The Harper Effect

by Taryn Bashford

  ‘I don’t want to hear this. And the details don’t matter. I asked you if there was anything between you, and you lied to me. More than once.’

  ‘But I had to lie.’ I throw my arms in the air. ‘We hadn’t told anyone – and nothing was going on by the time you came for Christmas. I’d already decided it never could. What was the point of mentioning it?’

  ‘He came out of your room in the middle of the night, Harper.’ His tone is pitiless.

  The lift opens. I blow out a shaky breath. Neither of us moves. The doors begin to close and Colt jams the doors-open button and waits, staring at the carpet. ‘Your floor,’ he mutters.

  I slowly pick up my bag. ‘That night you saw him leaving my bedroom – I didn’t ask him to come. And we just talked. Nothing happened.’

  But Colt’s a rock-face I can’t see into, go around or climb. Stepping into the corridor, the doors close behind me, and I wonder how life can go from crazy amazing one minute to epically sucky the next.

  Colt doesn’t come to dinner.

  Both Natalie and Kim join us and Milo excuses Colt by saying he’s in full prep mode for his first-round match tomorrow. I hope our argument doesn’t affect his game.

  ‘He’s putting on his game face,’ says Natalie, almost to herself.

  ‘You mean his armour,’ corrects Kim.

  As I’m about to hop into bed, I answer a knock at the door. Colt’s smile is shamefaced yet cheeky, as if he’s stolen from the biscuit jar. I can’t help but grin back, heart skittering around my chest.

  ‘I need a good night’s sleep and I won’t get it if I go to bed mad,’ he says, shutting the door behind us. I pick up the remote and point it at the TV, pressing over and over, but it won’t switch off. He covers my shaking hand with his, takes the remote, and switches the set off at the screen.

  ‘You were right.’ He grips the back of his neck. ‘I didn’t know about Jacob and Aria. After you – explained – I sort of get why you couldn’t let anything happen.’ He shifts from one foot to the other. ‘And when I caught Jacob I did assume – the wrong thing. Bottom line is I trust you. I believe you.’

  Crossing my arms, I grab my shoulders.

  ‘Besides.’ His intense gaze shocks my heart. ‘You won’t get out of my head.’ He exhales loudly. ‘I’ve tried to – but you’re – then when Sanchez – I guess I got jealous. And I’m glad you were jealous of Natalie.’ He hunts in my eyes, begging me to read his mind. I daren’t even breathe.

  ‘I’m rambling,’ he adds. ‘I’m not good at this pouring-your-heart-out stuff.’ He veers away, shaking out his hands as if he has pins and needles. ‘The point is, I can’t think about you now because I’m at a Grand Slam and that’s where my head should be. Put up with me? I can be moody at tournaments but I need you to know – in my head we’re good. And I hope we’re good in your head.’

  Ready to pretty much kiss his face off, I edge closer.

  He steps back. ‘I’ve got to go.’ Grinning wildly, he criss-crosses his forearms to warn me off. I punch his bicep and laugh, but inside I’m pleading no.

  ‘You came and got what you wanted and now you’re leaving?’ I tease.

  ‘I’m not mad anymore. Are you?’

  Rubbing my arms, our eyes clasp. ‘I wasn’t mad in the first place. Just sorry –’

  He crosses the space between us and his mouth finds mine. My body throbs. I want more of him and press against him, but he ends the kiss. ‘And that’s why I need to go – right now.’ And the door is shutting and every cell inside me is singing again.

  Though I’m knocked out in the third round, it’s further than I ever hoped to go – it’s a Grand Slam. Colt’s a picture of determination, as though our conversation never happened. But his barriers contain chinks of light – when he sits closer than necessary in the car, or carries my bags, or takes an elbow to steer me through a crowd.

  We also fist-bump our way to victory in the first three rounds of the mixed doubles event and the media go crazy with what’s dubbed the ‘Australian Invasion’. They report our match play as entertaining – almost a dance. We move as one and think as one.

  Colt advances to the fourth round. The night before his match, Natalie is leaving to check on Jagger. We gather for a goodbye drink – everyone except Kim, who lost in the first round. She’d had a public stand-up row with her dad, a man built like a tree with a clump of bushy red hair, after he sacked her coach. Every night they go sharking around the players’ lounge for a new one.

