Entwine

by Rebecca Berto

  If only she could fly.

  Sarah steadied her weight at the centre of the swing with the soles of her sandals on the tanbark under her, though that didn’t matter, she remembered later, because nothing moved for her, anyway. Not even the wind. The wind passed her skin like she was in a bubble. The pierce when it moved over her yesterday and the day before during the cool spring mornings was a thing of the past she wanted back.

  Before, she hated the wind attacking her when all she wanted to do was jog down to the swings near the forest border and tip her head back, feeling the jolt in her sense of balance. When she swung back, she loved the tip, screwing with where the horizon was meant to stay.

  Swinging on the swings always used to give her a rush, just a little push. Like “Here. Here’s what feeling feels like.” Her stomach would tip the first time she kicked off, and she’d have to brace her neck for the force, but then she just moved without moving.

  Now, Sarah saw nothing, as if the willowy tree trunks, the pale bark that dotted all the way up high where she had to crane her neck to see, never existed.

  Today the trees had thick trunks, non-descript patterns on them.

  But what Sarah hated the most were her dad’s blasé actions since that night. She came here to let go of her thoughts, tip back on the swings and let her inhibitions go. She always loved the feeling that she was falling, even though in reality she’d never actually fall. The rush always made that first moment of her heart stilling worthwhile.

  Today, the swing didn’t move for Sarah, and she wondered where she’d have to go and what to do from now on to feel something exhilarating again.

  REJECTION

  THEN

  Sarah was nineteen when Nicholas proposed to her. It was the perfect setup—except for the fact it wasn’t right for her.

  The hints were there about how deeply he felt for her, even going way back to the first time they’d kissed on lunch break at school when they were years younger.

  Near the soccer oval there were spots favourited for hanging out, for making out, for bitching, and for watching. Nicholas decided to change up their “spot” for the day. He had planned it the night before when it took him until two am to sleep and all day during class. The teachers had reprimanded him, “Nicholas! Earth to Nicholas.”

  Sarah later found out his plans but at the time, she was excited to take a break from their friends. There were too many laughs whenever they played with each other’s hands, and at least one friend would make a ridiculous guffaw if they got close enough to pecks on the lips or whispers in an ear.

  Nicholas held her hands so that Sarah’s fingers were weaved through his. She watched him, his sandy-coloured one-inch-long hair that left a strip of his neck bare, down to the shape of his school shirt and how it fit snugly over his chest.

  There was this old eucalyptus tree on one side of the oval. It had a big trunk that a few of her friends had once got together around, linking hands to fit the circumference. The branches swept way over their heads, enough for privacy on both sides of the trunk.

  “Here, babe,” Nicholas said.

  Sarah sat and crossed her legs under her. Nicholas sat next to her, closer than usual and, as he did so, he wrapped an arm behind her, snaking it under hers.

  “Nicholas,” Sarah said, “when was the first time you wanted to kiss me?”

  Sarah wasn’t always so forward, but she’d known him for a year or so now, and only just kissed him at that party a week ago.

  Sarah looked up at him. The bright afternoon sun whitened the sky to a haze behind him as she stared, and the branches and leaves of the eucalyptus tree sheltered them, like they were in their own romantic canopy.

  “Since the first time I saw you,” he replied.

  Sarah smiled, but inside, she wondered if she knew who he was. He always said those types of things actors said in movies, or expressions she’d heard before. The truth was, the first time she saw him, he was peeling a mandarin to eat. She couldn’t even think up a lie to make that sound appealing compared to his response.

  “Aww,” she cooed.

  “I like you lots, Sarah.”

  Sarah stared up at him, and he held her gaze right back. Staring at each other, longingly, it was as if this confirmed they were alone, that right now was perfect. She tried leaning up the slightest to come closer to him, but couldn’t will herself to do more. Her bottom lip trembled the closer she got.

