Do Not Respond

by M R Field

  I press Mum’s number and raise the phone to my ear, looking down at my paint-covered shirt. Damn. This is going to take a lot of soaking to get out.

  “Hello?” Mum shouts into the earpiece as loud music barrels in my ear.

  I flinch, holding it away from myself for a moment. Is that Def Leppard? “Mum!” I yell, “Are you standing next to the speaker?”

  “WHAT?” she shouts again, and I growl even louder.

  “MOVE AWAY FROM THE SPEAKER!” The familiar chords of “Pour Some Sugar on Me” beat my ears into oblivion. Looking at my wall clock, the time reads 9:45 p.m., and I wonder why my mum is listening to sexing up music—and then my stomach plummets. I try really, really hard to not think about that.

  “HANG ON, LETTY BEAR. I JUST NEED TO TURN THE SPEAKER DOWN AS I’M STANDING NEAR IT.”

  No shit, Sherlock. I roll my eyes, wondering for the hundredth time how my mum is one of the top defence lawyers in the state, yet everyday tasks stump her.

  “You there yet?” I grumble. “I have a dozen missed calls from you guys, so hoping no one is dead or anything.”

  “Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Mum chides. “We didn’t call that much. We just wanted to see how you were going.”

  “Uh-huh.” I raise my eyebrow, even though she can’t see it. “I was painting and didn’t have my phone on. You know I don’t answer when I’m working.”

  I hold out the bottom of my shirt and walk to the laundry to take it off.

  “Hmm…,” Mum’s voice lowers in defeat. “Dad and I thought you might’ve been on a date.”

  I stomp the final steps to the sink and release my shirt to reach forward and grip onto the basin. “No date, Mum. But, even if it had been one, there’s no way I’d answer the phone. I’d look like a grade-A knobhead if my mummy was ringing to check up on me during the appetiser.”

  She tuts as she calls out, “Elliot, no date. She was just by herself again.”

  “Jeez, Mum! Can you talk about it with Dad when I’m off the phone?”

  “What?” Her voice pitches. “He wants to know!”

  Dad’s voice calls out loudly, “Sorry, Letty Bear. You know you can always hang out with us when you’re by yourself. Odette isn’t here, and we don’t want you to feel alone.”

  I gaze at the basin edge and contemplate banging my head against it to make this conversation stop. I wish I was the one in Canada right now.

  “I’m fine. You know that,” I mutter.

  “Well, we wouldn’t have to call so much if you came and visited us more. We worry, you know,” Mum adds, her voice changing and rubbing the guilt in more. “Come over for lunch tomorrow.”

  “I don’t know if I can—”

  “Dad bought a new angle grinder today,” she interjects, and my heart skips a beat.

  “What brand?”

  “Makita.”

  My breath hitches. “He didn’t choose Bosch?” I straighten from the basin to listen.

  “No, he saw it on special and thought it would be perfect for those pavers out back.”

  I reach down and grab my shirt and raise it up quickly, moving my hand away from my face so my shirt comes off in an instant. My excitement is nothing new for my parents. They know my love for power tools. I did ask for my own angle grinder when I was sixteen. It lasted ten years, and I am looking at getting a new one. This draws me one step closer to sculpting again after I broke my old grinder.

  “This is bribery, isn’t it?” I chuckle.

  “Yep. I’m making sandwiches, too.”

  I sigh audibly, which causes Mum to huff. Well, at least I won’t need to wear a rain coat while she’s cooking.

  “Okay, but I need to buy some steel, so I’ll come and bring that over after I visit the store.”

  “The shed is clear enough for you to do what you want.”

  I smile, plugging the sink and slowly filling it with water, bending down to grab my shirt and toss it in. “Done. I’ll be there. But Mum?”

  “Yes, Letty Bear?”

  “Chill on the calls. You’re freaking me out.” I turn the tap off, dabbing my fingers into the shirt to press it down before wiping them on my jean shorts.

  “Will do if you visit more, love.” She giggles.

  My dad mutters, “Turn the music up, honey.”

  I cringe. My mouth tightens as I quickly move my phone from my ear, shouting a quick, “BYE!” as I stab at the end button in repulsion.

