My head presses into a cushion as I buzz through the TV channels. Boring. Funny but seen it. Hundred years old. Dumb and seen it.
‘Hey.’
I sit up, startled, and see Milo standing behind the couch, backpack slung over one shoulder.
‘Hi,’ I stammer, suddenly nervous. Being nervous around Milo is so out of the ordinary it’s like we’re in another dimension. ‘What is it with you Dark boys and sneaking up on people?’
‘Huh?’
‘Back door, right?’
‘Huh?’ He walks around the couch and eases himself down next to me.
‘Trent came in the same … doesn’t matter. How are you?’
He’s careful to keep about a metre between our bodies while we talk, but not seem like he’s keeping a metre between our bodies while we talk. We chat a lot about a little for a few minutes. Well, he does, while I nod along, pretending to listen while wondering what happens next.
‘So, no treehouse today, huh? Damn.’ He scratches his head. ‘Um, you want a juice?’
‘Sure. I’ll help you get it.’
‘Er, thanks.’
I spring to my feet, grateful for something — even something as trivial as juice — to focus on rather than the silence that creeps in every time one of us runs out of ways to stuff the air with small talk.
We head into the kitchen, and he fills my glass to the top with orange juice until nothing but a dribble comes out. He holds up the bottle: empty.
I point at it. ‘That’s dangerously familiar.’
‘What, the juice?’
‘The empty bottle.’
It’s what we used to play spin the bottle before we discovered empty wine bottles in the recycling.
He flushes a little. ‘Oh. Yeah. True.’
‘Yeah.’ Warning: rules down. ‘How’s Sal?’
I repeat: rules down.
‘Well, I’m totally, one hundred per cent, definitely single.’ He clears his throat. ‘And, ah, you?’
He already knows I am. My lip curls into a smile. It’s too late to fight it.
‘Yep. Definitely, totally. One hundred per cent.’
‘Interesting …’ He hasn’t let go of the bottle. ‘About you and me the other week …’ His cheeks are still flushed. ‘I was thinking and … well, it wasn’t that big a deal, was it? We can stay friends despite that … right? No weirdness. I can’t deal with the weirdness.’
Every time he says ‘weirdness’ it only amplifies the weirdness.
I hoist myself onto the kitchen counter. ‘Here’s what I think. We kissed once, and now we’re here and we’re friends and I’ve got juice and everything’s normal, so yeah … no big deal. No weirdness.’
‘Well, technically it was two kisses in one day.’
‘True. Well, maybe that makes it even less of a big deal. Twice and all is still okay.’
‘Better than okay. In fact …’
‘Yeah?’
I’m bursting for him to finish the sentence. His body is close to mine now. He’s leaning in towards me so slowly — painfully slowly — that it’s barely obvious it’s happening. But it’s happening.
‘I might be wrong,’ he begins. ‘But maybe three times wouldn’t be that different.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘You know, you’re right. If anything, it would just prove how much we can handle it. The kissing. As friends, I mean.’
‘Right. One hundred per cent.’
I can see his chest rising and falling now.
‘Maybe we’re friends who kiss sometimes. What a revelation. Who cares?’
‘I don’t get why everyone’s not doing this.’
‘It’s genius,’ I say and readjust my position on the counter, leaving my legs slightly splayed … just another space for him to stand in. ‘So, ah, what do we … oh! I’ve got it.’
I take the bottle from his hand and lay it on the counter next to me. Then I give it a spin. It whirls around, sliding across the bench, before slowing to a stop, the lid pointed towards the fridge, the base pointed at Milo’s stomach. The lid’s not pointing at him. It’s supposed to be the lid.
He leans in for a better look. ‘Now what?’
I look at the bottle. ‘Well …’
He steps in closer until I can feel his body against mine.
‘Well …’ He leans in and brushes my lips with his, just for a second. He breaks into a small smile. ‘Oops, I fell.’
‘Rules four and five,’ I mumble, feeling a flutter flow through my body. I link my bare feet around his waist to pull him closer. ‘See, we’re friends.’
