Upside Down

by Lia Riley

  “Nah. The family homestead is in Portsea—on the Mornington Peninsula—but they’re in Singapore at present.”

  “Sounds lonely.”

  “I’m used to it.”

  “And your sister—”

  “Enough about my boring family. How about you? Overprotective sisters? Crap parents?”

  “My dad’s great. Mom sucks.”

  “Only child?”

  “I had a sister.” I tug a loose string on the sheet’s edge. “Pippa. Almost exactly one year older.” I lick my dry lips. “She died a while back.” Sounds like I’m discussing what I ate for breakfast. A few scrambled eggs, half a cup of coffee, dead sister. Can someone pass the cream?

  I’m no better than that fucking gum-chewing doctor.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Everyone is sorry. I nearly drowned in other people’s sympathy. Yet when Bran offers his condolence, it’s like a life raft I can cling to for a moment, keep my head above water.

  “Me too.” My chin gives an involuntary quiver.

  His hand doesn’t leave mine. I like the contact. Makes me feel human, less a husk.

  The air conditioner rattles through a vent overhead.

  “What’s your favorite movie?” Bran asks.

  “Serious?” That’s not what I’m expecting him to say.

  “I won’t ask you to discuss your dead sister. Unless, of course, you want to.”

  “I don’t.” I relax a fraction. “At least—not right now. Not here.”

  “Empire Strikes Back. That’s mine.”

  “Old school.”

  “Don’t watch much new stuff.”

  “An excellent choice, except when Yoda gets all creepy about the dark side. That part used to give me nightmares.”

  Bran’s lips part. I glimpse his tongue and a slightly crooked incisor. These little details, I can’t stop gathering them like a kid seeking fistfuls of dandelions. My heart starts racing and the bewildering warmth sends goose bumps up my arms. My body is as confused as my mind how to react to this guy.

  “The world’s divided into two kinds of people.” I pause to clear my throat. “Those who love Star Wars and idiots.”

  “Where have you been all my life?” He leans close and I can see the exact spot where his scruff ends beneath his jaw.

  I duck my head, aware my thighs are clenched. “Sorry, Tiger. Han Solo and I have this thing going on behind Princess Leia’s back. It’s my destiny.”

  The screen yanks open. A doctor stands there with a beard that would make Chewbacca jealous. He gives me a once-over, rechecks my chart, and turns to address Bran. “How’s your wife? Surf accident?”

  Wife? Is he for real? I dissolve into full-blown hysterics. Tears course down my cheeks from my head’s stabbing pain even as I choke back hiccups. Lack of sleep and a hospital phobia are leaving me borderline mentally incapacitated.

  “Yes, my wife, Natalia,” Bran deadpans. He goes on to effortlessly describe the accident and my symptoms.

  The doctor performs a quick examination, checks my short-term memory, and cleans the wound on my temple. “Probably spot-on about the concussion,” he concludes. “I don’t think we need to keep her here. Why don’t you take her home and keep an eye on her over the next twenty-four hours?”

  Home.

  Bran.

  Twenty-four hours.

  My mind short-circuits, unable to compute. Is the doc positive I don’t need a CAT scan?

  “What do you say, sweetheart?” Bran’s mouth curls into a trace smile. His soft accent is utterly seductive. “Shall I take you home?”

  * * *

  I enter my cramped student room, Bran at my heels. On the drive from the hospital, I tried to release him from any obligation. He ignored me, making it clear that he meant to stick around. If I wasn’t so drained, I’d be psyched to keep hanging out.

  “I like what you’ve done with the place.” Bran glances around my bare beige walls while depositing my duffel, which he’d retrieved from Jazza’s house, next to the twin bed. Beside a cheap set of drawers, it’s the only furniture in the room.

  “I try not to be in here too often.”

  He takes in a deep breath. “Smells like you.”

  Wait. I freeze, swallowing hard. “Is that good or bad?”

  “Sweet.”

  “Oh, right, that’s just my body spray…” My tongue falters on the word body. The room, already a veritable shoebox, seems to shrink while Bran’s presence fills the space, like when Alice in Wonderland ate the “grow bigger” cake.

