by Lia Riley
I want to tell her it’s okay to talk to me, that she can open up, I’ll be there. But I’ve never been her preferred confidante; that was always part of Pippa’s job description.
Does Logan notice Mom’s weight or does he only see an attractive, wealthy older woman? This relationship is failing to nourish her on so many levels. Shit. I don’t want to worry about her. Dad beat his head against that wall for years and look where it got him. He treated her like a queen and she left him like he was nothing more than a court jester.
She’s a taker and I don’t have much to offer.
And she still hasn’t answered my question.
“Mom? How old is Logan?”
“Oh, yes, sorry.” She takes another sip from her cup and coughs into her fist. “Twenty-eight.”
If my eyes open any wider, I won’t have a face. Mom’s forty-seven. “Holy shit, what? I had no idea. You’re a cougar.” Christ, Logan is closer, much closer, to my age.
“Language, Natalia.”
“I had no idea he was a manboy—”
“Don’t be cruel. I see you haven’t grown or branched out into acceptance as much as I hoped. Careful, you don’t want to become stunted.” Her frown lines are well grooved. She’s turning on that quietly dignified martyred angle. The one that always brought Dad to his knees.
Stunted? I grit my teeth. The bitch. Cruel is leaving Dad and me. We needed her and she tossed us out like end-of-a-winter-cold Kleenex.
Mom loves me. At least, in theory. But there’s a disconnect between us, like a stick that’s snapped and won’t refit no matter how much we maneuver the two broken pieces. As much as she and Pippa looked alike, I inherited her anxious nature. I might not be a borderline anorexic, but I have a hard time losing control and deal badly with uncertainty.
Screw it. This is my mother. I owe it to her to say something, even if it’s uncomfortable. I tense my calves, nearly to the point of a charley horse. This is a yellow-light situation, time to enact extreme caution; otherwise she’ll blow me off or take offense and shut down.
“Mom—”
“Anyway, I’ve been thinking about this little adventure of yours. It sounds perfect.”
“Isn’t that what you’re doing in Hawaii?” I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth. I’m meant to be taking the high road here, but it looks like a landslide of resentment blocks the way.
Her smile fades. “Kauai isn’t an adventure, Talia. It’s healing.”
“Oh, right.” Healing. She hides behind that word so that I’m unable to call her out on her bullshit. If she’s healing, why does she look like she’s disappearing? The thought turns my stomach to bitter sludge. The picture in my head of Pippa diminishing in the hospital is replaced by my mother dying in slow inches, only she’s doing it on a tropical island paradise in the company of a man who preaches health and wellness but allows her to wither because at the end of the day he doesn’t care.
“Logan and I are coming to Australia.”
A stinging burn radiates across my chest. “Come again?”
“There’s a spirituality retreat being held in Byron Bay, north of Sydney, in a few weeks, exploring past and future lives.”
“You? Will be here? In Australia?” A bolder dislodges from the landslide, rolls in my direction while I yell, “Nooooooooo!” in slow motion.
“We both could use a getaway. Logan’s been wrestling with a lot of stress regarding his new book, and I know a change of place will be exactly what we need to rekindle the spark.”
“Guess the grass isn’t always greener in Kauai?”
“Don’t you want to see me?”
I honestly don’t know the answer to that. “You’ve surprised me, that’s for sure. I mean—I’m kind of doing my own thing here.” I want to help Mom, but I am barely getting it together myself. What if she knocks me off this fragile foothold I’ve gained?
“Byron Bay isn’t anywhere near Melbourne. I had thought we’d come for a quick visit, of course, but if you’d rather be Little Miss Independent—”
“For fuck’s sake, Mom, come on, I’m not six years old.”
“Your behavior is not reflecting that fact.”
“I’d like to see you.” I speak from behind my hand as if my body wants to catch the lie. Telling the truth isn’t an option. And as satisfying as a temper tantrum would be, Mom’s paying for me to be here, so I literally owe her.
