Regret

by Max Henry

  “You’re not the only one,” he bites, inviting himself into the house behind me. “But then again, you never did understand that concept, did you?”

  “Carry on, Jared,” I snap louder than intended. “See how long this wee conversation lasts if that’s the way you’re going to steer it.”

  He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “I’ll make it quick.” For a fleeting second, I see the vulnerable man I fell in love with ten years ago. “I want you to sell the house.”

  Until that.

  “What?” I throw my tote on the side table with more zest than necessary.

  We were married for barely two years, not enough time for the property to have increased substantially in value. So it was decided when we split that I’d stay in it, paying the mortgage on my own, and the little that he had put in over the course of our relationship would be repaid when I sold.

  When I sold.

  “If you need the cash—”

  “I need an end to this.” He waves a hand between us as I slump against the hallway. “I need to cut ties from you.”

  “I thought we were doing that just fine,” I whisper as I run my eye over his perfectly put together outfit.

  Fuck, he unfriended me on Facebook the minute we split. I don’t even know where he lives now, just that it’s in the city, and judging by the threads he’s got on, he’s doing well for himself.

  Of course he doesn’t need the money. He’s never needed anything from me. Makes sense then, that he wants me to sell to ensure he has no reason to ever see me, let alone talk to me, again.

  “If you want closure, Jared, I can get my lawyer to send yours the settlement amount when and if I sell in the future. You don’t have to deal with me.”

  He shrugs. “Except I will. You’ll still be there in the back of my mind every time I have to list assets, Cam. Or if Kell and I want to apply for another mortgage—the house is still in my name, too.”

  “So we change it.” I push aside the reference he made to the whore who stole him away. “Make a time with the lawyer, and I’ll meet you there.”

  Silence hangs between us, thickening the air in the house—the very reason for this conversation. I push off the wall with the flat of my hand and take a couple of steps toward the lounge room.

  “How long?”

  He hangs in the entrance hall. “As soon as we can agree on a realtor.”

  “No.” I drop to the edge of the armchair, bracing myself with both hands on the cushion. “You’ve got to give me longer.”

  “Why, Cam?” He ventures as far as the open doorway, ever reluctant to get too close to me. “You’ve had three years to get what you need out of being here. Staying in the house won’t change anything.”

  “Exactly,” I whisper.

  I never stayed in the hope it would settle the past, or that the memories the house held could ever ease the pain. I didn’t stay to heal. I stayed to keep the wound open and festering, to never forget.

  I chose to remain in the home we shared so I would be reminded every day of what I did and why I don’t deserve to ever have that kind of love again.

  “You need to move on,” Jared murmurs as he retraces his steps toward the door. “It’s not healthy, Cam.”

  “I know.”

  He twists the handle and opens the front door a fraction, resting his shoulder against the edge as he drives the nail home a little harder. “You need to own up to what you did.”

  TWO

  Duke

  “Fuck this.” With the lid of the car boot propped on my shoulder, I shove the trash in the back out of the way and throw what’s left of the driveshaft inside. Why the hell I even agreed to do this for my brother, I don’t know.

  “Come on, man. It’s only a day’s drive.”

  Should have told the fuckhead that if he wanted the car enough, he could have called in to work sick to collect it himself. But no, instead, here I am, big brother, picking up Cody’s latest piece-of-shit project that’s only going to clutter Mum’s backyard some more.

  The boot of the HQ Holden slams shut as I let it go, and then round the vehicle to the open driver’s door. The shudder started not long after I picked the vehicle up, and then evened out when I hit the open road. I should have known better than to think the car could hold up until I got back, but nope—stubborn old me pushed on in the hope I’d be back in familiar territory before the sun had a chance to rise on a new day.

  Day’s drive, my arse.

  The suspension groans as I drop heavily into the driver’s seat and fish around on the floor for where my phone ended up after it slid off the dash. If the sudden bang and grind wasn’t enough to put the shits up me, then the way the fucking car lurched as it lost power was more than enough to send my heart into overdrive. I’ve had cars break down on me plenty in the past, but I’ve never been one for surprises—especially not since I got home from my last tour of duty.

