by Ros Baxter
Brodie watched her, standing there just daring him with her eyes to continue being a complete dick, and he had to fight back the urge to grab and shake her. Or kiss her. Or something. He was trying to decide which was the right something when someone new sidled up to them.
‘You two,’ the new voice said, forcing Brodie to break his concentration on not kissing Gen to deal with the interloper. ‘Always looking at each other like you can’t wait to be alone.’
It was Carl Hopes, the biggest tosser Sweet Pocket High had ever produced. A quick glance confirmed he looked exactly as he had ten years before, only balder, fatter and not as spotty. Kind of like a corpulent weasel in a cowboy hat.
‘Wondered how long it would be after Mac left before you were back sniffing around. She always did have a hard time deciding between you two, huh?’
‘Fuck off, Carl,’ Gen said quietly. ‘You’ve had too much to drink.’
But Brodie was just steamed-up enough, after the committee meeting and the interrupted conversation with Gen, to be less generous. It might have been something about Carl being exactly as much of a dufus as Brodie had been, carrying on about Buddy. No one liked the universe to serve them up nasty little lessons right when they were in the middle of being a dick.
Brodie tipped the hat off Carl’s head, surprising him.
‘What’d you do that for?’
Brodie motioned towards Gen. ‘So you can apologise,’ he said. He clapped the much-shorter Carl on the shoulders. ‘You can’t apologise if you’ve got your hat on.’
‘I don’t need to apologise for nothin’,’ Carl said, sounding as whiny and pathetic as he had in their senior year when Clara Day had knocked him back for the school formal, and he had spread the rumour that she was pregnant in vicious retaliation.
‘Leave it, Brodie,’ Gen said, putting a hand on his arm. But something about the look in her eyes—something weary and defeated and completely used to this shit—pushed Brodie over the edge.
‘I said, say sorry,’ Brodie said, aware his voice had lowered an octave or two. He stepped closer to Carl.
‘Or what?’ the smaller man whined.
Good point. Would Brodie really do what he badly wanted to do and punch Carl, right in the middle of the bar? He hadn’t been much of one for that shit back in high school, and now that he was older and better known, he had even less inclination to start a brawl. What the hell was it about this town that had him flexing his punching fist so often?
‘Or you’ll have to leave,’ Brodie settled on, knowing in the way his blood seemed to swirl thick and hot inside his skin that he had to make this little shit pay for putting that look on Gen’s face. He eyeballed Carl carefully. ‘I’ll make you leave.’
Carl’s face, which had been full of drunken swagger, changed suddenly as he seemed to compute the degree of Brodie’s commitment to this course.
‘I didn’t mean nothin’ bad,’ he mumbled, vaguely in Gen’s direction.
Brodie whistled low and slow. ‘Now Carl,’ he said, clapping him on the shoulders again, ‘Nelly would be the first one to tell me that was nothing like an apology.’ He made a ’try again’ gesture with his hand. ‘I’m losin’ patience here.’
Carl’s reptilian eyes narrowed, and he huffed loudly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said to Gen. ‘For being rude.’
‘Excellent,’ Brodie said. ‘There. Easy, huh?’
Carl nodded in mute fury.
‘Now,’ Brodie continued, ‘like the lady said, fuck off. We’re having a conversation here.’
Carl dutifully fucked off.
‘You didn’t need to do that,’ Gen said, her mouth set and her green eyes blazing at him. He groaned internally. For the second time in one day, he’d tried to stand up for a woman who didn’t seem to fully appreciate his intervention.
‘I know,’ he said, stuffing his hands in the pocket of his jeans. ‘I know you can take care of yourself perfectly fine. It just …’
‘Yeah, I know,’ Gen interrupted. ‘It sure does.’
Brodie exhaled noisily and unfolded his arms, running his hands through his hair. ‘Gen,’ Brodie started, not wanting to be as much of a dick as Carl had been, but also knowing he had to somehow finish the conversation they had started before his unwelcome intervention, ‘I was being a dickhead before, but I still dunno why you didn’t mention your special relationship with the mayor when we were talking about the co-op idea out front of council. Surely smooth old Thommo could help you out.’