“Really, I’d love to see you,” I repeat, upping the ante a little. Because she doesn’t appear convinced. “Send me your trip details and we can make a plan. I’ll play tour guide. Melbourne’s a cool city, lots to do.” I’m already strategizing the best way to keep Bran from Mom’s path. He’s mine. Overwhelming possession charges through me. I don’t want to listen to her pass sweeping opinions on his character—which she will—or dare to ever compare him to perfect Tanner, the perfect bookend to perfect Pippa.
Bran’s not perfect. Neither am I. And maybe that’s fine.
Maybe that’s better than fine. We’re perfect only for the other.
“I need to get a move on. You’ve got things to do and I’m late to meet a friend. I’m excited to see you…super stoked.” At least I manage to sound more enthusiastic than a water buffalo dying in quicksand.
“All right.” Her voice is thick. I wonder if that’s actually tea in her fancy cup. “Love you, Ladybug.” Confirmation. She only busts out the nickname when she straddles the wobbly line between tipsy and drunk. Once she crosses the threshold, she quickly grows less affectionate, more biting.
“Yeah, Mom. Me too. See ya.” Or what’s left of you if you keep this up. I sign off. Within seconds I’m in my top drawer popping supplements like candy—vitamin B, vitamin C, vitamins D and E. I’m consuming the whole frigging alphabet.
I don’t know if they make a difference, but my nerves are red-hot, fried from the cortisol that exploded from my brain during the conversation.
“Let it go, let it go, let it go,” I chant under my breath. If Mom can trigger me this hard from the computer, what’s going to happen when we’re in the same room?
I tap my fingers in my special rhythm until things feel better—barely—but I’ll take what I can get. Across the room, my wallet peeks from under my pillow. No idea how it got there. I toss it into my bag along with sunscreen and lip gloss.
I recheck the electrical sockets, nothing plugged in. I’m almost out the door, but my feet won’t budge. I need to tap one more time. Then I can go, which I do, fast, like pitch-fork-wielding demons give chase.
As I fly down the hall, toward the elevator, I pass Marti’s room. A heavy guitar riff slides through the door, along with the lyrics.
“When the world is gone, all you need to do is set yourself alight.”
Another girl waits by the elevator. She notes my breathlessness and gives me a strange look. “Going up or down?” she asks, fingers hovering over the button.
“Down,” I answer, breathless. Right now I’m definitely going down.
* * *
“Hey, hey, pretty lady.” Bran covers my eyes from behind and my grin is unforced.
“Hey, yourself.” He’s got a cap squashed low on his head and his hair wings out beneath his ears. I smile and he smiles and for a second that’s all that exists.
It’s like I’m a regular girl again, not a freak who barely escaped her room.
“What’s up?” He links his fingers with mine, pulls me close.
“Nothing.”
“Such a pretty liar.” His grip tightens as his eyes rove my face, assessing. “Come on, let’s walk a bit.”
I’m grateful he doesn’t push.
“Is this okay?” He swings my arm. “Holding hands?”
“I don’t think we’re breaking any public indecency violations,” I say with a little laugh.
“I’m conducting an experiment.”
“With me as a lab rat?”
“A very cute one.” Bran leans in, kisses me behind the ear, and whispers
, “I’m testing the theory I can be a better person.”
“And holding hands will help you get there?”
“Holding hands with you might.”
He stabs me in the heart and the pain is addictively sweet. For a second he does it, he lets me in and I’m like a kid balancing a three-scoop ice-cream cone, wanting to savor every drop.
We pass other people, families with kids, old couples shuffling, skinny guys on bikes, pretty girls in spaghetti-strapped sundresses. But they all look like an old-fashioned moving picture. Even though the sun is bright, they are sepia-toned. Only Bran is in color and I float beside him. I’m soaring to the sun.
“I’m leaving town next week.”
I am Icarus. I crash to the ground.
“Oh.”
He stops and turns me toward him. “Not for good. Jesus, you should see the look on your face.”
