by Max Henry
He hasn’t got the slightest clue what love is.
None at all.
If he did, he’d know that there’s no way in hell I could ever love him, no matter how much time he puts in, no matter how much effort he expends.
Not when I’m still in love with someone else.
TWO
Zeus
The house rests in darkness, barely a hint of the fading sunset on the floorboards as I walk across to the kitchen and tug the fridge open. Brilliant white light spills out to highlight the grease stains on my shirt and jeans.
Maybe another week and I’ll have her running. A bargain for what she is: a 1971 Plymouth Barracuda. Damn thing would have been worth a quarter of my house if she’d had an engine, but the guy had brought the shell in from the States with great intentions, yet none of the passion to see it through.
Passion: something I have in spades.
Cool water trickles from the corner of my mouth as I down half a bottle and kick the fridge door shut with my boot. Days in the garage seem to be my modus operandi of late. Days where I lose all track of time, only stopping to come indoors for a feed, or because it gets too dark and the biters come out.
Distraction: my sedative of choice.
“Z. You home?” John’s voice carries from the internal garage door.
“In the kitchen, brother.”
He strolls up the hallway and flicks the light on as he passes the switch. “Saw the garage door open and figured you must be here. Bike isn’t out front, though, so I wasn’t sure.”
“It’s around the back.” I set the bottle on the counter and lean both hands either side of it. “Needed a wash.”
He hesitates in the middle of my living room, hands in his pockets as he rocks on the heels of his work boots.
“What are you here for?” I’m lucky if I see the guy once a month these days.
He clears his throat and frowns as he stares at the floor between us. “She comes home tomorrow.”
Fucker may as well have swung a torque wrench into my gut. “Yeah, okay.”
He cocks his head to the side, gaze narrowed. “Is that all?”
“What the fuck do you want me to say, mate?” He’s made it clear where I stand with his family.
“I don’t know.” John shrugs. “I guess I figured you’d be more excited or some shit.”
“You guessed wrong.” Rip an old wound open to let it bleed anew, and then ask the man if the pain excites him? John’s fucking lost the plot.
“I thought you should know anyway, in case you see her around. It’s inevitable that you two will bump into each other, and you know….”
“You wouldn’t want me to do something stupid?” I taunt.
“Zeus.”
“Nah, I get it mate. Stay the fuck away from your daughter, and if I see her, pretend she’s invisible. Understood.”
He huffs through his nose, eyes hard as his jaw works side to side. “Put yourself in my shoes, Z. What would you have done?”
I shrug. “I don’t know, but I kind of hoped that fucking plane ticket would have shown you what our friendship meant to me.” He’d wanted proof that I had good intentions when it came to him and his family—he got it.
If I’d known that sending Belle overseas to chase her dreams wouldn’t have changed a goddamn thing back here, then rest assured I wouldn’t have paid for a fucking cent of it.
Three years I’ve mourned that goddamn decision. Three years I’ve used technology like some form of self-flagellation, inflicting pain on myself each time I pulled up the pictures I took of her, of us. I can’t let go. I can’t forget what it felt like to have the one thing that meant the world to me slip from my grasp.
“I can’t stop her if she decides to come here,” I point out as I turn the water bottle between my dirty hands.
“No.” John tips his head slightly. “But I don’t think she would, anyway. Not when she’s with Damien.”
The plastic crinkles in my fist. That fucker’s name is my goddamn trigger point. “Thanks for stopping by, John.”
“Sure.” He takes a step back, and then pauses. “Take it easy, Z. Give me a call if you ever need a hand out there, okay?” He jerks his head toward the garage.
I nod, well aware he only makes the offer as some sort of olive branch. But why the fuck would I want to hang out and reminisce with him if all it would do is remind me of my greatest mistake? Whether I knew it or not, I ruined what we had the day I drove a fist into his face and picked his daughter’s love over him. Nothing I did afterward changed the damage done that day. Nothing.
John leaves, the dull sound of his work truck filtering through the house as I march over and slam my fist down on the light switch. The room plunges into darkness, my chest immediately lighter. I retrieve my phone from where I left it on the dining table, and then head to get the bottle of water off the counter. No. Fuck that. Today calls for something stronger. I veer left instead and snatch the untouched bottle of bourbon off the top of the cupboards and take it to the sofa.
Who are you now, dove?
The alcohol cuts a hot path down my throat as I flick through my Facebook settings and bring up the list of blocked users. Only one. Only one person that I ever gave enough of a fuck about to go to such lengths. My thumb tingles as it hovers over the screen. Fuck it. She comes home tomorrow, and that thought alone means I should man up and deal with this like an adult. But I can’t do it. I can’t open that Pandora’s box.
The only way I can live with my decision to buy that ticket is by pretending I had no choice. But I had a choice. And I picked the one that would be best for her. Definitely not the easiest for me.
You’re addicted, Z. Addicted and not sorry about it one fucking bit. That’s the funny thing with addiction: you only feel guilty about it when you finally face the facts and acknowledge how bad it is for you.
Belle? Nope. I’d never admit that because she was never bad for me. It was me who was bad for her.