  “Why don’t you climb into bed?”

  I tug the bikini strap underneath my tank top, mouth dry. “I’ve got to get out of these clothes.”

  Bran’s Adam’s apple bobs and he coughs into his fist.

  It’s a fight not to bury my face in my pillow. Why can’t I be assigned an emergency button to hit when I need to stop talking?

  From the way my face burns, I must sport full-blown fire engine cheeks. Not a flattering look on anyone. I turn, fumble open my dresser drawer, and grab the first thing my hands graze—yoga pants and a Santa Cruz hoodie. I sling the bulky clothing over one shoulder, wishing I could be effortlessly sexy. My underwear doesn’t even sport lace.

  Bran pulls back the blinds and stares at the street traffic through my grimy window. “I live around the corner, across from the Bean Counter.”

  “Oh, I know that place. It looks cool.” With this new information filed away, it’s pretty much inevitable that I’ll resume consuming my body weight in coffee.

  “Yeah, they make good…” His eyes drop to my chest. The Foreign Student Hall is serious about air-conditioning. It’s like we’re training to forge the Arctic tundra. My nipples have responded accordingly.

  Yoohoo! The twins seem to wave. Here we are—boobs!

  I cave my shoulders. “I’m going to run to the bathroom and change.”

  “No.”

  I freeze midstride. He wants me to undress here? In front of him? Invisible sirens sound. Heat speeds from my cheeks, down my neck as a fire lights in my belly.

  “I’ll go.” He grabs his backpack and digs out his water bottle. “And fill this. Hydration will help the lingering headache. You’ve got an hour before I can give you another Panadol.” The over-the-counter pain reliever the doctor told him to dole out.

  I’m snuggled under the duvet when he returns. He wordlessly hands me the water, staring at my mouth while I drink deep.

  I dab my lips self-consciously. “Want to watch a movie or something?”

  “Mmmm…something.”

  “What?” My voice squeaks on the t.

  He hooks his thumbs in his pockets and flashes a fleeting grin. “A movie’s fine, Captain.”

  Bran wasn’t kidding about not knowing recent movies. He let me make all the selections off my iPad. We have our own mini film festival: Juno, Garden State, and (500) Days of Summer. Good thing I’ve seen these flicks about a thousand times because the fact that Bran sits three inches away is more than a little distracting. I’m hyper-cued into his every fidget.

  Eventually, my vigilance wears me out, my eyes droop, and I let out a big yawn.

  “Those are some cute tonsils.” He knocks his foot into mine.

  “Shut it.” I knock my foot back. “I’m exhausted.”

  He tucks the sheet around my shoulders. The tender gesture catches me off guard. Again there’s that lovely, off-kilter feeling of being looked after. Protected. I mean, I can take care of myself, more or less, but it’s nice that he wants to. Really nice. What if it could be like this all the time?

  He must feel me tense. “Go to sleep, okay? Everything’s fine. I’ll keep watch and read.” He grabs the book beside my bed. “Discipline and Punish?”

  “I’m taking a class on Foucault,” I mumble into my pillow. The mattress creaks as he eases beside me. I force nonchalance, as if cute guys commonly frequent my bedroom. The twin mattress is narrow, so I roll onto my side and face the wall to mak
e room—and to hide the fact that my heart’s threatening to leap from my mouth. His chest brushes my back. This feels good, normal even.

  Despite Bran’s proximity, the day’s been long. Sleep shoots out tentacles, drags me into the blackness. I’m dreaming, such a nice dream. One where he settles a hand on my hip, buries his face into the back of my hair.

  I wake to him gently shaking my shoulder. “Hey there.”

  “Mmmmmrf,” I garble, tongue thick and eyes gritty. Surely it’s been what? Five minutes?

  “You’ve slept almost two hours. Time to eat something.”

  I burrow back into my pillow. “Not hungry. Sleepy.”

  He pokes the base of my ribs.

  “You value that hand?” I snarl, still not quite conscious.

  “You’re a little bear, Captain.”

