by M R Field
She frowns in disbelief, probably hoping for some hot office gossip, but there is none. Since starting at Cole’s firm, I’ve spent most Fridays nit-picking how much of an arsehole he is. For me to sit here and not vent is naturally going to cause intrigue. Maybe I should make something up as her staring is giving me the heebie jeebies.
There has been more than one occasion when Piper has suggested Cole and I bang on the photocopier, and on those occasions, I’ve told her that I will never go there. Who bangs on a photocopier? Especially a guy who is often in my “pushing down the stairs”—or worse—fantasy.
“I don’t understand.” Her fingers tap her knee. “Your desks are practically side by side.”
“Ten steps apart,” I correct, taking another sip.
“You didn’t talk to each other all week?”
“No, we did, but it was different.” I adjust my fingers around the stem of my glass, thinking about it. Again. “He was civil to me the whole time.”
“As in, what a real boss should be,” she deduces. “What’s going on? I thought he was a mega douche who sent you petty emails.”
She sips her wine, and I nod. “He is. I mean, he was until the start of this week.” I quickly add, “He just acted civilly to me, no put-downs or anything.”
She nods, and I lean back into the couch, realising I haven’t talked this candidly about him. Not since we were kids.
A small smile forms on her lips. Sure, Cole was civil to me all week. At first it was strange as I was expecting some sort of hidden attack to arise, but when nothing did, it felt nice. Like a glimmer of the old Cole was fluttering under the surface. A week without feeling dread or a strong case of angina was a pleasant change. Even if it did screw with my thoughts every night.
“So, you rarely spoke unless you had to.” Her brow lifts.
I watch her face for any sign of mischief. What is she getting at? “Or he only talked through emails. He usually sends a quick email to confirm a point of business like a scheduled appointment.”
“A fucking email? When he’s a stone’s throw away!” She tosses at me indignantly.
“That’s how we normally converse, though.” I feel my defences rising. “He does it to not
interrupt me, generally while I’m on the phone.” I take a sip of wine to keep my mouth busy and stop it from justifying his actions again.
“So rather than send a douche email, he sends a civil one?”
“Yes, no dickhead ones. He didn’t pick apart my requests.”
“Well, isn’t he just perfect, leaving your boo-boos alone,” she coos, and I’m tempted to
throw a pillow at her. However, our wine is too precious.
“Anyway, it doesn’t really matter.” I wave my other hand in her direction, leaning
forward to the forgotten cheese platter, hoping that the questions will die down. Placing my wine next to the food, I pick up the knife to cut through the brie. “I am a little confused, but I’ll get over it. Next week he’ll probably be back to the same tool he was on Monday.”
Piper shifts on the couch to reach for a cracker. Clearing her throat, she adds, “So how many DNR emails did you compose this week?”
I stiffen as the cheese slips off the cracker and back onto the plate. Damn. I wish I’d never told her about those.
I blame vodka. Vodka and a greasy kebab made me do it.
I reach for the cheese again before muttering, “None.”
Liar, my mind screams, stomping its feet.
“None?” Her voice rises incredulously.
“Yep.” I’ll ignore the three emails I wrote wondering if his hip was okay, detailing how nice he looked with stubble, and querying if he used anything to make that facial hair look so soft. You know, for research purposes, on a project, I’ve yet to discover.
“So, he didn’t do anything to piss you off?”
“No, it was—” I stumble to think of the words, as his eyes appear in my thoughts. “—nice.”
“Nice, hey?” she asks, and I can see her mind working as I bring the cracker closer to my mouth. “Considering how many emails you usually fire off, I’m surprised you have storage space in your inbox.”
“There’s plenty of storage space in my inbox!” I defend myself, biting into the cracker a little too aggressively.
“Oh, I bet there is.” She grins at me, waggling her eyebrows. “Maybe that’s what the deal is. Cole wants to fill your inbox.”