I clasp my free hand to my cheek.
“I’d be flattered at your reaction, except you look like I drop-kicked your puppy.”
“I’m startled, that’s all. Where are you headed?” Does that sound casual enough?
“Tassie.” He notes my blank look. “Tasmania, remember? Interviewing in person for my program so I can convince my old supervisor for a second chance. Also, I want reassurances I can roll my honors research into a PhD. On the academic food chain I’m somewhere between an amoeba and a protozoa, so I need to be proactive. Want to come?”
I stand there, speechless. Did I hear him right? No, probably not.
“Hey, don’t get too excited.” His smile is a little uncertain.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Want to come see Tassie? It’s an amazing place.”
“Go? With you? Like on a road trip?” I slam my mouth shut before this turns into a game of twenty questions.
“I know it’s out of the blue and you’re in school. I’m not trying to force anything. I need to go down there and thought you might want to tag along. See some things. You’ve barely gotten out of Melbourne.”
“School keeps me busy.” I shrug.
“Or is it an excuse to play things safe?” he says after a pause.
He sees too much, this guy.
“Relax, Captain. No need to be a wombat in headlights. Don’t overthink.”
“That’s not really possible.” I fold my hands to keep them from shaking.
“We can take my car on the ferry, sail overnight, and drive down the heart of the island. Hobart’s good—a pretty city. A history buff like you should be in heaven. It was a penal colony once upon a time and lots of the old buildings are still in good shape.”
“Where would we stay?”
“My uncle lives there, in an old whaler’s cottage in Battery Point. Chris is a trip. It’d be fun to have some time with you before…” He trails off, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Before I go home.” Not long until my trip’s expiry date.
“You’ll miss a week of school, but I promise to show you some amazing places. We’re talking ten out of ten here.”
“Hmmm.” My grades are better than good. There are no big assignments due next week, nothing in the pipeline that I don’t have a handle on.
“Hmmm, is that a yes or no?”
“I’m considering.”
“Okay, I’ll give you some time to decide.” He steps half a foot away, circles me twice before grabbing my waist from behind. “So?” His excitement is contagious.
“Impatient much?” I laugh.
“When it comes to you, apparently yes.”
My stomach flip-flops. Like I’d ever say no. “Yeah. All right. Yes. I’ll commit right here, right now. Why not?”
“For real?” He pulls me close and his mouth is warm. Our noses touch and I tilt my head back to deepen the kiss. His hands slot into my jeans’ pockets. He draws me closer and my body locks into his like a jigsaw puzzle.
I like this: kissing him, talking with him, seeing him. I like it more than anything I’ve ever known. But neither of us has mentioned the big issue looming ahead in the not-too-distant future. That I’m leaving Australia soon. I know that’s what Bran was trying to say, that Tasmania was a chance for us to have an adventure before I go.
Before I never see him again.
Chapter Nineteen
Bran
I steer the Kingswood into the Port Melbourne docklands. A long line of cars wait to board the Spirit of Tasmania, the white ferry docked ahead.
“So we sail overnight, and the drive will take three hours in the morning?” Talia likes to keep a handle on things. Earlier, I gave her a Tasmanian road atlas that she hugged like a kid with a shiny new bike.
“Pretty much.” A night at sea alone with her. I drum my fingers on the wheel to beat out my nervous energy—hah, like that’ll happen. What am I doing here, with her? Is this plan going to blow up in my face?
See, everyone has a number. For one person it might be a hundred. For another it could be zero. Mine hits close to the median of those two points. Talia is a one. She’s slept with a single guy, her dead sister’s boyfriend and that wanker blew it—left her gun-shy.
She’s better off never knowing the specifics of my miserable history. What if she doesn’t understand that these weren’t chest-beating conquests but acts of fucking cowardice?
She twists her pretty mouth, deep in thought, and my stomach responds in kind. What’s she doing here, with me? I haven’t earned enough karma to have a girl like her in my life.