  My fingers close around the familiar hard case of my phone, and I bring it out from where it’s caught under the front edge of the bench seat. The changing hues of the sky tell me I have an hour at most left to figure out what the fuck to do with the immobile vehicle before it gets dark. I don’t even know exactly how far I am from the next town; I didn’t pay a hell of a lot of attention to the last green road sign I shot past. All I know is that I’m still far enough away from civilisation that the driveways are a kilometre apart and the letterboxes are at the required height for rural post.

  I swipe through to Cody’s number and tap on the entry to dial. Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t answer. Which leads me to Plan B: messaging the idiot a picture of the drive shaft in the boot of the car.

  “The guy only wants three grand for it—it’s a steal,” he’d said.

  First reason people sell shit cheap: they don’t have the time or cash to fix the issues themselves. Nothing’s a bargain, not when it comes to cars. You think he’d know that by now, but no. Not my gullible brother.

  He flicks a reply through as I drop back into the driver’s seat. Probably still at work if he can’t answer my goddamn call, yet he can find the time to message. Typical.

  Spare parts?

  I drag my hand over my face with a groan, and then tap out a reply.

  Yeah, be handy if he gave me some. It’s your fucking drive shaft, dickhead.

  My phone vibrates as a call from his work number comes through.

  “Shit, Duke. What the fuck happened?”

  “Your excellent buying skills happened, that’s what.” I sigh out my nose. “Probably had a dodgy universal. You got roadside assistance?”

  He chuckles with a snort. “Nah.”

  Great. “Tell me what the fuck I’m supposed to do with a car that won’t drive anywhere, smart arse.”

  “Get it towed?”

  “You spotting me the money?” Paying for it isn’t the problem; getting reimbursed if I do, is.

  Cody mumbles something unintelligible before answering, “I’ll see what I can do. I cleaned my savings out paying for it, bro.”

  “Course you did.” Never the kind to have a backup plan, my brother. “Tell you what,” I say on a sigh. “I’ll figure out how far away I am from civilisation and see if there’s a local garage that can park it up until morning.”

  “And then what?” he asks.

  “And then,” I say, dragging out the last word, “we try to get someone to fix the fucking thing.”

  He hesitates, probably wondering how in the hell he’s going to pay for that, or more likely, whether I will. The unexpected chirp of a siren close-by has me shooting up in the seat like a jack-in-the-box to check what’s going on. What the fuck?

  “You can pay me back at a hundred bucks a week. Deal?” I cut the conversation short, eyeballing the cop who’s pulled up behind me using my side mirror.

  Cody breathes a sigh of relief. “Thanks, bro.”

  “Thank me when I get the piece-of-shit home. Say hi to Mum for me.” I hang up and toss the phone into
the passenger’s foot well as Officer Holier Than Thou saunters up beside the car.

  “Afternoon,” I greet, slinging an arm over the back of the bench seat in an effort to pull off the confident and relaxed look.

  “Any reason you’re parked out here?” He avoids looking at me, choosing instead to run his eyes over the vehicle.

  Great. Gym Bro is probably tallying up the bonus he’ll get at the end of the month ticketing a run-down car like this. “Had a spot of mechanical trouble, but I’ll be off the verge as soon as I find someone to tow it.”

  “Good luck with that at this time of day.” He takes a step back and crosses his arms. It’s the human male’s equivalent to puffing out his peacock feathers. Fuckhead. He probably wants to intimidate me, but all he manages to do is piss me off.

  I’m not bothering anyone, not causing trouble. I pulled far enough off the road that I wouldn’t be a hazard to other drivers. Why the hell has he decided to pick on me?

  “If you could step outside the vehicle for a moment, I’ll leave you to get on your way soon enough.”

  Can I fucking what? “Mind if I ask why?”