  She shouldn’t have been anxious. They’d already kissed plenty at the party, but that had been a week ago and, right now, his intensity was like a thick wall she couldn’t shift.

  Nicholas leant in. He was looking at her skin and then, the next second, he was pressed against her lips. Wall = gone. Their lips moved and nipped at each other’s, kissing as hard as each of them could, but in the end, she was too nervous to do more and he couldn’t stick his tongue in.

  They went to class after that, and the next day Sarah faked being ill. She stayed home and played games on the Internet, read a whole novel, and started a new season of her favourite TV show.

  She couldn’t get the next day off school so she went, saying she still was a bit ill. Each day, she made an excuse that was enough to hold Nicholas back from kissing her again.

  It didn’t feel right now he was sober, and now she didn’t have the alcohol from a couple of drinks marring her senses. There was no spark. Take away the party atmosphere and the alcohol and there wasn’t much to him.

  They broke up a few days afterwards.

  It was a couple of years later, at their muck-up day celebrations after their final high school exams were done when they connected again. They talked endlessly about everything and nothing at all, mostly lost time, and made out on a deck chair amongst other drunk friends. It was at the end of her first year of university that Nicholas took her out for a beautiful dinner.

  Sarah remembered it being expensive. Water was the only thing free. Even a bowl of chips to serve one, without sauce, was ten dollars. Nicholas paid for wine, entrée, main, and a dessert for them to share from his own wallet, despite Sarah’s insistence against it.

  Sarah didn’t need a guy to pay her way. She didn’t want to feel guilty for it either. But Nicholas seemed so happy taking care of it all, and she had such a great night, she figured she’d pay for them on the next night out.

  But that never happened because Nicholas took her for a walk along the bridge over the Yarra River afterwards. At night, the water was black, but the lights shone along the river, lighting the bridge. He stopped in the middle, and Sarah leant against the railing, her elbows hanging off the back as she watched him.

  Nicholas dropped to one knee and asked her to marry him.

  Sarah was stunned, but she didn’t stay wordless. She should have—it would have been kinder—but instead, she shook her head softly, and bit her lip. A weight was on her. She told Nicholas she wasn’t in love with him like that, and still had to consider if she wanted to marry anyone, ever.

  Sarah used to want marriage, but if her dad couldn’t stay faithful to her mum, the most beautiful and kind mum in the world, then what hope did plain old little Sarah have?

  Sarah would never divorce her husband, and she wanted to be much happier than her parents had ended up. At nineteen, Sarah couldn’t feel it with Nicholas, and had only thought once what it would be like to marry him. She was drunk, then, making out with him.

  She knew she’d end up the housewife, taken care of and loved adoringly. The woman who went out for midday coffee dates with her besties, and came home to dutifully make love to her high-profile husband.

  Nicholas was the type of guy to treat a girl right in every single way, and Sarah couldn’t put her finger on why that seemed off for her.

  Why would any girl not want what Nicholas had to offer?

  They only spoke on the way home when they had to.

  “Do you mind if I change the station?”

  “Is it okay to turn up the heater?”

 
Pointless questions, because Nicholas knew what music Sarah liked, and it was a cold night anyway.

  Nicholas didn’t contact her after that. She hadn’t expected him to drop off so suddenly—she’d expected some sort of desperate fight for love. Sarah was left oddly cut off, like she herself couldn’t reach Sarah.

  After some time, she used her Friday and Saturday nights to go clubbing with her girlfriends. She almost always found a guy to hook up with.

  Sarah was slim and was fine to let a guy flip off one of her top straps, or inch down her underwear, but she didn’t take off her clothes herself. All she had to do was move the bridge of her undies and the deed could be done, anyway. There was that, and the silly secret she didn’t tell any guy.

  Sarah had no reason to be self-conscious—smooth, soft skin; no scars; good hips, and great legs; enough boobs to hold in a guy’s palm—but still, she didn’t feel comfortable enough to look a guy in the eye and take off her clothes herself.

