‘We are high achievers in the field of gelato consumption. Married though? With a pergola? And kids?’
‘Yep, ratbag ones.’ One strap is sliding off her shoulder, but she doesn’t seem to notice. I try to stop noticing. ‘The kind you see losing it in the lolly aisle. And you’ll probably be bald — or at least have a thinning hairline.’
I shoot her a wry look. ‘Jesus, who knew it was all downhill from here.’
‘It’s why you have to go. I’d make you lose your hair. I don’t want you to lose your hair. You have nice hair.’
I turn the map around so it’s facing Layla and place it back on my lap. ‘Shut your eyes and give me your finger.’
‘Perve.’ But she shuts her eyes and stretches out her left hand.
Gently holding her wrist, I move her closer so her fingers hover over the map. ‘Put out your finger — no, not your middle one — and touch the paper. Eyes closed, please, Chicken Girl.’
‘If this is a way to make me touch —’
‘Piss off!’
‘Fine!’ She slams her finger down in the middle of Australia. Peeling one eyelid open, she looks down. ‘Oops.’
She covers her face with her left hand and swirls her right hand above the map. This time she plonks her finger down in Europe.
We both strain forward.
‘Corfu.’ Her nose scrunches in confusion.
‘Greece. It’s an island in Greece.’
‘Island, huh? You’re going to be one of those people who shares photos of amazing beaches all the time, aren’t you? I hate you already.’ She smirks in such a cute way it makes me want to sprint home and rip my passport to shreds. Either that or move into this treehouse with her and never leave. ‘More than usual, I mean.’
Layla has no idea how gorgeous she looks surrounded by the balloons. Her hair is wavy and wild, and her eyes sparkle in the night. She’s radiating a lightness that I’ve only seen glimpses of recently. I bite my tongue to stop myself from asking her to come overseas with me one last time.
* * *
My arse aches from sitting on the floor, the air’s getting cold and our fingers are stained Twisties orange.
There’s nothing left to say. Well, nothing left I should say.
Faking a cough to get Layla’s attention, I pull out the small velvet box that’s been pressing against my thigh for the last hour.
‘So you’ve done this amazing thing for me,’ I say, gesturing to the balloons and streamers, ‘but, ah, I kinda have something for you too.’
Her gaze darts between me and the tiny box. ‘Holy … MD, I was kidding about marriage. We’re embryos! And what about my bum and your hair?’
‘What? No! Not that.’ I open the box and hold up a fine gold bracelet, then thrust it into her hand. ‘Just take it.’
She stares at me, stunned.
‘It’s fine if you hate it. I kept the receipt. I wanted to get you something for when I told you the news, and now I’m looking at your face and I should’ve gone with something that doesn’t scream “desperate loser” and —’
‘Shut up. I love it.’
‘Yeah?’
‘It’s similar to another one that was … well, it was special,’ she says, trying to do up the bracelet. It slips from her hands, wedging itself into the wooden planks of the treehouse. ‘Crap!’
This is so ‘us’.
Layla swears as she struggles to tug the bracelet out from between the boards. After careful manoeuvring, she frees it, then wraps it around her wrist again.
‘You know, it’s been alright hanging out with you, Mr Dark.’ She grins. ‘Maybe for a second anyway.’
‘Just a second, huh?’
‘Yeah, a split one. After all, you did come into my life — again, I mean — at the worst possible time, and we somehow made it here despite that.’
‘Rules annihilated … but we’re here.’ Her lips curl upwards into a smile. ‘You’re becoming as soft as a marshmallow, Miss Montgomery, you know that?’
‘Hey, take that back! Although it was bound to happen, I suppose, spending time with a dorkatron like you,’ she teases, before leaning over and pressing her lips against mine.
I’m caught off guard but I sink into the kiss, my hands running through her hair. Tonight there’s nothing blurring the edges so everything is sharp: from the urgent feel of her hands tracing over my back to her warm breath as she nuzzles into my neck. When she pulls away, she’s slightly out of breath.