  It’s a sad reality when your folks are getting more action than you. Fuck my life. I wonder for a moment what Cole is doing right now. He is probably polishing his bike, whispering sweet nothings to it. The only woman I’ve seen him with was a year ago at a work dinner, and she left a sour taste in my mouth. Her talons were holding onto his arm all night, even while he ate, as her ruby red lips whispered into his ear. Yet, he didn’t react to her at all. She could have been a hologram for how he was treating her.

  I grab the cleaner and sprinkle some into the water, swishing my shirt around and the memories of Cole away before leaving the shirt to soak. I quickly clean my brushes as the giddiness swells in my stomach. I dance a little jig around the apartment as I ponder various ideas.

  Piper and I share a three-bedroom apartment where I use the third bedroom as well as the balcony to paint when I need to. I rush into it, open the built-in wardrobe, and grab my coveralls. They are bright pink and long-sleeved, protecting my body from the sparks. My face protector sits on the shelf above it, and standing on tippy-toes, I quickly bring that down too. I lay the coveralls over the desk chair and sit the protector next to them. All set to go. Tomorrow is going to be an amazing day. I can feel it.

  ***

  The whirl of the bland grinds into the metal it twirls around, causing a swirl to etch into the steel, the shards flickering by my face as I marvel at the shape taking place. I’ve been testing the angles of the grinder, etching and polishing, all whilst a smile lies beneath my mask. My thick ear plugs protect me from the grind, and my iPod blares from the speakers at the end of the bench, that I hear in between the noise. I shuffle my music from rock to hip-hop to keep the happy vibes going.

  I curve the blade slightly to polish into the far corner and am struck by how it looks. Flicking off the grinder, I put it down on the bench beside the metal and lean forward to look closer. I use the tip of my protective glove to rub across the etching, and an idea strikes me. Stepping away from the bench, I head over to the iPod and turn down the music slightly as I grab the pencil that sits on my notepad. I make a quick a sketch of two figures facing each other and scribble desolate next to it. I then draw two more sketches to link with my original concept as my hips move to the beats of Janet Jackson.

  My phone buzzes next to the notepad with an actual text message from Mum alerting me that lunch is ready. A few years ago, she learnt the hard way that I couldn’t hear calls through the whirl of the blade. She tapped me on the shoulder whilst grinding, and I narrowly missed nipping her. Now, this is the only time she texts me. Go figure.

  I quickly type in a response, saying that I’m coming, and I look at my sketch for a quick moment. The same rush of adrenaline I felt last night comes surging back, filling my mind with new ideas, and my stomach flutters in excitement. The raw use of materials has me battling the desire to keep creating and skipping lunch, but I know Mum will probably cut the power to the property if I don’t go in there. Yeah, she’s done that once. I’ve learned my lesson.

  I place my earbuds and face protector on the bench top and pluck my gloves from my hands. My face is drenched in sweat from being all covered up, so I wipe my forehead with my sleeve before unbuttoning the front of my top. I have my sports bra on that is so faded and worn, I’m surprised it still holds in my boobs. I pull my arms out from the sleeves and tie them around my waist, like some wannabe Spice Girl, complete with two little curly pigtails up top, but I refuse not to eat.

  Sure, I have curves, but I’m not afraid of my mum seeing my stomach. It’s not
like Keanu was invited for lunch. A girl can wish upon a star all she wants, but it just twinkles back at you.

  I open the shed door and take a moment to enjoy the breeze that brushes against my skin. I smile at the flowers and marvel at what a perfect and sunny day it is, especially for Melbourne. As I run my fingers against the bricks of the house, I take in the vibrant colours of Mum’s cottage flowers. I giggle as they tickle my fingertips. The serenity of the movement fills me with joy. The sweet smells of the blooms fill the air, as a spring bounces into my step. What a glorious day.

  I turn the corner with a lively gait, eager to eat, skipping whilst humming the same tune from the shed—“If” by Janet Jackson. But then my eyes freeze when I see what’s in front of me, causing me to trip over my own feet, and it all turns to shit. The fun police have arrived.

  “What the ever-loving fuck are you doing here?” I catch myself before I stumble again, straightening to hiss as Cole stands by the back door, leaning a golf bag against it.

  “I’m here for lunch,” he responds, a small smile touching his lips.