I swallow awkwardly, struggling to not cough up crumbs. My stomach flutters as heat surges to my cheeks. His hand against my leg left me breathless. Imagine what else he could do.
She points to my face and laughs. “Aha! Something’s happened that you’re not telling me!”
“No, er …um, nothing really,” I utter.
But it falls on deaf ears.
“Nuh-uh. Spill. Right now.” She reaches for the cheese platter and points the knife to the cheese. “Or I eat all the cheese.”
I huff in disgust. “You what?”
“You heard. Now spill, or your cheese is mine.”
“Fine.” I throw my shoulders against the couch in a sulk. “He touched my cheek.”
“What? When?!” she shrieks, moving closer to me.
“A week ago, when we were stuck in an elevator.”
“When the fuck were you—”
“Never mind.” I give in and tell her. “He touched my cheek, and that was it.”
“No pash?”
“Nope.”
“Not even a little grope?”
“No.” My voice tightens.
“Wow.” She tilts her head back to stare up at our decorative ceiling light. “He totally Nicholas Sparks you.”
“Huh?” I look at her in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“Thumb on cheek? Stuck in an elevator?”
I nod, my pulse accelerating as I wait for her to continue.
“That dude writes that shit, and girls fucking love it. They eat it up. Just like Cole wants to eat you … lover.”
My cheeks burn even more, as she cackles like the witch she is. I reach behind me to grab a cushion, narrowing my eyes at her. “Don’t make me spill your wine.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” She holds her glass to her chest like she’s protecting a baby. “I’m serious.” Her brow tightens as she stares back at me. “You’re hot stuff. It’s probably pent up teenage fantasy memories all resurfacing.”
“I’m not, and it’s not.” I shake my head, refusing to believe it. “Cole never felt that way for me. We were just friends.”
“I honestly think he likes you. Why else is he acting like this? Hot and cold? That’s sexual tension all neatly packaged. He might be redeeming himself. He’s a good-looking guy too, from what I saw when I met you for after-works drinks that time. I can appreciate a good-looking guy, even if his bits don’t do it for me.”
“If I didn’t love you so much, I’d stop inviting you to things, as you keep using them against me,” I tut.
“Of course I will. It’s like our very own reality program, minus the teeth whitening and soppy monologues over wilted roses.”
“Ugh. Nope. There will be no roses at the end. Thanks for the chat, love.” I shift my legs to stand. “I want to finish this canvas so I can bring it to the gallery.” I bend down and fill my glass, because why the hell not.
“I’m only letting you go because you’re in denial mode.” Piper takes the bottle that I offer her, refilling her glass. “I’ll just catch up on what’s on the brain box and attack this cheese platter.”
“Enjoy, lovely.” I head toward my art room.
“You forgot something, though.” Piper call out, and my steps falter.
I look down at my body, but don’t seem to find anything amiss. “I’m go—”
“You didn’t deny him liking you. Deep down you know.”
Cheeky bitch. “I’m going back to my canvas. You can get back to the failings of society on TV.”
“Canvas, huh
? I thought your vibrator had a different name,” she jokes, and I raise my finger to give her the bird while taking another sip of wine.
I make a last-minute change of direction into my room to check my phone, when the large abalone sea shell next to it catches my attention. The rings that I wear each day and random earrings lie inside it.
I put my wine down to move the jewellery out so I can lift it closer to my face. Running my fingers along the outside of it, I marvel at the rough edges that are a contrast to the shine from the inside.
“Hey!” Cole’s voice calls out to me as we stumble inside the salt cave. “I found another one.”
I rush over and look as he tilts the shell up and down, the lights catching on it and changing its interior from soft pinks to an opal blue. “It’s so pretty!”
“You want it?” He offers it to me, and I look up to him in awe. He smiles.
I squeal, “Yes! Thank you for finding one. I want a whole collection.”
I turn it over in my hands to catch other flickers of light. Turning my head toward the ceiling, the light flickers around the cave. In my periphery, I see Cole is looking there too.