  “Grrrrrr.” I flip over and land half across him. Whoa, didn’t realize he was so close. My hips press against his, and his jeans are rough through the thin cotton of my yoga pants. His eyes widen and I gasp at my impulsive gesture. His face doesn’t lose its frozen expression, even as he hardens against me. His mouth is perfect. His hands dip over my waist, slide to my hips.

  Here we go.

  He gently rolls me off, swings his feet to the floor. “There’s a milk bar across the street.” His voice is husky.

  “Milk bar?” What the hell is going on?

  Or rather, not going.

  “A corner shop. Carries small groceries, newspapers—”

  “Milk. I get it.” Why didn’t you kiss me?

  “Want some juice? What kind do you like?”

  “Apple.” Am I repulsive?

  “Nuts? Chocolate?”

  “A granola bar would be awesome.” Clearly far more awesome than me.

  “Okay, back in a tic.”

  I maintain until the door slams. Then I throw the blankets over my head and let out the world’s largest groan like the world’s biggest idiot.

  A low-pitched buzzing sounds and I emerge from my cocoon to grab my phone. Wait, this isn’t mine. A text flashes across the screen.

  Bella: I miss our good night kisses. You awake?

  Bella?

  I’m sitting on the end of my bed when Bran returns.

  “You can go home,” I say in a low voice.

  His brows pull together. “But the doc said twenty-four hours—”

  “I checked in with my friend, Marti, next door. She’ll look after me.” I hand him the phone without comment.

  His face blanks when he checks the screen’s text. “Right.” He tosses an apple juice bottle and granola bar beside me, pockets the phone, and slings on his backpack. “Talia.”

  “You don’t owe me any explanations.” At that moment, all I want is for Bran to get out, give me space. His presence is too close, too much, too confusing, pressing against my secretly raw places. I don’t want to take this anywhere if he’s involved with another girl.

  “Look—I’m not seeing anyone, not anymore.”

  “Sure, whatever. Not my business. I’m really tired, okay?” No way I’d hook up with a guy who’s been recently involved either. My few drunken hours with Tanner were enough torture for the rest of my life. I’m not a masochist; being the rebound girl isn’t my idea of fun.

  For a split second he looks like he wants to explain more. But then he battens down the hatches. His face a cool mask. “Right.” His voice is flat.

  “Right,” I repeat, squashing the little voice inside me that whispers, Wrong, this is so wrong.

  Chapter Nine

  Talia

  My fingers absently travel to the mouse and I click open Facebook. Bran doesn’t have a profile page, so I troll Jazza’s looking for information scraps, party pics, anything.

  Zilch.

  I Google Bran’s name and the same well-trolled information appears. Not that I’m a stalker, just someone very aware of the scholarships he’s won. And of his posted high school swim meet results. And that one paragraph mentioning him in a research project at the University of Tasmania’s Institute for Marine and Antarctic Studies.

  Okay fine, I am a total stalker.

  But my spy skills only extend so far. Google’s last hit remains a stubborn mystery. The link is in Danish except for his name, Brandon Lockhart. Other than that, all I can decipher is that the site is a wind-turbine manufacturing company headquartered in Copenhagen. Weird.

  Not as weird as Bella.

  I press a finger to my jugular vein and brace my elbows on the library table. Crap, my heart rate is over 100. In the hospital, every time I sat with Pippa, her monitor beep, beep, beeped in the background. I’d never paid any meaningful attention to heartbeats before. Why would you? The body beats, breathes, whatever. It’s like turning on a light, or getting water from a tap, little ordinary miracles in our day-to-day lives. But during those empty hours, listening to Pippa’s heart, things turned complicated. Breathing’s difficult if you overthink the action, like staring at the word the for too long. Grows unnatural, bizarrely wrong.

  My inbox pings—message from Bran.

  Oh God. Okay. Shit. He can’t tell I just Googled him, can he?

  The e-mail has an ellipsis in the title bar. No hint to the message’s content. Bran may be closer to a stranger than a friend, but I know him enough to sense this behavior is typical.

  I hold my breath and open the message.

  To: Natalia Stolfi

  From: Brandon Lockhart

  Subject: …

  Can I see you?