I wonder if I’m as flushed as her.
Layla rests her head on my legs like she did at the river, knees pointing to the sky, but this time I relax at her touch. I even let my fingers trace her forehead and wipe away a twist of hair threatening to tangle with her eyelashes.
‘This whole friends-who-kiss thing is kinda nice, hey?’ She holds up her arm to admire the bracelet again and releases a sigh. ‘I’ve gotta say … you’re not even leaving yet, so why does this feel like we’re saying goodbye forever?’ She exhales again.
‘It’s not forever. Just a bit.’
‘You’ll be shacked up with an English supermodel in no time. And if I ever leave Durnan, I’ll be a movie star on her way to winning an Oscar.’
‘That’s … specific.’
‘How do you know we’ll see each other again?’ she asks, twisting around to face me. ‘All this was a fluke. It aligned perfectly. If one little thing had gone differently that day, or every day since — if I’d thought, stuff trying to get a job at the bookshop, or I’m going back to Sydney on my own, or a million other little choices — then we wouldn’t have to say goodbye ’cos we’d never have said hello.’
She’s quiet. Sad, I think.
Jesus, I want to kiss her again.
Forget the islands. Forget adventures. Layla makes me want to stay in Durnan despite all the reasons why I shouldn’t. Despite all the reasons why I can’t.
Because I can’t. I can’t.
‘Lay … here’s what I think’s going to happen.’
‘This’ll be good,’ she mumbles. ‘This’ll be great.’
‘I’ll be back in six months. Done. That’s it.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘You don’t know that. You don’t even know where you’re going to be in six weeks. Months will pass, then instead of coming back you’ll get a visa and live overseas and get sponsored to stay then … poof! Gone.’
‘Okay, say that happens — just hypothetically — and years pass. I reckon you’ll be walking along one day — I don’t know where, somewhere good, doesn’t matter — and you’ll see a familiar face. And you’ll think, Damn, I know him. He looks like this hot guy from Durnan who I always wanted to —’
‘Your point?’
‘Just saying you might remember he was a bit of alright. Good friend, great kisser.’
‘Loved nuding up at inappropriate times.’
I laugh. ‘Anyway, you’ll come up to this guy and —’
‘No, he’ll come up to me, he’ll definitely come up to me.’
‘You’ll go up to him, this familiar guy, and you’ll say, “Milo Dark, is that you?”, and then he’ll say, “Do I know you?” Then you’ll kiss him to try to make him remember and —’
‘No way, you’ll definitely kiss me and —’
‘Then we’ll …’
‘What? We’ll what?’
‘That’s all I have so far.’ I grin. ‘But you’ll see me. And you’ll kiss me.’
Milo
I wait until Dad’s in a good mood before bringing up London. Don’t know why I’m surprised it takes a few days. If anything, I’m glad a slot’s opened up at all. It could’ve been decades.
Loud laughter from the patio is the first sign it’s go-time. He’s with Mum and Trent and work’s done for the day, which means there’ll be cheese and bickies. If Dad’s on the patio, there’s always cheese and bickies. Throw in that I’ve been on my best behaviour, Trent’s still lying low, and Mum’s happy ’cos Dad’s happy, and conditions are as sweet
as they’ll ever be.
As I creak open the flyscreen and step outside, it feels like I’ve entered the lions’ enclosure at the zoo without safety gear. Dad’s bellowing laugh is echoing around the yard, and I consider whether it would’ve been easier to pay a doppelgänger to cover for me while I’m in London rather than telling my parents I’m leaving Durnan.
Maybe.
Or maybe I’m just the biggest coward in Australia.
I choose the seat next to Trent, who’s sneaking glances at his phone between his knees, and opposite Mum, whose eyes are glistening as she strains to keep them open while Dad drivels on. They don’t know it, but they’ll come in handy if Dad blows up like Vesuvius.
White froth spits from Dad’s mouth as he tells us, hands thrashing around, that his brain was literally exploding with excitement over the shop’s numbers this week. I remind myself to break it to him what ‘literally’ means the next time he’s in a good mood. Which could be never.