‘Totally,’ he says, before moving his lips against mine again, faster this time, like he’s been holding it in.
My fingers slip up the back of his T-shirt, while his hands move over my jeans then slide up towards my shoulder blades. I press one palm onto the counter and wrap my other arm around his neck, when I hear a clatter. We look down to see the empty bottle on the tiles.
Then we hear slow clapping behind us.
Milo
Trent tells us not to worry. To chill. That he’s seen it all before. That it looks like I’m using too much tongue.
‘Relax, bro, we’re all friends here, right?’
He’s brought out his laptop to show us a video of the three of us playing together as kids. Layla flashes me a lopsided grin as we take seats at the opposite ends of the couch and Trent is all over it.
‘Well,’ he says, giving her a wink, ‘some of you are more than friends, hey, Montgomery?’
‘Shut it, Trenticles.’
I notice she’s blushing. I don’t know why but it kinda makes me happy. That maybe I’m not the only one into this. Whatever this is.
I roll my eyes. ‘Are we gonna watch this stupid thing or not?’
‘Damn straight we are, Casanova. Still can’t believe I found this gem on Dad’s old hard-drive. Haven’t watched it all the way through yet, but what I’ve seen is gold. Trust me.’
He presses play.
Suddenly we’re toddlers again.
There’s our backyard with its patchy green lawn and overgrown garden before my folks got it landscaped, and we’re giggling as we take turns running through a sprinkler. The camera work is shaky and Dad’s voice booms off screen, telling us to calm down, take turns, be careful of bindies. The video goes in and out of focus — there’s even a bit of muttered swearing as Dad fumbles to find his grip — then Trent and Layla come back into the shot. Trent’s undies are so drenched they’re hanging low on his lily-white body, while Layla’s hair is thick and curly and dark, the way I remember it. She’s waddling around in a striped one-piece, and then I trundle into the shot behind her, starkers, wearing my soaked undies like a floppy hat. Trent squats down on the sprinkler, laughing as the water bubbles up in his undies, and we all shriek like we’ve been hooked up to an IV of red cordial.
‘Look at ya little thingy!’ Trent points at the close-up of me sprinting across the screen, bare body on show for all to see. Layla tries to hide a cackle behind her fist. ‘Bit cold that day, mate?’
‘Where’s my Layla?’ a woman’s voice calls off screen.
I suck in a sharp breath. Shit. I know that voice in the video.It’s her.
Trent’s still hooting at the footage, swearing as little Layla dacks him on screen, oblivious to the fact we’re not laughing any more.
‘Where’s my Lay-Lay?’ the sugary voice says. ‘It’s time to go, sweetie.’
My heartbeat quickens as I dare to look over, hoping I’m overreacting, but Layla’s lips are tight as she watches her mum walk into the frame holding a beach towel.
I clear my throat. ‘Lay, we can turn it off —’
‘No, leave it,’ she says, not taking her eyes off the laptop. ‘I’m fine.’ Trent’s no longer laughing
‘Lay-Lay,’ her mum sings on screen. ‘Lay-Lay, come to Mummy. Ready to go?’
The three of us are silent as little Layla sticks out her tongue at her mum, who crouches down to ey
e level, sweeps her thick dark plait over her shoulder, and tries again.
‘Sweetheart,’ she says, extending her arms. ‘We’ve gotta go. Mummy’s gotta finish marking her school reports and I need you to come with me.’
Little Layla roars and stamps her foot on the grass, then runs in the opposite direction.
‘I mean it, Layla. I’m counting to three, okay? One … two … Layla!’
More screaming. Then crying. Then a shot of her mum wrestling a wriggling, kicking, shrieking Layla over her shoulder. Her tiny little arms hit and punch at her mum, but she only grimaces, chewing on her bottom lip.
Layla’s eyes fill with tears as she watches the video. ‘Turn it off, Trent,’ I hiss.
He’s startled and slow, and we hear little Layla’s repeated shrieks of ‘Hate you, Mummy!’ through the speaker.
Swearing, Layla snatches the laptop from Trent’s hands and slams the lid shut.