“I can have my very own disco anytime I want,” I joke, and Cole laughs, causing my stomach to flutter.
“You have that party. Don’t forget to invite me.”
My eyes rise to find his staring at me. “You’re on.”
I smile, holding the shell close to my chest. I’d have a disco every night if it meant we got to spend time together.
“You were a lovesick fool,” I chastise myself, as I put the sea shell down. I never had the heart to throw it away, despite the following summer when things changed between us so cruelly. I could break this shell now, and have nothing of him in my room, but I still stupidly feel some sort of pathetic connection to it. It reminds me of the young girl I was, who craved adventure and didn’t feel awkward around the cute boy.
So, Cole is being nicer to me. Now, he’s decided to be a better boss. It still doesn’t excuse the past two years of him being an enormous jerk. The sweet memories of our summers together don’t camouflage the nasty ones. It just makes them sharper, clearer, and more devastating. They show how something so precious can turn bitter. I miss him, but it’s not the man standing in the office who I miss. It’s the gentle boy who treated me like his treasure, not his enemy. The boy turned into a callous man that seems to have taken a back seat this week.
Maybe he hit his head when he fell off his bike that day. What else could it be?
I place the jewellery into the shell and put it gently back on the dresser. I need to get back to my art.
Operation Forget Him reactivated. Again.
Cole
I drive along the side of the house, stopping the vehicle in the carport next to the garage. Quickly retrieving my rucksack from the back seat and throwing it over my shoulder, I lock the car and move to the front of the house that faces the sea.
I walk to the glass doors where my old room still is and open the door with my old key. Tossing my bag onto my bed, I look around and, as usual, the same nostalgia knocks me for six in bittersweet memories. Old trophies from cycling events, high school photos with awkward tie knots, family photos, and a few scattered seashells I never chucked away, although I wanted to.
Even in my room, she is here.
My eyes flicker to the family photo on the wall, and I step closer to look at my dad. We’re in front of the house, his arm around Mum’s shoulders while Parker and I stand to her side. Parker resembles our mum with his dark hair and hazel eyes, whereas my blue eyes and short blond hair are the spitting image of my dad’s.
Fuck, I miss him.
I sigh and toss my keys and phone on my desk.
Stepping back outside, I close the door and go in search of Mum. Unsurprisingly, I see the white brim of my mum’s hat in her garden at the other side of the house toward the outer staircase. Even though she pays through her teeth for a great gardener, she likes to fiddle around in the mud. A retired school teacher, she didn’t miss the confines of being in the classroom. Rather, she loves the outdoors.
Getting closer, I shout, “Judy!”
As expected, she continues to putter in her garden while I walk up the path, chanting, “Hey Jude,” until I reach her.
“Please tell me that is not my son behaving like a brat while I am sorting out my gardenias?”
“Would you rather I call you Judith?” I joke, earning a handful of dirt to come flicking out toward me, smacking against my legs, all while Mum keeps on facing forward.
I move to her side and crouch down, passing her another gardenia. “Hey, Mum.” My voice softens, and she faces me to take the plant. She places it in the hole in the soil that she’s dug with a trowel. Filling it with dirt, she smiles at me and tilts her chin to get a kiss, which I gladly oblige.
She smells like her garden, and I wonder what fruit Letty smells like. At least, I think it was fruit. Damn. So much for not thinking about her for a while.
I help Mum with the remaining plants until we’re done, and we both stand to wipe the dirt off our knees.
“Tea time,” she announces. “I made your favourite vanilla cake.”
By vanilla cake, she means a sponge cake covered in thick butter cream frosting with a cream centre. How I didn’t develop diabetes with my mother’s country cooking is beyond me.
I look over to my car where my bike is strapped to the back, and I take a mental note to ride the shit out of it this afternoon while I work off the sugar rush.