  ‘You have been more relaxed, Colt,’ says Natalie, the dim orange light in the bar making her appear deeply tanned. ‘I saw you wave at the crowd yesterday. I almost died of shock.’

  Mum nods from a bar stool. ‘The Morning Show presenter said you’re less panther, more pussycat.’

  Colt grimaces. ‘Just what every guy wants to hear. She also said it seems I’m not taking after my dad. That I did like.’

  Natalie kisses his cheek and wishes him good luck. ‘Focus on your game. I’ll take care of your dad.’ To me she whispers, ‘I’m glad he has you.’ She presses a jelly bean into my palm. Colt overhears and looks down at me as if he lost something in my eyes. My skin evaporates and I’m a mass of humming.

  I pop the lolly in my mouth. ‘What’s with the jelly beans, Natalie?’

  ‘My mum used to give them to me to cheer me up. Before she died she said each one contained all the wishes she wanted me to have. They’re little capsules of possibility.’

  After I hug Natalie goodbye, I shift back to Colt. ‘How are you coping with the pressure if you’re not making yourself angry anymore?’

  He places a couple of jelly beans on the bar. ‘I still want to pulverise my opponent, but I remember what you said once – I do it because I love winning, love tennis, not because I need to or am angry. And thanks to you I found my own Purple Time. I’ve never had a memory I could use before.’

  I check my parents, but they’re nattering with Milo. ‘Is it kissing me?’ I tease.

  Colt chuckles. Shaking his head, he focuses on his feet. ‘No. Because kissing you exercises the wrong muscles.’

  Eyes popping, I snort into my orange juice. He rewards me with his deep belly laugh. ‘It’s the night we climbed the Mother Tree in the dark,’ he explains. ‘Above the canopy – that vast sky. I felt small and grateful to live on this earth – to be born with this talent. It was kind of otherworldly. It felt like flying or like being in heaven – I felt closer to my mom.’

  ‘The warm bath effect?’

  The heat imprint of his hand fades from the wood veneer bar and he rolls a jelly bean into my glass. ‘Except I’ve renamed it the Harper Effect.’

  Colt makes it into the quarter-finals and is to play Dominic Sanchez, a result the press prayed for. They pester Colt for a comment. He confirms he’s just fine about playing Sanchez. His gaze trained on me, he adds, ‘So long as he remembers his manners.’

  The match is a twilight game and while we wait in the player’s box in the famous Rod Laver Arena, I can practically feel the atoms in the air colliding with excitement. The announcer introduces Colt and he enters the arena to applause and a million camera flashes – it must be like standing in the middle of a star shower. He’s composed, focused, strong. As is Sanchez, who saunters onto the court fist-pumping to the music coming from huge, orange cans. Sanchez settles next to the umpire, eyes closed, feet tapping, hands whirling as if he’s dancing at a private party in his head and there aren’t 15,000 people surrounding him.

  Near the end of the first set, Sanchez is winning 5–4, but he’s questioning line calls and then asks for a toilet break. Colt strolls to his chair and rummages in a bag while he waits. I’d come across a navy blue towel with white stars during a shopping excursion with Mum, and secreted it into his bag. He finds it now and comically drops the towel on his upturned face. The spectators roar.

&n
bsp; When play resumes they win a set each, but Sanchez keeps the balls slamming at Colt, adapting his game to bring Colt to the net more often, a place Colt doesn’t favour. Sanchez’s serve reaches 240 kph. And even when Sanchez hits his winning shot, it’s a result that’ll earn Colt a fairy-tale amount of money and a lot of press coverage.

  While Sanchez struts around signing autographs, Colt jumps the barrier and climbs through the crowd to the player’s box, where Milo, Mum, Dad and I have spent three hours cheering and half crying over returns he made that shouldn’t be humanly possible. He tugs me against him, kissing me with all the passion of a guy who was holding back for a long time, but doesn’t want to anymore.

  The media embraces their new scoop in the next day’s news items, especially loving the astonished expression on Mum’s and Dad’s faces when Colt kissed me. Sanchez’s comment about Colt stealing his airtime is often quoted: ‘The Australian Open is a tennis tournament, not a kissing contest.’