But first, London.
I wait for Trent to finish punishing Mum with questions about what’s for dinner, and for Dad to slice off a hunk of blue vein and smear it on the last cracker, and then I blurt it out.
My hunger to see the world. The feeling of treading water in Durnan. The need to push myself. To try something on my own.
The toothpaste is out of the tube. But I’m hit with nothing but silence from my family.
Even Trent looks like he’s about to choke. ‘Wait, are you serious, bro?’
‘Yeah. Hundred per cent.’
‘Holy … England! That’s freakin’ awesome. Can we visit? Mum, we’ll have to visit.’
‘Um …’ Mum falters, lost for words. ‘I …’
Dad clears his throat. ‘Jen, shall I clear these plates and get dinner started?’
Trent scoffs. ‘Dad. Get ya head out of your bum and say something.’
‘Trent …’ Mum warns.
‘Nah, Milo’s talking about leaving and visiting the Queen, and Dad’s worried about his next meal.’
‘Let’s all calm down,’ Mum says as Dad just glowers into his stubby. It’d be easier if he yelled at me. ‘Milo, darling, you can’t think this is a smart idea? You’re just a boy.’
‘I know I’ve been useless around here, but it’s like you can’t see I’m trying to do something about it.’
Dad finally speaks. ‘You’re only eighteen. You don’t know what’s good for you, and you’ve proven that time and time again.’
‘Yeah? Well, eighteen’s old enough to buy fireworks. To sue someone. Freakin’ hell, I can be sued. To get married. To buy a place — and you were gagging for us to do that. I’m not a kid. It’s not even like I need anything from you — I’m paying for it myself.’
Mum sighs. ‘I know you think you’re independent, but —’
‘People can join the army at sixteen, Mum, sixteen,’ Trent says, before elbowing me. ‘You gonna spot me a ticket, bro? Imagine us Dark boys tearing up Edinburgh.’
Jesus. Not helping. ‘That’s in Scotland, man.’
‘Same diff, isn’t it?’ he says with a shrug.
‘You stay out of this, Trent.’ Mum’s eyes set on mine. They’re still glistening. Dad’s avoiding eye contact again. ‘You don’t want to go to uni?’
‘I do, just not yet. One day.’
‘And you don’t want to stay here?’
‘Not when I don’t know what else is out there.’
Dad gets to his feet, collects the plates, then leaves the table without saying anything.
‘I’ll talk to him,’ Mum whispers. She reaches across the table and takes both my hands in hers. ‘We’ll just need some time to adjust.’
Should’ve hired a doppelgänger.
* * *
Milo: Hey, so more news … tix are booked! I leave on the 3rd at 4 pm outta Sydney (if Dad doesn’t kill me first)
Layla: Oh my god! That’s huge
Layla: btw 3 is my fave number
Layla: WAIT! THAT’S YOUR ACTUAL B’DAY?!
Milo: I know but cheaper tix. (Pov, who me?)
Layla: This feels real
Milo: Too real?
Layla: The right amount maybe
Layla: I looked at my list — we still haven’t yelled at idiots lapping the main street
Milo: You mean … EVERYONE IN DURNAN? We should do that today
Milo: Actually I can’t. Forgot that Trent’s helping me buy a new backpack. Soon tho?
Layla: Sure, have fun #bromance
Milo: You too
* * *
Milo: Evening, Chicken Girl, how’s your day?
Layla: Max crapped in my shoe! Still love him tho
Milo: I’d never do that
Layla: Ha! Good to know. And you?
* * *
Milo: Sorry for delay! Hopeless. Life update: my map fits in my new backpack. Tell me more things bout you
* * *
Layla: Sorry, now I’m battling with replying. Puppy-sitting is booming. Making it RAIN
Milo: Dollar dollar bills! CEO of the year
Layla: Layla Enterprises, baby. Will write back properly ASAP
Layla
Milo and I haven’t texted for eleven days.
After the treehouse, things got stuck in the in-between again.
