‘Yeah.’ I freeze. The word fell out of my mouth before I could stop it.
Trent hoots with laughter. ‘You sly dog, you have been paying attention. She’s a legend. Can’t blame you.’
I throw a cushion at him.
He catches it and laughs. ‘Hey, don’t be mad at me for your unrequited thirst. It’s not my fault she threw herself at me for like forever.’
‘You’re dreaming.’
He plants his feet back on the coffee table. ‘Why do you even care?’
‘I don’t.’
Mum pokes her head into the living room. ‘Poached or scrambled eggs, boys?’
I have no idea. And now I’ve lost my appetite.
* * *
Layla: You ignoring me? Or dead?
Layla: I’ll feel pretty bad if you’re dead
Layla: But if you’re NOT dead, I stand by what I said. Bad. At. This
Milo: Just busy. Still grounded. Still working. Fun times
Layla: So what’s up? How’s grounded life?
Milo: Spectacular
Milo: Heard you were in love with Trent back in the day
Layla: With Trenticles? Please
Layla: I was like two
Milo: Ha. But you liked him?
Milo: Trent?
Milo: TRENT?
Layla: Thought you were busy with work?
Milo: I am. Going … going …
Layla: Gone
* * *
Milo: Hey stranger, how bout a visit at work tomoz?
Layla: Hey, sorry, can’t make it. I’m working too. Boo but $$$
Milo: Alright. Cluck you
* * *
Milo: 24 hours. Now who’s crap at texting?
Layla: Sorry! This is prob past your bedtime so you won’t get it til later
Layla: Grandpa
* * *
Milo: It’s 7 — I’m up
Layla: You’re UP? Flirt
Milo: Mind out of the gutter, flirt
Layla: Back chat! Detention for you! See you after class
Milo: Can’t wait, Miss Montgomery
Layla: Now who’s the flirt?
Milo
I’m cleaning my teeth after breakfast when Trent barges into the bathroom without knocking.
‘I’m in here,’ I say through a mouthful of white foam. ‘Wait a sec.’
‘Sorry, bro, can’t. Tastes like something’s died in my mouth,’ he says, rubbing at an eye with one hand, fumbling for his toothbrush with the other.
I spit in the sink, then turn on the tap to wash the gunk down the drain. Yawning, Trent pushes in front of the mirror until we’re shoulder to shoulder. I notice his hand is shaking as he runs water over his toothbrush.
‘Big night again?’ I ask.
He nods.
‘I can tell. You look like crap.’ I grin.
Watery toothpaste dribbles down his chin. ‘You too. What’s your excuse?’
I spit again. ‘Just trying to be like my big bro.’
A laugh rumbles from him. ‘How was work yesterday? The old man still being a punish?’
‘What do you think? He was all, “Computer science sounds like a great idea” and “Where’s your life headed, Milo?”’
‘Worst.’
‘I don’t know how many other ways I can tell him I have no idea. You’re older than me — why don’t you cop this?’
‘Lost cause, bro. You’re the golden boy letting them down.’ Trent leans over and spits into the sink, then bolts upright. ‘Geez, nearly forgot! How about Sal’s tattoo?’
My eyes meet his, which are glassy as hell, in the mirror. ‘What tattoo? She hates them.’
‘Not any more.’
‘She does. She paid me out when I said I’d get a tatt one day.’
‘As she should — a tatt would look rubbish on you. I don’t know what to tell ya, but she’s got one.’ He wipes his mouth with the hand towel, leaving a milky smear, then crams it back through the hand rail. When he sees my face, he shakes his head, looking sorry for me for once. ‘Wait, you didn’t know? That was days ago, after an obstacle course or some lame uni thing. I swear I saw it on Facey — think it was on her wrist.’
* * *
There’s no sign of the tattoo anywhere in Sal’s photos online. There’s plenty of new pics of her from the car rally — laughing, doing star jumps, eating a burger dripping with cheese — while wearing a pink leotard, running shorts, a bib with Got Wood? emblazoned across it and a sparkly gold sweatband. I look for any trace of a tattoo on her wrists but it’s nowhere to be seen. Not even in the photo of Sal scaling Woody’s back and pumping the air with two thumbs-up. My head pounds, annoyed that I let Trent mess with me like this.