“I’d wait until after dinner, Cole.” She taps my arm as she follows my gaze. “I’m going to cook a hearty beef roast with all the trimmings, plus there’s pavlova in the fridge.”
“I’ll be rolling out of here by the end of the weekend,” I joke.
“Come on.” She tugs on my arm, freckles of dirt sprinkling along my skin. “Let’s go put the kettle on.”
We move our little tea party to the terrace on the top level. I can’t help but chuckle at the setup. If the work boys could see me now, I’m sure they’d ask me if I wore white gloves and a fascinator or if I loved florals, as everything on the table is covered with flowers. The cups, plates, saucers, and teapot are all floral, right down to a little vase of daisies that sit in the middle. Emasculation at its finest. I’ll just leave my balls at the door.
“Was Elliot disappointed that you cancelled golf today?” Mum asks as she pours our cups of tea. I lift the cake tin lid and cut into the cake, noting how thick the frosting is. At least another forty minutes on that ride.
“No, he was fine. He knew I was coming here, plus, we don’t meet up every weekend. It depends on our schedules. He sends his regards, by the way.”
“Hmm.” She pops milk into her tea and leaves mine black, how I normally drink it. She takes a few leisurely sips, and my neck turns to look out at the ocean, where sailboats gather and a few jet skiers cut through the small waves. Why I ever thought that living here was boring as a kid, I’ll never understand. I was a lucky shithead who didn’t appreciate it until the house next door was bought and an interesting family with two adventurous daughters spent their summers there. Those summers became the highlight of each year.
“Bernadette rang me the other day about my birthday.”
“And what did you decide?”
“A garden party with no presents.” She accepts the cake plate I offer her before I retrieve my own.
“Your friends will want to spoil you,” I try to reason. These women are the silver betties who will undoubtedly buy up House and Garden as they’ll think Mum doesn’t have enough towels in all shades of fuchsia.
“I thought of something else.” She presses her fork into the cake, neatly cutting little bite-sized portions. “Maybe a fundraiser? I’d rather people come along and either buy something in a mini auction or donate.”
“That’s not a bad idea.” I rub my chin as a few things to auction come to mind. “I could rustle up a few things, or I’m
happy to donate a few dinner vouchers or something. Parker would be up for it, too, if I made it easy for him.” Parker is notorious for being the “chilled brother.”
“I was thinking the Heart Foundation.” She taps her fork to her plate and looks at me, and I almost reach out to hold her when I realise that her face is not filled with pain. Rather, she seems reflective, as a gentle smile ghosts across her lips.
“Dad would have loved the idea. As long as there was enough wine going around.” A jagged lump forms in my throat, but I force it down with a gulp of hot tea.
Cursing, I let out a breath and eat a bite of cake to avoid looking at Mum. Dad always liked his wine and his beer. If Mum served rich food, he was her biggest fan. It was no coincidence that I started training harder at the cycling squad and altering my diet shortly after he died. For a long time, I ate a relatively clean meal program. It is only during the last two years that I’ve started to ease up a bit.
“Cole.” My mum’s hand touches mine. “It’s not healthy bottling it all up. You can talk to me.”
“I know,” I say softly, playing with the cake on my plate before my eyes lift to hers. “I think the fundraiser will be great. Where did you want to start? Want to use your birthday weekend?”
She squeezes my hand, used to me not confiding in her. I will soon, though.
“My birthday weekend would be perfect. I absolutely adore that landscape canvas of the bathing boxes at sunset on the beach. It’s so warm and inviting. Makes me happy every time I walk past it. Do you think Letty would paint another one?”
I bought the canvas for Mum for her birthday last year after Elliot had mentioned it in one of our golfing sessions a while back. After marvelling at her paintings, feeling her presence in each one that hung in the gallery, I bought them all and haven’t stopped since.
I clear my throat. “I’m sure she would.”
“Excellent. I’ll pay for the supplies so she’s not out of pocket, but maybe she could donate two pieces? Is that too much?”