  “Bonjour hi.” Marti drapes over my study cubicle. A hot-pink stripe slices through her inky hair.

  I try to refocus, act like I’m not freaking out.

  “No more study today, mon petit chou.” Marti flicks one of my highlighters to the floor. “Give the brain a rest.”

  I pick the marker up and tap the tip against the desk. “But I need to finish—”

  “Pfffft, it is Friday night. You need to go out. Besides, you do not work. You are e-mailing…oh la—what is this?” She peers at my laptop screen. “Who is it that wants to see you?”

  I slam my computer shut. “Nobody.”

  She gives me a knowing look. “Did you write this nobody back? Say yes to the boy. You must get some sexy time before you die of boredom and your own hand.”

  “Marti,” I hiss, glancing around at the nearby students.

  “Don’t be such a prude. You are young. Beautiful. Be alive and make love to real live people. Not the vibrator.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Like I have one of those.”

  “No…vibrators?” Her tone is aghast.

  “No. Or vibrator, for that matter.”

  “So you only…” She mimics a frantic fiddling gesture by her crotch.

  “Jesus, God. No!” I jump to my feet, gathering my notebooks. I have to drag her out of here before she gets us arrested for sexual misconduct.

  “But how do you—”

  “I don’t, okay?” I flee toward the stairway.

  She keeps pace. “You’ve had no Big O?”

  “Never.”

  “Tabarnak,” Marti mutters her favorite swear word, crossing herself. Apparently in French Canada, swearing consists of vague Catholic references like tabernacle and chalice. But right now I’m not charmed like usual. I’m totally shamed.

  We walk in silence and she doesn’t speak until we exit the library.

  “You’re a virgin?”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “I’ve slept with one guy, but I’ve made out and stuff with others. It’s”—I give my head a half shake—“kind of overrated. Nothing ever felt amazing.”

  She scrapes one index finger over her other in a gesture of admonishment. “This changes, right now.”

  “I’m flattered, but you’re not really my—”

  “Oh, please.” She rolls her eyes. “Hand over the computer.”

  “You can’t write him back.”


  “Him? Yes! I knew it was an e-mail from a he. Wait, it’s not the Idiot Boy, Jazza?”

  “No.”

  Not that Idiot Boy.

  “Computer, now. I need it.” She tugs my purse, ruthless as a German shepherd with a chew toy.

  “Fine.” We stop at a university bench beneath a wide eucalyptus. “Knock yourself out. Campus is fully Wi-Fi equipped.”

  Marti goes all Mozart on the keyboard and within thirty seconds, an alarming grin slides across her face. “This is where we go.”

  The page she displays burns my retinas, all gaudy pinks, lurid reds. The flashing words Pleasure Den plaster across the header.

  I flap my hands like an agitated duck. “Are you insane?”

  “Non. But you will be—tonight. And afterward you shall write this mystery man. It’s time for Talia to get lucky.”

  “Luck and I aren’t really on speaking terms.”

  “How old are you, twenty?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “Tabarnak. Twenty-one and not even one teeny-tiny O?”

  “Can you tone it down?” My voice rises and two passing students slow down.

  “Orgasms are not brought by fairies.” Marti speaks a fraction quieter. Great, now only people within a quarter-mile radius can eavesdrop.

  “Yeah, I get it. But I don’t know, maybe my va-jay-jay’s not wired in that way.”

  “You’ve not properly tried. The woman must take responsibility for her own pleasure.”

  * * *

  Marti ushers me through my first sex shop experience with the air of a seasoned pro. I trail her high hot-pink ponytail past butt plugs, flavored lubricants, and nipple clamps to a wall bursting in a veritable rainbow of silicon cocks.

  “No way.” I cover my mouth.

  Marti rolls her eyes. “Get over yourself.”

  “I’m sure each of these big boys deserves a good home but come on, I just…can’t.” I point out an engorged, veiny, twelve-inch monster. “How could I sleep near that beast? It looks like it will come alive after midnight. Chase me around the bedroom.”

  “Pfffft. Such drama. No one expects you to jump in the deep end.”