the subject. I pull both feet out of the river, flicking water at him on purpose.

  He peers up at the branches above. ‘In the dark?’

  I jump off the rock, hoping he’ll follow. He does, and we race to the top by the light of the lantern below. When we poke our heads through the canopy we whisper, ‘Whoa,’ in unison. It’s a clear night and the stars are glitter-sprayed across an endless black canvas; the heavens have their own display of fairy lights.

  We breathe in the sky, face to face with the stars.

  ‘Maybe this is what it feels like to fly.’ Colt’s words are infused with wonder.

  For a while we stay in a comfortable silence, lost in our own thoughts.

  When we get tired of perching in the canopy, we hang out on the lowest boughs, one of us on either side of the trunk. Our feet dangle above the carpet of petals and Colt traces the carving of my name in the trunk. We talk and talk about nothing important. I love Colt’s chuckle, how it rumbles in the back of his throat and lights up his eyes. To make him la
ugh again, I tell him how I once huffed off the court, aged fifteen, refusing to shake the umpire’s hand because he made duff calls.

  ‘And as I swung my bag over my shoulder my spare bra fell on the floor at the umpire’s feet.’

  Colt falls about laughing and slips off the branch. ‘A Harper Hunter mood. That would be something to see.’ He leans against the trunk and I kick at him with a bare foot.

  ‘Coming from the King of Moodland?’ I say.

  ‘Guess I am the son of the Spitfire.’ Like turning down a dimmer switch, the glow of happiness in him fades.

  ‘You’re not your father,’ I say. Colt’s shoulders flag. ‘You’re stronger, more handsome, more talented, and you have way better friends.’

  I kick at him again, playful. He tries to grab my foot, but misses. Instead, he moves closer and the backs of his fingers trace up my arm. My breath snags. His eyes are loaded with want.

  The hot breeze stills and the trees hold their sighs.

  He maps my face as though I’m some fascinating creature he’s never seen before. Then he watches his finger as it travels along my jaw to my chin and in an exquisitely slow, straight line down my throat and chest to the neckline of my tank top. My lips part to grab air; my chest surges.

  I fight to summon the trusty list of reasons to pull away, but it’s like swinging a racquet in custard. ‘I’m not sure that’s what Milo meant about being my eyes and hands,’ I say, soft and gusty.

  And what was it Dad said?

  Colt shifts, facing me square-on, body touching my knees as I sway slightly on the branch. My thighs pinch together.

  But Colt would never let me give up my dreams.

  His fingertips trace along the bone leading out to my shoulder. He bends to kiss the hollow there. My stomach turns inside out. He murmurs, ‘Do you think the mirroring game is missing something?’ Lips move against my skin, breath hot with each word. Goosebumps break out all over me – inside me it seems. His mouth traces up my neck, so, so slowly, and up to my ear, making my blood race with heat. He adds, ‘I’ve always thought it should include lips.’

  I wobble on the branch. He cups my hips and I know he’s going to kiss me. The notion makes everything inside twist and spark. To have this jammed-shut man-boy being so intimate, so gentle – wanting to kiss me . . . The other times felt like sudden emotionally charged reflex reactions to the situation, but this time, the way he’s touching me –

  But he doesn’t kiss me.

  His nose almost brushing mine, his breath is on my open mouth, on my tongue. I sip in air, hold on to his ribcage to steady myself; his body hums beneath my palms. He bends to kiss my shoulder, making my limbs go pulpy, then pushes aside the thin strap of the tank top to kiss beneath. The sensation rocks me. I grasp his waist. He presses against me, nibbles the hollow of my neck, and all I can think is that if he ever gets to my lips I’m going to faint.

  When our eyes next meet, they ransack each other. I tilt my face, giving the all-clear. He kisses the corners of my mouth, nudges my nose, his body heavy against my knees. I open my legs, pull his hips to me. His breath hitches. Hands sweep up my back, lips brushing mine, nipping my bottom lip until I want to scream, Kiss me. When he does, his tongue slipping between my teeth, I wilt into him, in the clutches of the most powerful warm bath effect.

  He stops again, skims me with blazing eyes, checking in. In reply I squeeze both legs around him. There’s a grumble in his throat and he gives me his open mouth, more urgent now, pressing into me, limitless shoulders hunched, a fortress around me.

  Time takes an extremely long changeover break. As the minutes crumble away there’s a wisp of possibility he won’t abruptly stop and apologise and run away. He lifts me off the branch, my legs clamped around his waist, and leans against the trunk to settle us on the ground beneath the tree. He fists my hair, drawing my mouth to his.

  He’s kissing me, slow but urgent. He’s not rushing. He’s not going anywhere.

  When he must be numb with my weight, I get up and reach for a hand. ‘Come,’ I say, taking the lantern. We jump the rocks of the river downstream, the velvety night air wrapped around us.

  The Purple Cave is initially a tunnel over the river where the canopy is low and thick with mixed foliage. The tunnel opens out on the left riverbank into a round, igloo-shaped space.

  ‘When the jacarandas are in full bloom, the cave is completely purple,’ I say, stepping inside.