Gen raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t like to ask for favours.’
‘Only from me.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘I didn’t ask; you offered.’
This was so Gen. Offer no quarter—provide no explanations. Even then, even ten years ago. He closed his eyes briefly as the memory of her, in denim cut-offs and a green singlet top, raced across the screen of his brain. Gen telling him she couldn’t come with him, that she’d grown feelings for his best friend, and she didn’t think it would be right.
She’d said sorry, and he’d been sure she meant it. Her green eyes had been bright with unshed tears, and spots of colour had flared on her cheeks. But she had delivered her little speech clearly and simply, and she hadn’t provided any more detail than she clearly thought he’d needed. She’d given him no where, when or how. Or, most importantly, why.
Pete Macdonald, for fuck’s sake.
He was a nice guy, good for a laugh. But before that day, Brodie would never have imagined, not in a million years, that Gen had even looked twice at his goofy, affable best friend. Not because he hadn’t thought Pete was a great guy, back then at least, but because he and Gen had always been different. They had always had something that seemed to transcend their age and this town. When he‘d looked into her eyes, he had seen the echo of all his own confusion and hurt and fears. And he’d seen the only one who ever got him. The only one he’d ever wanted. Yep, what they’d had was different.
Something special. Or so he’d thought.
But it turned out he hadn’t known Gen at all. Not the way he’d thought he had. Mac. And now Buddy Thompson. He so badly wanted her to say, Don’t be stupid, Brodie. Buddy Thompson? Get real.
Or something like that.
But instead she was standing there in front of him, in that red T-shirt that showed off the breasts he absolutely would not think about, and she wasn’t explaining or denying. Just like last time. So it had to be true. It couldn’t be, but it had to be.
They’d been here before.
Brodie picked up his beer from the bar and drained the last half of it.
‘Well, like you said, you don’t need my help.’ He carefully placed the glass back down on the bar carefully, so he wouldn’t smash it down, and look as teenage and foolish as Carl had a moment ago. ‘I’m sure you can get the mayor on side with your plan all by yourself, and I have no doubt he can help with the business case for the DB.’
Gen didn’t say a word, and she didn’t move. She just stood there, arms still crossed over her chest, looking at him as if he was five kinds of hot-headed fool. ‘It wasn’t just for me, you know,’ she said. She waved a hand. ‘That help you were so keen to give out. The co-op; it’s about the town. Everyone—including Nelly.’
That was a low blow. Gen knew better than anyone what Nelly was to him, what he would do to protect her and make sure she wasn’t screwed over.
‘Yeah, well, I’m sure the town will do great with you and Buddy shepherding them through the muddy waters of mutualising. And for Nelly’s part …’ He turned to go, throwing a last comment over his shoulder. ‘She’ll just be happy I stayed away from you.’
He walked out of the bar without saying goodbye to the Milk Men, which he knew was churlish, stupid and downright bad for business, but he was such a fucking mess from the series of interactions he’d had this day, he couldn’t stay a moment longer.
He knew he’d hate himself for his last comment later. Nelly had never been fair about Gen, just like Sarah had never bee
n fair about Brodie. For those two women, the inferno force of Genevieve and Brodie’s passion had been terrifying. They had worried it would suck all the oxygen from all the other parts of their life. They were too young, too inexperienced, and too certain about something they couldn’t be certain about.
For different reasons. Nelly, because she felt such a strong duty to look out for the charge her sister and her husband had bequeathed her. She couldn’t let anything derail that. For Sarah, because for her it was history repeating herself—a young girl, in love, and no time later, alone with a baby.
So yeah, Nelly would be happy as hell if Brodie stayed right away from Gen.
Images of Gen with Buddy swirled lasciviously in his brain. Buddy, with that smarmy smile, and Gen with all that milky-white skin and that freckled nose he had loved to drop a kiss on. He brutally booted the images out of his brain. He had far too much mental fodder to do with Genevieve Jenkins to be going there.