  But single life wasn’t for her, and Sarah wondered why her dad couldn’t have just kept it in his pants—maybe then she wouldn’t have turned into this person too independent to be a girlfriend, and too lonely to be single. She wanted a guy—just the right one.

  At sixteen, she hadn’t been ready to have her perfect ideals shattered about her daddy. But they were, and every kiss and every guy seemed great but not good enough, as if she had made a secret pact with herself that she’d do better than her daddy was, and would find a man who connected with her perfectly.

  She knew that the moment she laid eyes on the right guy, clichés aside, she’d be certain he was it.

  DISCOVERY

  NOW

  Sarah finally pushed in her earphones and mouthed the lyrics to some music from her Favourites playlist. It was a mixed collection, but mostly the pop songs they played in clubs. She was finally a full-time editor, even if she was a junior one, she’d eyed off a gorgeous man who was also eyeing off her, and nothing short of an upbeat tune would do.

  The smell of the man next to her, panting and sweating from obviously running to catch the train, didn’t matter. Nor did the fact she was standing for a one-hour train trip in heels. There was little that could matter to her right now—except for when the train suddenly stopped, and the driver announced a delay.

  “We have stopped to attend to an ill passenger on board,” he said. “I don’t know how long the wait will be, but it could be up to forty-five minutes due to peak hour traffic and the patient’s condition. Thank you for your understanding.”

  At that time, Sarah heard a deep, yet smooth voice say, “Lucky I don’t plan on being anywhere.”

  She knew it was Him before she looked up to meet his eyes. Apart from the fact she was sure it came from somewhere in front of her, or thereabouts, a voice in her head associated it with the man she’d almost profiled to full detail.

  Looking up, she saw his face and, for some reason, knowing what his voice sounded like was like tying up a little bow on top of her perfect package.

  “It’s not like I have to be anywhere,” Sarah agreed.

  For a moment, she matched his gaze, trying to stop from doing anything suggestive. She wanted to lick her lips as they were dry, and she was sure even a little grin would crack them. Only an hour ago she’d had gloss on them from her special first day at work, but now they felt dry and baron.

  Oh, how with every moment she stood here, it got worse. Now her head was itchy. If only she could sneak up a fingernail to scratch. Just above and behind her ear. Just a bit. But Sarah couldn’t. Why was a stranger doing this to her?

  Sarah held her place, gazing with as much power as he had. She wouldn’t lick her lips. Or scratch her head. And now she was a dry, twitching freak.

  Stuff it.

  She turned a little, trying to hide her hand, and covered it by fussing with her hair near her ear, and licked away the cracked feeling from her lips. When she looked up, the man was shamelessly staring. She knew that look. There was no mistaking that, for some reason, he was as intrigued by her as she was him.

  “Here,” the man said. He bent and dropped against the railing behind his back, his knees sticking out at the sides, and his huge legs separated in a way that made Sarah want to look away but couldn’t. “Sit here. Your feet must be sore.”

  That made Sarah self-conscious, made her unable to move. Had he seen her shoes? Or looked up and down the length of her? The idea thrilled her, and a moment later she said, “Down there?”

  He held out his hand then gestured next to him. “You’re facing at least an hour and a half standing in those shoes,” he said.

  Again with the shoes. Sarah knew men who noticed shoes to be gay. And this was very, very bad for Sarah’s hopes and dreams.

  Sarah purposefully dropped against the railing behind her back, hiding the view under her above-the-knee pencil skirt with her handbag. She didn’t mean to be so unintentionally provocative, especially if he did happen to be gay, but in that instant, no other eloquent methods of sitting down in a skirt of this length came to mind. Noticing there was space in front of her, to the man’s side, she slid her legs out, crossed at the feet just above her heels, and said, “How do you figure I have at least an hour and a half?”