  His jaw ticks. “Yes, I do mind. Step out please, sir.”

  Wait until I get my hands on that fucking brother of mine. If I so much as get a warning about anything on this car, so help me God—

  “What’s wrong with it?” the cop asks as I stand on the grass with my arms folded as well. Two can play at that game, buddy.

  “Broken driveshaft.”

  “Hmm.” He squats down to shine his torch under the wheel arches, tapping fuck only knows what under there as though a simple knock will confirm its road-worthiness.

  “Like I said, I’m trying to jack up a tow. I’ll be off the road as soon as I can.” In other words, fuck off and leave me in peace.

  “I heard you fine the first time.” He straightens up, eyeballing me again before he opens the door to check the inside of the car.

  “Find anything?” I step forward to try and peer over his shoulder.

  He moves backward to get his head out the door, and I leap to the side to avoid any chance of the guy’s rear end bumping me. Not getting that cosy.

  “This what I think it is?” He holds a hash pipe carefully between two fingers.

  Fuck my life. You have got to be kidding me.

  “Mate, I just picked up the car. It’s brand-new, second-hand.”

  “So you don’t know if I’ll find anything else in here?”

  Sincerely hope not. “Nope. No idea.”

  “Turn around and face the vehicle, please, and then set your hands on the roof.”

  “What?” I back up a step, which is completely the wrong thing to do.

  Gym Bro rests one hand on his tazer, directing me with the other. “Hands on the roof, with your back to me.”

  Fuck you, Cody. Fuck you.

  I do as I’m told, standing in the open doorway as I face the car and slap my hands on the warm roof. The cop closes in behind, squatting as he starts his pat down at my ankles.

  I’m totally not okay with this. Not in the slightest.

  His hands travel up my legs, and all my unjustified nightmares about being hit on by a guy flash before my eyes. Totally not homophobic. Okay, maybe just a little bit. Let it go, Duke. He’s a cop doing his job. That’s all.

  A white BMW coupe slows ahead as I breathe deeply in through my nose, and out through my mouth. The setting sun reflects off the windscreen, shielding the driver from my view. I focus on keeping my hands flat on the roof while the cop pats my torso down, watching the vehicle as it turns in a driveway a short stretch up the road, and then stops. The door opens, and what I can only describe as a fucking breath of fresh air steps out to check her mailbox.

  Her head turns, the lengths of her dyed silver-grey hair sliding off her shoulder as she looks across the road to where I’m currently being frisked by Officer Handsy. I peer out over my outstretched arm like the creeper I am to check out the young woman’s long, leather-clad legs, and slight frame only just hidden from view by a knee-length cardigan that seems to hang from her perfectly. She lifts a hand to shield her eyes from the sun, revealing inked wrists as she checks out what’s going down.

  “If you could stay where you are while I search the rest of the vehicle,” the cop says, moving away.

  I draw a deep breath, my feet itching to step the hell away from this car and him. My personal bubble has been violated, and I haven’t even got a cigarette to smoke afterward.

  “What happens if you find anything, considering the car isn’t mine?” I ask.

  He sighs, opening the boot to find my story about the busted drive shaft is legit. “You said you just picked up the car?”

  I nod, taking the opportunity to look across the road at the hottie again while the cop ducks his head behind the open boot lid. She rubs her arm, as though unsure of what to do, before returning to her car.

  “Appreciate if you could keep your eyes off my cousin,” the cop warns.

  I turn back to find him mere inches from my face. Jesus … “You’re a quiet fucker when you want to sneak up on someone, huh?”

  “Or maybe you were just distracted.” He narrows his steely gaze on me. If this is how the guy reacts when I’m simply watching his cousin, then my guess is the poor bitch is doomed to the single life. Shame, considering she really was a pretty little thing—

  “Do we have a problem here?”

  “I don’t know.” I lean a little closer as I frown at the arsehole. “Do we?”

  He steps back suddenly, his hand whipping to his belt as he jerks his chin at my arms. “Hands behind your back.”