  Years ago the Raggers kitted out the cave with a camping mattress, sleeping bag, pillow and old cooler box containing pots for cooking on a fire. Before we reached double figures we played house, two of us cuddled on the bed as husband and wife, while the other cooked. Then we swapped over. Aria always preferred to cook.

  I sink to my knees on the single mattress, which is confettied with petals. Colt shadows me; his mouth on mine he tilts us sideways. I hold his face between each palm and he lowers me onto my back. The kiss deepens and the weight of him floods my senses. I swipe over the muscles of his back and shoulders. He groans and flops onto his side, scooping me up and gathering me against him as if I’m something precious that’s about to disappear. He’s big compared to me, his body tucking me in. I’ve never felt this safe.

  The tangy green and soft honey smell of the woods is stronger in the cave. I listen to the wind in the treetops and our bumping heartbeats, and track the stars in the gaps of the canopy. Stroking the skin of his waist, I wander under his T-shirt to trace the chest muscles there. His eyes, filled with starlight, caress me. We communicate through our eyes and our kisses because there are no words that fit these perfect hours. When we’re not mouth to mouth, he’s breathing me in, cradling me, like I’m a memory he’s trying to hold on to.

  He doesn’t push to go all the way, which I’m grateful for – kissing and lying so close, our limbs twisted together all night, is enough, but it makes me wonder if he can tell I’ve not done this before.

  It’s not until the dawn splits open the sky that I think of Jacob.

  That morning, Dad has to wake me. ‘Come on, lazybones. It’s eight-thirty. Colt’s waiting to train. It’ll get extremely hot soon.’ At the mention of Colt my belly levitates then plunges as though I’m on a trapeze. I pull the sheet over my head.

  How is he up this early? ‘Ten minutes, Dad.’

  When I get downstairs, Colt’s sitting in the kitchen with Dad. The sensations I experienced when he touched me last night take a repeat swim through my veins.

  I mosey to the fridge, not daring to get too close.

  ‘Morning,’ I say into the fridge, then confirm that Dad is busy on the iPad before crossing my eyes at Colt. He smiles self-consciously. I finish the carton of carrot juice in one long gulp, suddenly sure he’s regretting last night.

  Colt rinses his glass at the sink. ‘Beach run?’

  We set off a metre apart. I check in with him, but he’s staring straight ahead. My stomach twists. Milo’s words of warning come back to me, coupled with Colt’s vow to swear off girlfriends.

  ‘Wait up, dudes.’ I spy Jacob over my shoulder. ‘Right to join you?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, my mood tumbling further. ‘I’m surprised you’re not surfing, though.’

  ‘Been and conquered,’ Jacob says, out of breath.

  Colt doesn’t relent on our pace and I guess he shouldn’t – this is a training session. We stop talking when breathing becomes hard. Jacob is fast and fit, but as we launch up the hill he falls back, and this time I don’t pander to him and he gets left behind. He finds us at the summit, sprawled on the grass.

  ‘I used to beat you up that hill, Harps,’ says Jacob, between swigs for air.

  ‘I think you’ll find we tied, and only because you held on to my shirt.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ says Colt.

  Jacob rolls onto his belly, groaning into the grass.

  I struggle up.
‘I’ll have you know I didn’t sleep well last night. I might need a free pass.’

  Colt crosses his arms and cocks an eyebrow. ‘No free passes to the Aussie Open. You’ll get your reward later.’ I can’t tell if he’s flirting, but his smile unbuttons me and my skin tightens with desire.

  After lunch, Colt visits his dad and I take a nap. Before I fall asleep, my mind cups the memory of last night in its palm. But it’s ruined by imagining Jacob’s reaction if he knew that Colt had kissed me. I need to know what Colt’s thinking. He hasn’t made a move to even touch me today. He doesn’t do girlfriends. This is going to be another ‘that will never happen again’ moment. I’m shocked by how my heart feels as though it’s been scooped out of my chest like ice-cream. But how can I feel this way about Colt when Jacob’s still sitting inside my heart, where he’s reigned for so many years?

  I startle awake in the pink afternoon light to the sound of Aria blow-drying her hair. She’s left the bathroom door open, not caring if she woke me. Jaw gripped, I get up, ready to slam it shut. But before I can I’m frozen to the spot at the sight of her.

  ‘What do you think?’ she says, watching my reflection and pointing at what doesn’t need to be pointed out: she’s cut her hair boy-short.

  ‘Wow.’ I hold my expression in neutral. ‘Pretty. When did you decide to cut it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Needed a change. Do you love it?’ She double-pats the nape of her neck. We’d always wanted our hair the same before.

  I move into the bathroom, touch her hair, somehow sad. It’s another sign we’re growing apart, perhaps needing each other less. Clearly, she’s okay with that. But I feel as if life has ripped something away from me that I wasn’t ready to give up yet. I want to hug her and never let her go, but something in her rigid posture tells me not to. Instead I answer, ‘It’s cool.’

  At dinner Colt compliments Aria on her haircut. Mum and Dad have gone out with friends and Jacob joins us, unusually late given there’s food available. When he spots Aria he stops mid-stride and exaggerates a jaw-dropping response. He plonks into the chair next to me, smelling like he already swallowed a few beers.