  “I thought you were at golf,” I shoot back, crossing my arms over my chest like a petulant child. I shouldn’t be shouting, but looking at his smug face, my feet begin to ache again, and I’m reminded about him being such a toss bag yesterday while I was his stupid errand girl.

  “Yes, I was at golf. Now, I’m here for lunch.”

  “What for?” I demand, not caring that he’s my boss. He’s on my turf, now.

  “To do what you’re supposed to do.” His voice lowers to patronise me. “Eat food.”

  “What’s wrong with eating back at your place?”

  “I don’t have anything.”

  “You ran out of power shakes?” I ask snottily, cursing myself internally as I let him reduce me to a sixteen-year-old. If my hair wasn’t tied up, I’d probably try and flick it. Knowing my luck, I’d put my neck out while doing it.

  “No, I still have plenty of those.” He lets go of the golf bag and adjusts his cap, shifting it up so his eyes are more visible. He reaches behind his back and stretches, and I feel sucker punched. Not now, lady bits. He is the enemy. His abs are the devil. No submitting to him.

  “You’re not here to get me to do extra work, are you?” I narrow my eyes at him and try not to focus on his tanned forearms as he twists his mouth, grimacing as his shoulders move.

  “No, Leticia, I’m here because Bern invited me. You look pretty busy as it is.” His eyes travel down my body, as I remain stuck on his last few words. Huh. Seems he has no problem calling Mum by her nickname. Wanker.

  “What?” He interrupts my thoughts and steps closer to me. His eyes narrow on my face.

  “Huh?” I tilt my head up to him.

  “Did you just call me a wanker?” His eyes pierce into mine, and I freeze.

  “N-oo,” I stammer, looking anywhere but at him, and I squeal when I remember that I’m practically half-naked in front of my boss. “Oh, fucking hell!”

  I tear at the sleeves on my coveralls and turn around, untwisting the sleeves before hoisting the outfit up over my back. Cole roars with laughter, and I don’t have time to marvel at how nice it is to hear that sound after more than a decade as my arm flies into my left sleeve, but my right arm flails, unable to penetrate the other.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” I growl as I punch my fist into the stubborn fabric.

  Warm hands touch my shoulder as Cole’s voice lowers. “It’s inside out. Just stop moving for a sec.”

  I wave my sleeve up and down stupidly, hoping to right it, but he grabs it from my hand and reaches inside the sleeve, his arm thrusting against my side as he untucks it. My body heats alongside his shoulder. His breath tickles my skin. I clench my thighs as a pulse flickers against my sex. Not good. Not good at all. I need to get distance.

  I tear my hand into the sleeve and flick my shoulder back to cover my top, while also turning my elbow to readily seal my buttons. The excess material from the coveralls flicks up before my fingers can reach the end and hits Cole square in the face.

  “Oh, fuck!” He steps back, grabbing his cheek. My body stiffens as I stare in horror at his red cheek. No blood, thank heavens, but a great big welt.

  I look down at my sleeve, my fingers pushing through impatiently, and see the glint of the silver button that caused the maiming.

  “I’m s-o so-rry,” I stammer as I step forward, pushing his hand away timidly to survey his cheek. My hand moves in close to cup the bruise, and my lip trembles. “I didn’t mean it, Cole. Honest.”

  His eyes darken, and I stand frozen, wondering if I’ve gone too far, when his hand rises to cup mine. “I know,” he whispers as his eyes travel down my body.

  My buttons are still undone. I don’t move to close them. I watch as he swallows audibly, taking in my soft curves. I haven’t seen him look at me like this ever.

  “Yoo-hoo! You two!” Mum calls from inside. “We’re going to eat all the sandwiches if you don’t hurry up.”

  As if doused with a bucket of ice, I leap back and clutch at my chest, my hands moving clumsily to button my coveralls. I feel his eyes on me, but I can’t look at him.

  “I’ll get you an ice-pack for your face,” I mutter as I race through the back door, narrowly missing ramming my shoulder in the doorframe, and vault into the kitchen. I grab the bag of peas from the freezer and then the tea towel hanging from the oven, contemplating if I need the peas on my body as much as he does. What the hell was that?

  Heavy footsteps trudge along the floor, and Cole appears at the door, looking forlorn. We stand there, staring at each other for a moment, and I can’t work out why he looks so torn. Have I hurt him more than he’s letting on?