We’ve never been more in the grey.
I got swamped with dog-walking, catch-ups with Amvi and hanging with Shirin and forgot to write back at some point, then he didn’t nudge me for a reply, and now he seems to have forgotten too. He’s busy planning for his new life overseas; I guess I’m busy living mine here. Or maybe we’re getting used to missing each other. After all, the more time we spend together in the grey, the more time I want to spend together in the grey. Every talk and kiss and in-joke only pushes us in deeper, making me sick at the thought of ever saying goodbye.
I still think of him on and off all day. There’s no cure for that. When I admire my bracelet or feel its cool metal press against my forearm. Or when I run along the river with Max on the leash, heart pounding in my chest. Every time I stroll past the gelato shop, or when Shirin tells me she’s about to do laundry. If I walk past a eucalyptus, I remember how we clung to the branches of the tree at the river, laughing and shrieking as we swung from the tyre swing.
It all feels like a different lifetime. Like someone’s pressed reboot and our time together is already fading into chalky pastels and fuzzy memories.
I don’t know if he’s thinking of me.
I go to message him whenever I think of him, but when I pick up my phone, I stop myself. What is there to say to a guy who is leaving to start again? To a guy who wants to get lost? What is there to say to a guy who was only nearly right?
All my words will only make it harder for him to leave.
Twelve days until he goes.
Milo
I don’t know how to text her. Everything I type seems too full-on or romantic or boring or wanky — Meet me outside Buckingham Palace? Such a tosser! — so I delete them all.
Soon, not seeing each other will be the new normal, so maybe we’re bracing ourselves.
I glance at the map of the world again, swearing to myself as I take in the big blue of the ocean stretching across the paper, a staggering reminder of how far away London will be from this life.
Reminders like this, of her, make me want to cancel the trip, but I know that won’t make me happy either.
I’ve learnt the lesson and it blows: no-one can get everything they want. At least not at the same time. That’s the fantasy. The fairy tale.
But c’mon, I don’t want everything — just two things. Travel and her. Surely that’s not too much to ask.
I turn on my phone. No messages. I turn it off.
Maybe it’s better this way.
I wonder if she thinks it’s better this way.
***
Milo: Hey, stranger. When can I see you before I go?
* * *
Layla: Hey, whenever you want. Sorry
I’ve been MIA!
* * *
Milo: That’s OK. Same! Things are pretty hectic. How’s the day before I fly out?
Layla: Perfect. Come to mine if you want. Shirin will be at work
Milo: Yours it is
Milo
We’ve already said all the things.
Well, nearly all the things.
I look around the room, taking in the lemon walls and photos pinned to the corkboard next to her bed. Me. Max. Shirin and her dad. Her mum.
‘This room suits you,’ I tell her, finally letting myself look in her direction again. I notice the bracelet dangling from her wrist. ‘It’s like living on the sun. Well, without the third-degree burns.’
Layla releases a soft laugh. ‘Hey, by the way, I’ve gone through my old stuff and you’ve definitely stolen my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles blimp. You owe me a blimp, jerkface.’
‘You flogged it from me to start with.’
There’s an old softball mitt on her chest of drawers. I pick it up for a better look.
‘Hey, careful with that,’ she tells me in a rush, taking the mitt out of my hands and putting it back in its place.
Before I can ask why she pushes me towards her bed, but instead of tipping me backwards onto the mattress, she pins me against the wall.
‘What? What’s wrong?’ I tilt her chin upwards. ‘You mad at me for leaving?’
‘No … yes.’
‘Fine. That’s cool. I’m mad at you for telling me to leave.’
‘Fine.’
‘So we’re both mad.’
She steps in, hair brushing over her collarbone. ‘Furious.’
I’m fighting kissing her tonight. That laugh, that fieriness, that ability to turn the most mundane thing into an adventure. And she has no freakin’ idea how pretty she is, which somehow makes her even prettier. That and the potty mouth. The dimple in her chin. The banter. The spongy curves of her body.
Remind Me How This Ends Page 22