  Milo plays hardball and agrees with Sanchez – we still have a mixed doubles final to win. He wags a finger at us during our post-match analysis meeting. ‘He who chases two rabbits at once will catch none.’

  I’ve just stepped out of the shower when Colt sends me a text: Meet me in the bar.

  I’d left him downstairs with Kim when Dad insisted I go to bed – our next mixed doubles match is the day after tomorrow. I hated the greedy way Kim was grazing over Colt when I swung round to give one last wave.

  I sneak past Mum and Dad’s room – Dad seems to think that by kissing Colt I’ll lose my ability to play tennis. He keeps muttering about how we’ve come this far and not to muck it up.

  Colt’s standing next to Kim, a square lightbox casting an oblong beam that cocoons them. She passes him a glass of champagne, which he puts down on the bar without sipping.

  ‘Hey, guys,’ I say, hooking my fingers into the pockets of my jeans. Colt slings an arm around me and gives me a chaste kiss on the lips, but with a glance heated enough to set fire to Kim’s cocktail.

  ‘Get a room, you two,’ says Kim, lips knotted.

  ‘See you later, Kim,’ says Colt. He leads me outside to where a Harley-Davidson is parked. He rattles keys in the air. ‘Always said I’d reward myself with one of these.’

  I gasp. ‘You bought it?’

  He strokes the wide handlebars and the seat as though the bike is a pet. ‘Not yet. For now, hiring it for the rest of the tournament is enough.’ He passes me a helmet. I take it, reluctant.

  ‘I’ve never ridden a motorbike.’ I stare at the shiny hunk of red and silver metal. He takes the helmet and pushes it onto my head, fiddles with the straps. ‘I don’t know if I can.’

  ‘Have I found something Harper Hunter’s afraid of?’ He steps back. ‘You don’t have to come. But I want you to. And I’ve never wanted anyone with me before. It’s usually my escape. Makes me feel like I’m flying.’

  ‘You said you liked being above the Purple Woods canopy because it made you feel like you were flying. That’s twice.’

  Colt scuffs his foot at the back wheel. ‘When I was a kid I thought dead people could fly – similar to angels. I used to pedal like crazy on my bicycle, down the hill near our house, put my arms out and pretend to fly so I could feel closer to my mom.’

  I pass the second helmet to him and straddle the bike. His smile fills every edge of his face. I shelve Dad’s warning. Time to make my own decisions, and Colt makes me feel safe. My cheek mashed into Colt’s back, the bike revs and shoots forward. Through half-closed lashes the streetlights fuse into streaks of colour. I shut my eyes. The hot wind whips us and it’s easy to believe we’re flying, just Colt and me, somewhere between two worlds.

  Later, we stroll along the Riverwalk holding hands. Each time Colt’s thumb sweeps over the back of my knuckles I get the urge to kiss him. On impulse I tiptoe for a quick peck, but he bunches me into him. He kisses my mouth open and doesn’t stop, right there in the middle of the pavement. When a couple of cars honk and someone whistles, he kisses me deeper, lifting me into the air as if to say ‘go away’ to the world.

  Eventually, he smiles into my mouth and sets me down. I cling to his elbows, staying caught in his gaze.

  A cheer erupts and several pedestrians encircle us. They’re staring like we’re rock stars, and thrust shopping lists and notepads forward for an autograph. After we sign our names, Colt links his fingers through mine and we run down the pavement and across a bridge. I’m laughing and he’s whooping and I hug myself inside because I’ve found the real Colt.

  He stops in the middle of the bridge to appreciate the view. The moon shines a path across the water – a jetty made of light. ‘We’re doing exactly what we want tonight,’ he says.

  We cross the lawn of a park until we wander under a vast tree. Colt stops and cases the branches. The next moment he’s scaling it. I chase him and we climb until we can’t go any higher. We take in the night sky, faces shining. The moon is so close I can see its craters, as though someone took a zoomed-in photo and hung it on a star just for us.

  Colt watches me, unmasked.

  ‘Come here,’ he says, his voice gravelly. Climbing across to where he’s leaning against the trunk, I straddle the branch, facing him. I caress his face, this once-upon-a-time stranger, serious and unreachable. He leans his cheek into my palm – a lion tamed. I shuffle closer, needing to kiss him.