“Doesn’t it take like an hour to fly to Hobart?” she asks.
“More or less.” Should have figured Talia would point out the obvious.
“I mean. don’t get me wrong.” She speaks fast, like she doesn’t want to cause offense. “I’m really excited about the boat.”
“I don’t do planes.” I wait, because here’s a girl who won’t ignore informational scraps.
“Like…ever?” Her shoulders cave.
“No.” I guess her thoughts—she lives an ocean away. Unless I plan on chartering the Black Pearl, this presents us with a serious obstacle.
“What happened? A screaming baby break your will to live during a long haul?”
Her nonchalant giggle doesn’t fool me. Better give it to her straight. “Engine failure over the Indian Ocean on a flight home from Europe last year.”
“What?” Her eyebrows almost reach her hairline. “Are you joking?”
“Made an emergency landing in East Timor.” It’s like I’m blasted with full-force air-conditioning. I hate talking about this.
“Wait, hang on—you said last year? Holy shit, you were on that plane. It was all over the news.” She snaps her fingers. “The Miracle Flight, that’s what they called it.”
I hate the nickname too. “The people who write headlines are hardly poets.”
“The engines malfunctioned. You were minutes from crashing, had to coast in for miles.”
“Yes, and yes.”
“Whoa. Surviving—did it change you?” She stares at me like I’m some sort of hero. As if anyone besides the captain on that plane actually performed something noteworthy.
“I don’t believe in signs, but if I did, I’d say the universe advised me to rein it the fuck in.”
“Rein what in?”
“Hope, mainly.” The ferry doors open like a hungry mouth. Cars start to creep forward and I give the Kingswood a little gas.
“That’s morbid.” She frowns.
Why can’t I just feed her a fairy tale? How facing death and surviving changes a person, makes everything that matters crisp and focused.
Because that’s a bunch of crap. At least in my case. Tension knots my lower back.
“You want to know the truth? Morbid is watching strangers face death. A mom being brave for her two kids. An old woman huddled over a rosary. A couple, probably coming back from their honeymoon, loving on each other. A flight attendant, strapped in the jump seat across from me, staring out the window and crying.”
>
“What about you?”
I flinch. “What about me?”
“There you were, at the moment of imminent death, what thoughts went through your head?” She looks at me like I’m in possession of some big answer. I could lie to her. Maybe I should.
But I don’t. She deserves the truth, even if it carries the weight of my darkness.
“I thought about praying, which is something I don’t do—ever—but—”
“Seems like an excellent time to start.”
“Exactly. But I didn’t. Because no god caused our plane to fail or guided us to land. We got lucky. That happens sometimes. And every now and then it’s the opposite. All chance, no fate. I sat in my seat. That’s it. I just sat and waited to see which way the coin toss would go.”
“So no more flying, at all, ever?”
“I prefer control when possible.”
“What if the ship sinks? Or you trip on the deck?” She points at the rail high above our heads. “What if you fall overboard? When you think about it—which I try hard not to do—potential disasters lurk everywhere. A minute ago you made control seem like an illusion.”
“I can control the decision of whether or not to board a plane.”
“But isn’t life a game of chance?”
“Look, when it comes to air travel, I prefer not to flip the fucking coin.” My words come out sharper than anticipated. Talia doesn’t appear offended. Instead, she gives me this thoughtful look.
“What?”
She blinks slowly. “Nothing,” she says in a tone that can be interpreted any one of a thousand ways.
I let the topic drop. Unlike some of the other media-hungry passengers, I had no interest in profiting from the Miracle Flight limelight. Parading around talk shows and taking part in weepy interviews sounded like water torture. Shit happens, you move on.
We park the car and join the wave of passengers streaming upstairs to fill the vast windowless cave at the ship’s front, outfitted with stadium-style seating.
Talia turns to follow them.
“We go this way,” she says, resisting my gentle tug in the opposite direction.
“No, we don’t.” My planned surprise is going to be muted after the conversation about that fucking plane.