If she knows what’s good for her, she’ll stay the hell away from me when she gets back to Longdale.
Because I’m twice as selfish now, with half the fucks to give on what anyone else thinks.
THREE
Belle
I’ve found muscles I didn’t know I had. The guy in front of me insisted on reclining his seat the entire flight, whether he slept or not, which in turn meant I had to tuck my legs to one side and twist my hips. Every time I got up to stretch, the flight attendants would bring the damn refreshment cart out and force me back into my seat.
I’ve never been so happy to lie on a goddamn airport floor.
“Are you okay, love?” An older lady bends over where I lie beside the luggage carousel.
“Yes, thank you. Bad back,” I explain.
She nods knowingly. “Tell you what. I’ll set my carry-on just here so nobody catches your noodle there.” She places her little flower-covered suitcase above my head.
Maybe I’m tired, or maybe because it’s the first selfless thing a person has done for me in days, but I damn well cry at her consideration.
“Thank you.” I wipe the moisture away with my sleeve as she smiles down at me.
“Almost home.” She winks.
Her words strike a chord with me. I am almost home, and strangely the closer I get, the more homesick I am. I miss Dad. I miss our stupid TV marathons and listening to him talk about work over dinner while I don’t understand a fucking thing he says. I miss our stupid suburban street with the trees that always drop leaves on the parked cars in autumn.
I miss visits from Kate. And strangely, I miss Jodie.
She’s kept in touch while I’ve been gone with a message every six months or so, eager to know how I was doing after the showdown with Cerise. But just like Dad, she avoided the hard topics.
Nobody wants to talk about him, and I can’t deny the worry that stirs inside of me.
“Here they come.” The old lady gestures to the carousel as the gears grind and whi
ne into motion.
I pull myself to a seated position as the first bags come out. People hustle around us, eager to get to the head of the queue. I rise to my feet and thank the old woman before doing my usual and walking to the far end of the carousel where it’s quieter and there’s more room.
Customs is chaos thanks to the two huge Emirates flights that got in around the same time as my smaller Air New Zealand one. I line up for the automated queue once I have my baggage, and wipe under my eyes again with the side of my finger in the hope the machine doesn’t reject me because my red-ringed, sleep-deprived eyes don’t match my passport photo.
Clean sailing.
I step out the other side and take a deep breath as people rush past me in the mad race for the exit doors. I’ve walked twenty metres through a damn security gate, and yet somehow everything feels different. Better.
Passengers file through the automatic doors, the cheers of ecstatic families coming back through in bursts each time they slide open. My heart hums against my ribcage as I stack my duffle bag on top of my suitcase and grab my carry on with the other.
This is it. Home, a new woman.
Most of all, just as a woman. I’ve grown a lot the last three years, learnt so much about myself and what makes me tick. It’s funny how no matter what age you are, you feel the wisest you’ve ever been, the most adamant that you know what’s best and that who you are will never change. And yet, add a few years, and you’re able to look back at how green you still were, how naïve, and you almost cringe at what a headstrong fool you were.
I thought at eighteen that I knew it all. I thought I knew what I wanted, and that the best intentions of those around me were misguided. But sometimes I wonder how much more Dad saw about me than I could. How much did he really know about what I needed?
I can’t deny that I’ve grown, that I’ve matured, but one thing remains the same: I left the best part of me behind when I boarded that plane to Colorado. I left my heart here, in Longdale.
Still, I wouldn’t trade the experience or the things working side by side with some of the best artists taught me in my apprenticeship and subsequent short career. And it’s that pride, that sense of independence that has me walking through the automatic doors with my head held high.
“Sweetheart.” Dad damn near vaults the dividing barrier to crush me in a bear hug as I near the end of the narrow walkway.
I wrap my arms around his shoulders, my carry-on tipping over as I let it go. “Hey, Dad.”
“God, I’ve missed you.”
“Shut up,” I tease as I pull away. “You’ll make me cry.”
“Leak happiness,” he corrects with a wink, echoing his words from the day I left.
A curly-haired lady steps out from the crowd and I recognise her immediately. “Sharon.”
She pulls me in a hug that feels strangely familiar for somebody I’ve never met. “Aren’t you just ten times more stunning in person,” she coos, her chin tucked on my shoulder.
I was over the moon the day Dad told me he’d found somebody. Two years after he booted Cerise out of the house he literally fell over Sharon in the supermarket. Spilled produce turned out to be the start of a wonderful thing. She’s good for Dad, and most importantly, I get the best vibe off her.
She’s nothing like my mother, and I love that.
“Are you hungry?” she asks as Dad retrieves my bags. “We can stop on the way home if you like?”
“No. I ate on the plane.” And truth be told, my stomach refuses to settle.
I’m back in the same country as Zeus. More than likely in the same town, if he hasn’t sold the house. Back chasing old ghosts around familiar haunts. There’s so much I left behind the day I flew out, and not all of it tangible. Being home, heading to Longdale, leaves me apprehensive of the old emotions that are emerging from the depths, arms stretched over their heads as they awake.
At the forefront: regret.