I go back to my and Sal’s messages in case I’ve missed something. Layla’s name catches my eye as I’m scrolling down. Her most recent texts stare back at me.
I read them.
I read them again.
I catch myself reading them a third time, tiring out my cheeks as I smirk to myself.
And then I read them again.
* * *
Three hours later and I still can’t block out the noise, both outside and inside my head. The Robinsons’ dog is having its usual ten o’clock barking fit, which has set off every canine within a few streets. Trent’s snoring and snuffling roars through the house. Mum’s watching an old episode of Law and Order at full volume. Dad’s on the phone in their bedroom, which is three rooms away but his voice bellows over everything else. I’m still wondering about Sal’s tattoo. Trent wouldn’t make up something like that — there’s nothing in it for him.
When I call Sal, she picks up almost straightaway. Her voice is cracking with weariness. We make small talk for a bit, chatting about work and uni and not being able to fall asleep, and then a lull hits.
I go for it. ‘So … your pics look like you’re having fun.’
She groans. ‘That’s one word for it. I’m never partying again.’
‘That good, huh?’ I’m trying not to jump ahead. ‘Yeah … that car rally looked pretty epic.’
‘Oh yeah, some of the dares were wild. I thought I told you about that?’
‘Yeah, I think you did … what happened again?’
I have no chill.
‘At the car rally? My team won the most points — hello, free pizza for two months. Totally worth skinny-dipping in the lake … oh God, and getting a photo with a police officer later that night. She was rad. Nearly forgot that part.’
‘You skinny-dipped?’
She laughs. ‘Yeah, our whole team did, otherwise we wouldn’t get full marks for doing the dare. It was the middle of the night so it wasn’t too bad.’
I force a chuckle out.
‘You right?’ she asks. ‘You sound sorta funny.’
‘I’m good. Just hanging out and listening and …’ Screw it. ‘Er, so … random question, but Trent mentioned that … well, I know I probably sound like a weirdo, but … did you get a tattoo?’
No freakin’ chill.
She groans. ‘Oh, you did see the photo? Woody had a brain-fart and tagged me in a photo of it, but I made him take it down. Like, Mum is friends with me on there.’
‘Wait, so you actually got one?’
‘Oh.’ Pause. ‘Yeah. I did.’
I swear out loud.
‘Pretty crazy, right?’
‘Yeah. In a good way.’ I mean it. I wish she’d told me, but I mean it.
Sal sighs in relief. ‘Well, it was worth fifteen hundred points. I almost chickened out, then I just went for it. And we won!’
‘Nice. Can I get in on that free pizza?’
‘Oh yeah,’ she says. ‘I was going to tell you, but celebrations got a bit out of control, and you had the accident and … I was just working out how to tell you. I’d made such a thing about not getting one. I was worried you’d be mad.’
‘Nah. Send me a pic.’
‘I will, but … well, the other thing is we had to get tattoo
s that related to the car rally, so our crew got initials. So Britt got an S for Sal, Woody got a J for Jamie, Jamie got a B for Britt and I got a —’
‘W.’ For Woody.
‘But it sorta looks like an E or 3 from certain angles, but I like to think of it as an upside-down M. For Milo. Kinda cute, don’t you think?’
Now I feel like I’m hanging upside-down.
Just say it’s cute, just say it’s cute, just say it’s cute.
I swear again. ‘You seriously got a freakin’ W?’
‘Yeah. What’s the matter?’
‘His name is on your body? Permanently?’
My chest has tightened so much it feels like someone is scratching through the skin.
‘It’s not really his name. Just the first letter. It was just this big, crazy night. It doesn’t even mean anything.’
I don’t see red when she says that. I see scorching, blistering, bloody red. And I let her know.
I’ve never spoken like that before. I don’t even know where this anger is coming from.
‘Get over yourself, Milo. He’s friends with everyone. Friends.’