  The man didn’t answer at first. He didn’t quite grin, but his face wasn’t still, either. Sarah didn’t know what to make of his little quirks—so subtle, and so much more capable of seduction than any guy ever who’d hit on her.

  He said, “Because I can tell you don’t live in the city. You look excited, new. You probably don’t have your own apartment near here. You don’t look like you’re from the middle suburbs, close-ish to the city if you drive. People like that have an air about the way they stand or sit or ‘cross their legs’.” Sarah noticed the emphasis there, but was unsure if it was a good or bad thing, as he continued. “So I bet you’re from further out, where many of the train passengers live. Out there, where there are estates and families, and an infinite possibility of who you are.”

  “You say an awful lot to strangers.”

  It was all Sarah could think of as she took stock of the details about this man. He had a killer jawline; he was dressed to make her imagination wild, even though his outfit was classy; his words made him appear deep and thoughtful.

  She felt exposed, and re-crossed her legs the other way. What does that say about me, huh? Sarah thought.

  “I’m approachable.”

  “Are you a psychologist, too?”

  “Nope.”

  Sarah didn’t know why, but that “nope” instead of “no” or “I’m not” felt personal. As if they’d passed their not-so-secret game of stealing glances. Now he had moved on to friendly chitchat.

  “What are you, then?”

  “That tone certainly isn’t approachable, young lady.”

  Sarah felt weird, suddenly. She’d wanted to know about him, his name, among those desired features, but had been too under his spell to realise she hadn’t, in fact, asked his name. Now that he’d referred to her, she hated that he’d said it, because it closed her opening to ask his name as casually as she could have before.

  “You deflect.”

  “Huh?”

  Sarah crossed her arms over her chest.

  “You’re deflecting, back to me.”

  The man couldn’t deflect now. He took in her observation and gave a slight nod, impressed.

  “So, then, are you a CEO? Accountant?”

  “I’m actually none of the titles you’re about the rattle off.”

  Sarah squeezed her arms tighter. The man didn’t hide his checking out of her boobs this time. She was glad. She was powerful. There wasn’t a thing he could do here, sitting across this carriage with people chatting, many using whiny tones, and the air felt thicker with all the stress bouncing off everyone.

  “You’re also confident.”

  “But not cocky.” He pursed his lips, knowing he’d stolen the thoughts from her mind.

  “Yo
u’ll always be a mind reader to me.”

  “Read my mind now,” he said.

  She liked that tone, too. In the little time they’d spoken, she was starting to see he was aggressive when he wanted to, yet somehow he still emanated that “approachable” feeling. And, he was swoon worthy.

  Sarah wished she could read his mind. Actually, she wondered if she were reading his mind. The connection between them, two strangers, was uncanny. She knew it was absurd. She saw him first—what—twenty-five minutes ago or so? They’d spoken well after that. Yet.

  Yet …

  She betted she could tell him he wasn’t trying to hit on her, or get her into bed. Not for now at least. She betted he’d thought about it a couple of times already, but he was far more interested seeing how far he could make her squirm—a test of sorts, to see if she was into that, matching his intensity. She could also bet that, by far, the most thrilling aspect of the game was not knowing each other’s name.

  It was for her.

  What Sarah came out with to his mind reader question was, “I just did.”

  He grinned at that answer. He didn’t press for more.

  They spent the next fifteen minutes talking every now and then, but mostly it was back to stolen glances. Sarah pushed her earphones back in and pressed play on her music, though it didn’t drown out the electric presence that had her on edge. They never checked each other out, never cheapened whatever was going on with an eye-fuck, an invitation for him to ask her someplace, probably his, to get it over and done with.

  It didn’t take forty-five minutes for the driver to come back on the speaker to say they’d be leaving soon, once he got seated. Only moments.

  Sarah looked in the man’s eyes as the announcement sounded. Neither of them looked disappointed, but Sarah was sad inside. She didn’t know if she wanted to kiss this man, but she was definitely intrigued by the stranger.