  “What the fuck? This how you treat every guy who looks the wrong way at your cousin?”

  “Last chance, or I’ll do it for you.”

  Jesus. This guy ain’t playing. I assume the position, laughing at the absurdity of the situation as he wrestles my wrists into cuffs. “Some kind of welcome you’ve got for your town there, mate.”

  The air rushes out of my lungs as he crushes my chest to the car, his mouth next to my ear as he grinds out through gritted teeth, “Let’s get two things straight: one, you aren’t my ‘mate’, and two, you’ll never be welcome here.”

  Well fuck me.

  THREE

  Cammie

  Cars that look like that stand out like a sore thumb around here. I check my rear-view again as I pull up to the house, just in case Creeper McCreeperson decides he needs an even closer look.

  Although with my cousin, Shane, on the case, I can’t imagine the guy is going to get far any time soon.

  Safe. For now. I’ve got all of an hour or so before I need to turn around and head back out again.

  The Friday matinee at the theatre was a hit, all thanks to the Burbank Retirement home renting a couple of mini-vans to bring the residents down for an excursion. It’s nice that our drama group has made the weekday matinee a regular for our show season; it gives the older folk a chance to come along when it’s quiet, and there aren’t as many restless kids they have to contend with.

  Unlike tonight. Friday night shows are always the busiest, but isn’t that what I love the most? The noise? The distraction? The barely contained chaos?

  I drop my kit bag inside the door, checking once more up the driveway for any signs of the old sedan or Shane. Chances are, the traveller will be gone by the time I’ve eaten, my cousin having given him the usual once-over and passive-aggressive warning. He doesn’t keep getting awards for the town’s best cop for no reason. The people of Burbank feel safe as long as Shane’s on the beat, and that’s all thanks to his take-no-shit attitude.

  I stand in the kitchen, staring into the fridge while I decide on what to eat. The rest of the backstage crew get together at the local pub for a meal between the matinee and evening show—a ritual of sorts. Sometimes I join them, but since Jared dropped the bomb about the house on me last week, I’ve found myself spending more and more time here when I can, absorbing
the memories in small, unhealthy doses.

  I put myself through the same torturous routine as I do every night, pulling the plastic child’s bowl out as I prepare my basic packet meal in the microwave. The matching half-size spoon means it takes me twice as long to eat my pasta, but again, that’s okay, because it’s all a part of the process.

  Of the healing.

  Of ripping the wound back open straight after.

  Of never forgetting.

  I tidy up and restock my kit bag with essentials: water to rehydrate, and snacks for intermission. The sun has set by the time I lock up and make my way back to the car, the dark overtaking the world and transforming it into something infinitely more intimate, more mysterious.

  My favourite time of day.

  I pull the car around and head down the driveway, glancing to my left as I prepare to pull out onto the road with all intentions of settling my nerves by proving that the beaten-down car has long since left.

  Only, it’s still there. As is its occupant. Except he’s not inside the old Holden anymore—he’s seated on the roof. Odd.

  I should go over and see if he needs help, ask if he’s okay. But not only has Shane already been there, done that, but I can tell, even from this distance, that the guy is more than capable of holding his own against the monsters of the night thanks to his jacked size. Anyway, if I muck around with him, I’ll be late for pre-show checks, which would involve justifying why to our stage manager. And her wrath is not the kind of attitude I have the time or patience to deal with this week.

  Steering right instead, I try my best to act ignorant to the fact the roadside creeper is still there. Yet as I drive up the road, I find myself spending more time looking in the rear-view than I do at where I’m headed.

  A fine metaphor for my life.

  **

  “Jesus, Cammie. You almost didn’t make it.”

  Our sound technician, Bevan, holds the stage door open for me as I stuff my grey cardigan into my bag, leaving me all decked out in black.

  “Hey,” I say as I dart down the stairs to join the rest of the crew in the first dressing room. “At least it would have given you lot some entertainment, huh?”