I pushed my way into Zeus’s life, and then when the shit hit the fan, I bailed—albeit with his help—and left him to face the fallout alone. I always was a selfish kid, but that? Yeah….
We make our way through the parking building to where Dad’s new work truck is squeezed in between two compact cars. Sharon walks ahead to unlock the vehicle, while Dad hangs back at my side.
“They keep making these places smaller and smaller,” he gripes as he stacks my bags on the tray under the protection of the canopy. “Makes it so damn hard to take this anywhere.”
“Your father almost bought himself a little Suzuki Swift,” Sharon says with a smile as she opens my door.
“I need something that doesn’t threaten a stress-induced heart attack every time I go into the city,” he explains.
I laugh at the visual of my dad, as tall as he is, folded into a tiny little car like that. Sharon gets into the front passenger seat, resting her hand on Dad’s thigh as he reverses out of the park. I watch them in silence as we start the journey home, the small gestures they make without knowing it. They’re in love, and it’s adorable.
It also makes me ridiculously envious. I could have had that. I did have that, even if only for a single breath in the capacity of a lifetime.
Dad’s gaze flicks to me in the rear-view as we cruise down the motorway; Sharon stares out her side window at the passing scenery, oblivious to the unspoken conversation going on between the two of us.
“You okay, sweetheart?”
I nod, avoiding his eye. “I think so.”
“You know, I’m surprised you haven’t said a thing about him.”
I open my mouth to point out neither has he, when he reminds me we aren’t thinking about the same person.
“It’s not a great impression that this Damien fella makes, you know.” He smiles, glancing my way. “Do I need to prep the shotgun for when he finally makes it back?”
I stare out the window at the mention of my… fuck, what is he? Boyfriend? That term seems so juvenile, yet we’re not serious enough to be partners. “You don’t own a shotgun.”
“I could.” He huffs through his nose. “You let him know you got here okay?”
Shit. “I guess that would be a good idea, huh?”
Dad frowns as though to say what the hell is up with you?
I smile sheepishly as I retrieve my phone and hammer out a quick message to Damien. I don’t even know if he’ll get it, or if he’s so wrapped up in heading off on this trek that I’ve clean slipped his mind also. At least I can say I’ve done my part.
I exit his thread and tap on Kate’s.
K: Let me know when you’re settled. We’ll catch up.
My thumb hovers over the screen. She messaged me while I was in the air. Fuck—I’m too tired for visitors, even if I probably will spend the next twelve hours awake while my body clock adjusts.
B: Sure thing. Later in the week when I’m over the jet lag ;)
Dad glances in the rear-view as I drop the device in my lap. “Sorted, then?”
“Yeah. I had a message from Kate. She wants to catch up.”
“Good.” Dad’s hands flex on the wheel as we take our exit. “Your mother called.”
“Why?”
I catch Sharon’s intake of breath as Dad sighs. “Because she saw my post on Facebook counting down the days until you got home. She wanted to know who Damien is.” He glances back again as we approach an intersection.
“And you told her?” Sounds typical of Cerise; using Dad to find out things she wouldn’t dare ask me herself.
“I did. There’s no point lying to the woman.” He sighs, seeming to search for the right words. “She’s sobered up since you’ve been gone, and although I don’t expect you two to get along, it could be cathartic to bury the hatchet, so to speak.”
“Can I bury it in her?” I mumble.
“Belle,” Dad warns. “Don’t lower yourself to her level; be the bigger person.”
“I thought I was by pretending she didn’t exist.”
Tension c
hokes the air as Dad slows to stop at a red light. “She wasn’t to blame.”
“For what?” I snap. “Forgetting that I was alive for ten years?”
“You know what for.” He takes off a little quicker than necessary.
I stare at Dad in the mirror, despite the fact he focuses on the road. “You know, you haven’t mentioned him at all.”
“Didn’t see any reason for it to come up.” His frown deepens. Sharon reaches out to squeeze his knee.
I don’t know how much he’s told her, but that gesture alone says enough.
“I don’t just mean now,” I elaborate. “You haven’t mentioned him since I left.”
“What do you want me to say?” he snaps. “Are you expecting a rundown of his day to day? Because if you are, then I can’t help with that.”
“I’m expecting you to acknowledge that Zeus is a fucking person.” I stall, thrown by the sound of his name on my tongue. “Just a simple ‘He’s doing fine’ would be great.”
Dad makes a “hmph,” choosing to stay mute on the topic. I’m pushing him, and it’s not fair considering I’ve only just touched down. Maybe it’s the jet lag. Or maybe it’s simply that the subject of my mother always heats my blood.
“I’m sorry.” I whisper my apology, unable to look at Dad. “I’m a bit tired, and I’d sort of hoped that after three years people wouldn’t still treat me with kid gloves when it comes to him.”
He sees straight through the bullshit. “I worry, sweetheart. You’ve got your own life to sort out now you’re back, and I don’t want past grievances to overshadow that.” His brow sets hard, and Sharon reaches across to rest her hand on his leg again. “I want you to keep focus on yourself like you have these past years. Don’t undo all the hard work you’ve put in by hungering for scraps of information about him.”
“I care, is all. I just want to know he’s doing all right.”