  I don’t have time to work out what’s going on. I thrust the covered peas at him and head into the dining room, my hot body suffering under the weight of the heavy fabric and Cole’s stare.

  “Whoa, Cole!” Dad bellows. “What the bloody hell happened to your face?”

  “I tripped,” he lies, holding the peas against his cheek. “It’s just a scratch.”

  “Does it hurt?” my mum adds in, once again rubbing in the invisible guilt.

  “No, it’s fine. Just a little tender. I’ll take this off in a few minutes.”

  “I would’ve thought our Letty attacked you or something,” Dad chuckles, and I squirm in my seat. “You guys used to have a right good go of it when you were young, isn’t that right, Letty Bear?”

  I flinch at the nickname. “Dad, seriously? We were kids.”

  “Kids who made their mums go grey a lot earlier than necessary.”

  “It wasn’t that bad,” I whine.

  “You tried to mow him down with the ride-on mower,” Mum adds in unnecessarily.

  “He threw my art book into the ocean!” I point at Cole and then immediately withdraw my hand to my lap. “Can we just drop it?”

  I reach for a sandwich, ignoring Cole’s eyes on me. I lift it up to find one of life’s punishments—ham and chutney. Ugh. What the hell was Mum thinking? I take a quick bite and struggle to swallow it, telling myself it’s the least I deserve for maiming my boss. Even if my teenage self is high-fiving me. We all sit silently, filling our plates with food.

  “She didn’t attack me.” Cole’s voice slices through the quiet moment. “She was still in the shed doing her arty-farty stuff.”

  “Playing with those bits of tin and metal is expensive. It’s a good thing she is working for you now, isn’t it, Cole?” Dad quips, but it falls like lead in the room. I bet Cole must think the same thing too.

  I chew the last bit of my sandwich as my throat dries up, sending the last piece like a ball of lead down my throat. “Arty-farty is my most hated term for an artist. Just like the time Cole threw a portfolio of mine in the sea as we argued, destroying the project I was working on, just for asking him why he was being so mean to me. I’ve since learnt to stop the painful guessing game of knowing why he was such a BOD.
<
br />   Like that, Cole’s softness from outside disappears as Dad reminds him about us working together. His condescending nature returns as he falls back into boss mode, stiffening at the table. I’m reminded again that once an arsehole, always an arsehole. No wonder I have a folder filled with emails dedicated to his demise. Looks like I have another to write.

  Cole

  My thighs burn as my feet peddle quickly the next day, work now only a short distance away, and my need to get there to apologise to Leticia face-to-face consuming me. I spent the rest of the weekend torturing myself over her. I’d wanted to touch her outside her parents’ house, and all the feelings I had—the lust, loathing, resentment, and confusion—came crashing down through my lips. I’m not supposed to still feel for her like I did when I was younger.

  Her spirited nature called to me. When I leant the golf clubs against the house, I didn’t expect the blonde beauty to come skipping around the corner like a ray of sunshine. Like she always was growing up. Cute, awkward, and forbidden. Her curls tied up into two short piggy-tails and her coveralls tied around her waist brought to life a myriad of possible fantasies. Hot-as-fuck artist just went to the top of the list. Her lush curves, her covered breasts, and a sheen of sweat across her body had me as hard as the golfing irons I’d played with.

  If I could take back that last insult and stop her hurt look, I would. There are two things I wouldn’t suggest doing when your brain is working at hyperspeed to control the hormones after being so close to each other. One: picturing a girl you’ve wanted for years naked on the table of her parents’ home, coming on your tongue, and two: using said tongue to insult her. Like a freaking idiot, when calming my sex-driven thoughts, I turn into a dick. Or worse, her boss. In front of her parents, for fuck’s sake. All due to the fact that I've never wanted to kiss someone so much in my life. She deserved an apology from me for being so inconsiderate. I’m an emotionally stunted idiot.

  The tunes of Birds of Toyko’s “Brace” match the pace of my pulse as I speed through the streets, whirling against the mid-city traffic, cursing at the cars that fail to see me in my bright yellow bib and bike lights. All a part of my everyday routine. Most of the traffic treats me like I am camouflaged.