‘And now you’ve got the tattoo to prove your friendship.’ My voice leaks with sarcasm. ‘He looks like a really, really good friend.’
‘What’s going on? You don’t even sound like you.’
‘What do you expect?’ I reply, my voice shaking a little. I know I should stop talking, take a walk, sleep it off, but I don’t. The redness has spread from the ache in my chest down to my stomach. ‘I’m here by myself in Durnan thinking about you like a loser and you’re off doing that.’
‘Yeah, I am. I’m trying something new. Making friends. Give it a go sometime.’ She’s not even trying to hold back any more. ‘And it’s not my fault you stayed behind. That one’s on you.’
‘At least I’m not pretending to be someone I’m not. And I bet the tattoo looks terrible.’
It’s Sal’s turn to swear at me.
‘You’re a mess, Milo.’ Pause. ‘Yeah … you really are, so I’m going to make this easy for you. We’re done.’
She’s hung up.
I stare at my phone, willing her to ring back.
Nothing.
I try to remember everything I said, every accusation I hurled, every hurtful comment I already regret saying. But I can’t.
I dial her number. It only rings once before it cuts out.
Layla
I angle myself under the showerhead so the water strikes my right shoulder and scrub at my skin with a face-washer. Every pore of my body has absorbed the greasy chicken stench from Joe’s.
The bathroom is heavy with steam and the smell of coconut, and with everyone else asleep or out, there’s an unusual calm in the house. Jay isn’t banging at the door for me to hurry up; and Mel isn’t ducking in, hand over her eyes, to retrieve her hair-straightener. It’s so peaceful that it almost feels like being at home. My old home, where it was just Mum, Dad and me rattling around a house big enough for a family of six. Maybe midnight showers aren’t so bad. Maybe they’ll be my time. If I can ever get rid of this chicken smell.
The work itself isn’t that bad. Nice enough people. Free hot chips and gravy on my break. Six and a half hours of getting paid. But squelching through our front door at eleven forty-three at night with fat in my boots and oil in my hair isn’t pretty.
I step out of the shower and grab the two ratty towels I’ve laid out for myself. They don’t match, but none of our stuff does. It’s all hand-me-downs from everyone else’s parents or hand-me-acrosses from Mel’s friends. I wind one around my hair and one around my body.
I’m tiptoeing back to the bedroom when I bump into Kurt in the hall.
‘Hey, you’re still up?’ I whisper.
‘Yeah, hey, babe,’ he whispers back.
I’ve barely seen him today. He was so wrecked after a party last night that he slept for most of the afternoon, then it was time for me to go to work.
‘Heading to bed?’ I ask. Then it clicks. He’s in jeans, a T-shirt and sneakers. A backpack is slung over his shoulder. The only place he’s heading is out.
‘Nah, the Richards twins are having another party. Just got a late call-up — Ryan’s gonna give me a lift over there.’
‘But it’s after midnight.’ I tighten my towel. ‘And it’s dark out.’
‘That happens at night.’
‘But —’
‘Lay, you’ll be asleep here anyway, right?’
I shrug.
‘You look tired, babe. I’m off.’ He pecks me on the cheek, then heads down the hallway towards the front door.
I pad into our bedroom and pace around in my towel, side-stepping his mess to get to the wardrobe. As I pull out a singlet and boxers from the top drawer, I notice the bottom drawer is slightly ajar.
Kurt’s drawer.
He’s never left it unlocked before. He even refuses to tell me where he keeps the key, but now he is gone and the drawer is open.
I swallow.
He promised me that he’d stop dealing. No harm in making sure. Heart pounding, I drop to my knees and yank open the drawer.
Shit.
My body surges with rage as I stare at the dried greeny-brown leaves and buds, as though staring will somehow make them disappear out of our house. I can already picture Kurt spinning it, telling me everything is okay, that I’m overreacting, that whatever he’s doing it’s for us. Yet I can’t believe any of it any more. He’s left me with no choice.
I snatch my phone from the bedside table, my hand tightening around it as I consider calling him and ending it right now.
But then I toss the phone onto the bed.