  His eyes touch mine. My heart becomes a window and it flies wide open; love flares hot and strong.

  My body trembles. The kiss lasts and lasts and makes the stars sizzle behind my closed eyelids. When I open them, the stars are trembling too.

  In the lift at the hotel, Colt presses the button for my floor. I press the floor number below mine. His brow puckers for a minuscule moment before he twigs. He looks at me as though he’s going to self-combust. ‘For a little while,’ he mumbles. He squeezes my hand when the lift doors open, crushing my fingers as we approach his door. ‘I’m not sure this is a good idea.’ His eyes flare.

  ‘Aren’t we doing exactly what we want tonight?’

  He swipes the keycard too fast, over and over, until I double up in hysterics and he leans his forehead against the door, chuckling.

  When the door eventually clamps shut behind us I pull his mouth to mine. He groans and pushes me against the entry wall, kisses me back. My fingers drive under his shirt and he tucks me into his body.

  I’m unbuttoning his shirt when he pulls back. ‘I’m not sure I have the willpower for this. I am only human,’ he says. I bend to kiss the triangle of chest I’d revealed.

  ‘I don’t need you to have any willpower.’

  Colt’s ribcage heaves and his mouth grabs mine. He walks backwards into the room, drawing me with him. We topple onto the bed. My bones liquefy. He straddles me, pushes my hands into the pillows, then lowers himself to caress the exposed skin of my hips with his lips. I’m dizzy with wanting him, and the world blurs as he kisses my clothes off.

  I stir once in the night, draped in Colt, and it’s like prodding awake a hibernating bear. His hunger for me springs off him as he scoops me up. Our eager mouths crush against each other. My body blazes. He rolls us, settling between my legs. Arms snake underneath me, lifting my hips. He guides and I follow, and we no longer move as two separate blocks of ice, knocking and colliding, but instead like water in a wave pool, shifting and rising as one.

  He lets my mouth go when I throw my head back to grab air, kisses my arched neck, my ears, my shoulders, enhancing the sensations ripping through me until I cry out. His gaze locks into mine and we’re flying together again.

  The early dawn light brightens behind my eyelids – we’d neglected to close the curtains. The clock radio, next to two empty condom foils, reads 5.44 am. I’m lying on my side with Colt behind me, mirroring the curve of me.

  It’s Colt who’s woken me, tracing fingers along my arm
. I press into him. He lifts onto an elbow, thumbs my bottom lip, kisses me slowly. I soak him up for later.

  ‘Best get you back to your room before your dad buys a shotgun,’ he whispers. I snuggle closer.

  ‘Before I met you,’ he says, ‘Milo said I was a tightly packed parachute. All I needed was for the right person to come along and pull the rip cord and then I’d soar.’ He nibbles my ear. ‘Reckon you might be that person.’

  ‘That’s weirdly poetic,’ I whisper. ‘Is that your way of saying you quite like me?’

  ‘No,’ he says, nose brushing my jaw. ‘It’s my way of saying I’m in love with you.’ His mouth finds my smile before I can respond.

  When we walk to my hotel room, I stay tangled in Colt.

  ‘Now you’ve done it,’ he says, lips moving against my temple as he speaks. ‘Us Jaggers are like bald eagles – we mate for life.’

  ‘You’re a Jagger now?’

  He leans his forehead against mine, arms tugging me in. ‘I’ve always been more like my dad. With you at my side maybe I won’t totally follow in his footsteps.’

  I don’t care if I’ve had three hours’ sleep and have to train today. I don’t care about Milo’s warning. I don’t care that when I switch on the TV the news bulletin is broadcasting a photo of us kissing on the Riverwalk pavement with the headline, ‘Australian Invasion stops traffic’. All I care about is that I’m in love with Colt Quinn – and he feels the same way about me.

  At breakfast, Mum and Dad see the headlines and lecture me about sneaking out.

  ‘But Colt and I have been together – secretly – since the first round,’ I argue. ‘The only thing that’s distracting me is your desire to put a stop to our relationship.’

  They actually seem to take this in, because the subject gets dropped.

  Safe in my bubble with Colt, we reach the mixed doubles final. The country is tennis crazy – strangers in the street take snaps of us on their phones, ensuring the Australian Invasion goes viral.