Layla
I mumble that I have to go, that I have other plans, that I’ll see them later. Thongs in my hands, I run through their living room and swing open the front door, ignoring their voices begging me to stay and talk about it.
I sprint across their lawn onto the hot cement. Gravel pierces the soles of my feet but I barely notice. I don’t stop running.
* * *
Milo: Hey, I’m so sorry. Wanna talk? I’ll come to you?
* * *
I make it to the alley behind the supermarket a few blocks from my house before I stop to draw breath. Well, to draw breath, kick at the cracked slabs of concrete and think about consequences. I’ve clearly underestimated the damage of allowing the Dark brothers back into my life.
Before Mum died, I didn’t think about consequences. I never tried to trace a problem back to its cause. Back then, life felt almost forgettable; a series of moments of varying degrees of mundane: sleeping, flossing, reaching for the remote, kissing a boy behind the bike shed, buying potato gems on the walk home from school, lying on the trampoline with Milo, sleeping again. If only I’d known how much I’d miss that close-to-bored feeling.
Now all I do is think about consequences. It’s how my brain’s wired.
I know a look mightn’t just be a look.
A little white lie mightn’t just be a little white lie.
A woman driving to the bakery to buy a poppy seed loaf mightn’t just be a woman driving to the bakery to buy a poppy seed loaf.
At the time, the moment might seem like nothing, but it could end up being everything.
The butterfly effect.
Because a woman driving to the bakery to buy a poppy seed loaf also mightn’t be watching the road because her little girl is screaming in the back because her doll has fallen out of her hands. Maybe the woman left the house forty-five minutes later than she planned to because the washing machine flooded. Maybe she didn’t sleep well the night before. Maybe her cousin has been diagnosed with cancer and it’s stressing her out. Maybe she lingers in the rear-view mirror two seconds too long to cringe at the dark circles beneath her eyes. Maybe she’s driving eight kilometres above the speed limit — even though she can’t afford to lose any more points off her licence — because she wants to make it back home in time to greet her son when he gets back from camping with his dad. Maybe all of that has added up to this exact moment in her life — driving to the bakery to buy a poppy seed loaf.
That woman made it to the bakery. I know ’cos she told the police, the police told Dad, and Dad told me. When her little girl wouldn’t stop screaming, she pulled over to let a ute speed past, picked up her daughter’s doll, took a minute to collect herself, then drove to the bakery, bought her poppy seed loaf and made it back in time to greet her son. She didn’t know until six hours later, while watching the news, that the ute sped on for three more blocks, clipped the median strip and hit a mother of one crossing Butcher Street to watch her thirteen-year-old daughter play softball.
Turned out the driver of the ute was still off his head after a party the night before. He lived though. He saw his family again. Stayed in the world.
The mother of one wasn’t so lucky. She passed away in the hospital an hour later.
To this day I wonder if the woman driving to the bakery ever thinks about consequences. How, if she hadn’t pulled over to let the ute past, maybe everything would’ve played out differently.
Or maybe it would’ve been exactly the same.
There’s no way to tell.
All I know is I was still wearing my softball uniform when Mum took her last breath in the hospital that day. And I never wore it again.
The news of her death swirled around me faster and faster, until I fainted from shock. Apparently the nurses sat me in a chair and swathed my forehead in a wet towel, then they told me again ’cos no-one was sure if I remembered the first time.
Dad sobbed uncontrollably in the corner, already withdrawing into himself.
It didn’t hit me then — that she was truly gone.
It didn’t feel real until later.
We never got to make cupcakes together at midnight ’cos I had a sugar craving. We never stayed up late gossiping about boys, swapping stories about crushes and first kisses. I could never ask her for advice, or lean on her again, or ask her who to call to say, ‘Help, my mum is dead, what do I do now?’
The only person I ever wanted in those moments was her. And she was the only person I could never see again.
In all the chaos at the hospital, my tattered old softball mitt got left behind and I only realised a few days later. Not that I ever bothered going to collect it. I couldn’t even look at the bouquets of flowers piling up on Butcher Street.