As far as he was concerned, they were welcome to each other.
***
Genevieve lay down on her bed and cried like she hadn’t since that day ten years before. How could Brodie possibly think she was involved with Buddy Thompson? She groaned into her pillow as she answered her own question. She had a track record of inappropriate entanglements, as far as Bro Bro was concerned, and the mayor made no effort to disguise his interest, acting like it was already a fait accompli.
It shouldn’t hurt so much that Brodie had withdrawn his offer of help, but it did.
She had felt a ridiculous surge of hope outside the council chambers when he had sketched out how she might go about making a cooperative happen. He had seemed excited, and authoritative, and she felt like maybe the whole thing might be more than a pipe dream. And more. The thought of working with Brodie on something that mattered to her, and to the town, had set her skin tingling. She knew he would probably never forgive her for what she’d done, even if she could tell him why, but being close to him still made her nerves stand to attention and a completely inappropriate feeling of rightness settle over her. She wanted more, even though she had no right to it.
Gen rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling, the same ceiling she had been staring at all her life. She could remember when she would look up at it and weave complicated dreams of the life she and Brodie would have together in Sydney—dreams that featured long white dresses and beautiful babies. Gen didn’t let herself think about that time very often, or about the boy she’d lost. But right now she was feeling just self-pitying enough to allow herself the indulgence. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she let all the memories play out. Not just the guilty ones, either, but all of them. All the times, all the moments, all the beauty that had been Genevieve and Brodie.
She remembered, and she cried, rolling back into her pillow so the kids and her mother wouldn’t hear her sobs, breathing in familiar smells of home—linen, spray starch, lavender. When she was done, she rolled back again, spent and exhausted, putting her hands under her head and staring at the ceiling.
She needed a new plan.
There was no way she could ask Buddy Thompson to help her make the business case. She was having a hard enough time keeping him at bay as it was. But neither could she afford to alienate him at this delicate juncture. His support for what she wanted to do would be critical on the Dairy Board. She didn’t have the knowledge or the skills to work out how to assess the market, look at what would be realistic, and get a supplier fired up and on board.
She rolled herself up and sat on the edge of the bed.
Yep, she needed a plan, and she had not a single idea where to start.
But first she needed to get through the fundraiser this weekend.
Chapter Five
Slam dunk
Brodie Brown weighed the heavy little sack in his hands and took a few practice swings with his good arm. He flipped back his trademark cowboy hat and squinted at the contraption, gleaming in the high noon sunlight of the school oval
‘You know you’re going down, don’t you?’ He had come to apologise, renew his offer of help, but found her on the dunking machine, square in the middle of the fundraiser. He tried out a grin on her, the one the advertising lady had told him was pure gold when he’d made the last round of Crop Country King promotions. He knew from experience over the last few days that it would take a lot to get her to return it. And he couldn’t work out why he wanted her to so badly. After all, he was the one who was pissed with her, right? She was the one who was sleeping with the mayor and had made him think she was all so friendless and helpless and needed rescuing.
Genevieve was like a glacier. ‘As I recall,’ she said loudly, swinging her legs on the little seat, and dragging one toe through the water of the dunking pool, ‘you were never as good of a shot as you thought you were.’ Finally, she grinned, but kinda meanly. ‘Some men are like that.’ She sniffed. ‘All promises.’
He let out a slow whistle, watching long, white legs taunt him as they swung in the sunlight, poking out of those little denim cut-offs. Damn woman still had legs like she’d had when they were seventeen. ‘Well, missus,’ he drawled, taking a couple of steps back for his shot and playing to the little crowd that had gathered to watch. ‘This is for knocking me back for the Spring Fair Dance.’
As he shifted his weight to take the throw, she coughed, making him miss the first shot. ‘Anyways,’ she said, smiling as the sack missed the bullseye. ‘I hear Melva Boddle’s stepped into the breach.’