If I break up with him, I have nowhere to go. I followed him here like a failure, and he knows it. Besides, he’s the only one who’s even tried to be there for me in the past few years. Everyone always tells me how much I owe him for staying with me through the tough times, and maybe they’re right.
Sucking in a breath, I stride into the kitchen and yank open the fridge. Diet Coke. Red Bull. Water. Mel’s cheap cask wine. ‘Cat’s wee’ she calls it ’cos she thinks it tastes that bad.
I pour myself a small glass and gulp it down, hating every sip but craving numbness. I refill the cup, drops splashing onto the tiles.
I’ve been on the couch for ten minutes, staring at the full glass, repulsed by the taste in my mouth and the aching feeling in my chest, when I hear a knock, knock, knock at the front door.
I take another sip of wine, then gag, so I pour the rest down the kitchen sink. I tiptoe through the house and open the front door to see an elderly woman in a paisley-print robe. Her face is engraved with lines and her nose is scrunched up in disapproval.
‘I found this boy snooping in my front yard — he’s lucky I didn’t call the police,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘I believe you know him.’
She moves to one side and the culprit stumbles onto the top step of the veranda. Milo.
His cheeks are red, his hair is dishevelled and his bottom lip droops like a slug crawling towards his chin. He looks tipsy and the hems of his jeans are covered in mud and leaves.
‘Dude!’ I say, rushing forward to help him into the house.
The old woman totters off home, but not without shooting us another judgmental glare.
‘Hey, Lay,’ he says, swaying like one of those inflatable stringy-man balloons outside car dealerships.
‘What the … are you okay, MD?’ Stupid question, Layla.
Milo babbles something under his breath, then plops down on the veranda, hitting the concrete hard, and rests his head against a post.
With a bit of prodding, I realise he tried to call me, but I’ve been so distracted by Kurt’s lies that I haven’t paid attention to the notifications coming through.
‘It’s over with Sal,’ he mutters, ‘I’ve stuffed up my life. I had it all and now …’ He makes an explosion noise.
I take his hand. ‘It’ll be alright.’
/> ‘Nah,’ he says, eyes watery. ‘I can’t be in this town any more. I can’t.’
I don’t want him crashing through the house in the middle of the night, but I can’t leave him outside in this state.
‘Come inside for a minute,’ I tell him. ‘A minute. You’re going to wait in the laundry while I get you some water, we’ll talk it out, and then you’re going home before your parents realise you’re gone and call the police. Follow me and don’t say another word until I say so, okay?’
He nods.
It’s a start.
His hand firmly in mine, I lead him through the house and steer him into the laundry. It’s a small cramped room away from the bedrooms.
I prop him against the sink and press my finger to his mouth. ‘Shhh, two of my housemates are still home,’ I remind him, then go to fetch a glass of water.
‘Hey, you’re in your pyjamas,’ he whispers when I get back.
‘Well done, Captain Obvious. You know what time it is, right?’ My nose crinkles. ‘Does something … does something reek in here? What did … oh, it’s on the bottom of your jeans! Quick, take them off and we’ll scrub them. It stinks, man. This is why you don’t fall over in people’s gardens.’
Milo fumbles with his belt.
‘Wait, you’ve got boxers on too, right?’
He removes his jeans without answering. He does. Thank God. I try not to laugh.
‘No more talk until you drink this — you’re a mess,’ I say, passing him the water.
His expression sours. ‘That’s what she said.’ He slumps down onto the ground, head lolling against the washing machine. ‘She used to talk about us getting married one day … she did. Everyone did. Not me. It was her idea.’
‘Don’t worry about that right now,’ I say, dropping to the floor next to him.
‘She wanted a dog and a fence and kids and a juicer to make those green drinks and just … I freakin’ hate those drinks.’
I pinch his cheek. ‘You’re eighteen, MD, forget about all that crazy future stuff for a sec and …’ He stares at me, eyes glassy. ‘Just focus on not chucking up in my laundry, yeah? That’s the only thing that matters at the moment.’
‘My head …’ He slumps lower. ‘It got so hard with her. It shouldn’t be that hard when it’s right … right?’
Remind Me How This Ends Page 12