* * *
Not all moments in my life are that sharp.
Not all moments rip away everything in an instant.
Sometimes they add up, multiplying quietly over the years, building, growing, until one day they rise up at you like a thundering wave, drag you out, pull you under and smack your head on the sand.
Like what happened at the cemetery with Kurt.
Like what happened today at the Darks’.
Like what happened with Milo in the laundry. What keeps happening with Milo.
Once those moments arrive, you wonder how you didn’t notice them coming sooner. Why you couldn’t see what now seems so clear.
I gag once, twice, then heave up foamy bile onto the concrete.
* * *
Milo: Lay, where are you? Want company?
Layla: I’ll be OK
Layla
I lap the block three times before I’ve calmed down enough to go inside the house. The lounge-room curtains are drawn and the lights are dimmed. Mel’s head rests on Jay’s shoulder as they’re curled up together in the armchair, Ryan’s lying on his back on the floor by the coffee table, and Kurt’s stretched out on the couch. My bed for the night.
‘Hey, Lay,’ Mel says.
Everyone else mumbles hello. None of them have spoken much to me since the break-up, not that I’ve gone out of my way to make small talk over Weet-Bix either.
‘Hey,’ I say, coughing from the smoke clogging the air.
I look at Kurt, waiting for him to catch my eye, but he doesn’t. He’s already like a stranger. Or maybe I’m the alien.
With the couch taken, I march to the bedroom and stand in the doorway, looking in. There’s not long before I have to move out, but I feel even further away from a plan. Where do you go when the most familiar places are too painful but nowhere else feels like home?
I rub at my eyes. Hold it together. Don’t crack now.
‘Lay … ya really don’t have to leave.’
I turn to see Kurt standing there. His eyes are red and his clothes smell smoky — the way they always have, I guess.
‘I mean it, babe. Stay. It was a stupid fight, that’s all.’
‘No, it wasn’t.’
‘Where ya even gonna move to? You belong here.’
My stomach lurches because I know I don’t.
Surely I belong somewhere, but not at this house with these people living this life.
I look at the floor. I’ll work it out.’
‘We both said stuff we didn’t mean. Can’t ya forgive me?’
‘I meant everything,’ I manage, voice trembling.
‘Babe.’ Kurt wraps his arms around me. ‘C’mon.’
I flinch. ‘Ow, you’re squashing me.’
He lets go, swearing under his breath. ‘I’ve been there for ya … for years. Through all that stuff with ya mum. That should mean something. That should be enough.’
I swallow. My silence says it all. It’s not.
Kurt sighs and crosses his arms over his chest. ‘Fine, do it. But stop putting it off. Can ya just leave?’
‘What?’
‘Ya heard me, babe. Leave. Like, now.’
He hurls open the wardrobe, pulls down my suitcase and throws it on the bed.
‘I can’t,’ I say, voice shaking. ‘You promised me a week. I’ve got nowhere to go. Not yet.’
‘Ya had me, but ya don’t want that, do ya?’ He shrugs, jaw hardening. ‘Call ya dad if ya have to and tell him ya’ve blown it again. Just leave ’cos I can’t even look at ya. Now.’
* * *
I feel like the last girl in the world.
The car park at the river is deserted. The trees make striking silhouettes as the sky darkens behind them.
I breathe in a gulp of fresh air, soaking in the scent of the river — our stupid river — before winding up the windows. My bulkiest, softest jumpers and tracksuits are piled on the back seat. A makeshift bed. I crawl onto them and lie down, burrowing my cheek into my pillow. Cool air sends goosebumps across my thighs and calves so I pull one of the hoodies around my legs.
In my rush to leave, I forgot to throw in a sleeping bag or a sheet. I didn’t even stop to say goodbye to my housemates. They’d all disappeared into their bedrooms when Kurt started yelling and I wasn’t about to knock on their doors on the way out. Not with Kurt breathing fire. And it wasn’t like they came to my rescue.
How weird to think I may never see and of them again. Not if they want it that way.
Remind Me How This Ends Page 16