Brodie almost swore, but the growing crowd was watching with interest and goddamit if he did not have a reputation to uphold. Not for nothing had he made the State Championships in basketball. He had a good eye and true aim. He could dunk this uppity girl in a heartbeat. It was just tricky, with her swinging her legs up there like that and teasing him. It addled his brain. He would like to have stepped over to the machine and shaken her by those gorgeous shoulders. He’d like to say she was deliberately taunting him, in that swimsuit. But he knew her. It wasn’t her fault she could make a plain black one-piece look like that. Just like Melva Goddamn Boddle was not his fault. She had almost thrown herself at him at the convenience store, all big, scary breasts and long nails, when all he’d wanted was a slurpee and a packet of peanuts.
This town.
‘Ah now, Gen Jen,’ he said quietly, savouring the sound of her name in his mouth. ‘I’m just toying with you.’
‘Uh-huh,’ she said, stifling a little yawn. ‘Well, honey, I’m waitin’ here. Gettin’ kinda bored.’
Brodie felt the eyes of the little crowd on him as he squared for his second shot. He had her this time. Just as pulled his arm back to let fly, a set of purple talons grabbed it, knocking him off balance and ruining his mark.
‘Brodie!’ He felt certain Melva’s nails had left puncture marks. ‘Oh aren’t you a sweetheart? Spending some of your zillions of dollars on our little old fundraiser!’ Brodie smiled through the flesh wound on his arm and watched Melva’s catlike eyes flick up to Genevieve, who gave Melva a little wave. ‘And there’s good old Gen Jen,’ Melva said through gritted teeth. ‘Always so … reliable. Can’t say no to a good cause. Even if it means getting dunked.’
‘That’s me,’ Genevieve agreed warmly. ‘Little Miss Congeniality.’ Brodie was pretty sure he was the only one who clocked the twin patches of pink warming up her cheeks. Her tell. He knew that sign of irritation so well. He’d been putting it on her pretty face since they’d been eight years old.
Dumb thing was, he never thought he really annoyed her, even though he made her mum crazy with all his antics ’round town, all the trouble he was in at that school. He’d never thought Genevieve cared. He thought she totally got him. That she was the only one who did.
Until that night.
He reached for the third little beanbag as he thought about it. About Genevieve. Telling him about Mac, all those years ago. Then he knew he must have done something really wrong.
‘I gotcha this time,’ he
said, stepping away from Melva as he planned the shot.
This time the interruption came from Loud Larry Norris, standing at the back of the group. Was there anyone here they hadn’t gone to school with? ‘He’s got all day and all the money in the world, Gen,’ Larry yelled. ‘One way or another, you’re getting wet!’
Gen’s eyes widened as the beanbag flew from his hand and the crowd went silent, painfully conscious of Larry’s unconscious double entendre. The whole town knew their history. Or at least thought they did.
Then, like a clank from the underworld, the machine wheezed and swore as the platform Gen was perched on opened and disgorged her into the dunking pool. Brodie registered her eyes widening further and her mouth circling into an O as she went down.
It was nothing, a little dunk, but his heart hammered in his chest as he loped over to the side of the pool, trying not to look as if he were running. She sputtered to the surface in seconds, long auburn hair floating to the top before her head broke through.
He was about to say something, something to make it better, make it all okay and in good fun, when he found himself bumped by two small but rough bodies.
The littlest body turned and kicked him hard on one shin and he felt a dragging sense of déjà vu. ‘That’s for dunking my mother,’ the small redhead said, stamping her foot. ‘You are not the Crop King to me,’ she said. ‘You are the meanie meanie.’
Brodie felt his cheeks burn as another set of eyes—a boy he judged to be about six—stared him down manfully.
He held up his hands. ‘Now look, kids …’
He appealed to a dripping Gen with his eyes. She shrugged and folded wet arms across her chest.
The elder of the two, the boy with serious brown eyes so like Mac’s that Brodie felt his punching hand flex in muscle memory, stabbed a finger at Brodie’s chest. Well, he aimed for Brodie’s chest, but he came up a little short.
