Taking the Plunge

by J. B. Reynolds

  Except that was fantasy. He hadn’t ridden away from Dwayne because he disagreed with him. He’d ridden away because everything Dwayne said was true. It was as if he’d been pouring water on the seeds of Evan’s self-doubt, and if he’d stuck around listening to him those seeds might well germinate, sprouting into little seedlings of paralysis. He couldn’t let that happen. He was moving now, going forward, making progress. It felt good, and he wasn’t going to let anything put a stop to that.

  Up ahead the trail forked, the way left an easy descent, the right steep and featuring a formidable drop-off — for advanced riders only. He took the right, feeling confident, perfectly balanced, the bike responding to every twitch of his muscles. He veered around a tree, hit another jump, landed and veered again, approaching the drop. He glanced over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of Dwayne’s red and white shirt through the trees above him, turned back and hit a knobbled root that bounced him up and forward, off-balance. He tried to push back but it was too late — the ground had disappeared beneath him.

  He fell, slicing through space. Time slowed and he spun — slowly, gracefully, like a ferris wheel — till he hit the ground below and his front wheel collapsed beneath him. He sailed over the handlebars, somersaulting, his helmet scraping the ground, landed on his back and slid over dirt and rocks and roots until a bush brought him to a sudden halt as he straddled it, his groin slamming into the skinny trunk.

  He screamed, dull pain churning in his balls and swarming up into his gut while fire and lightning burned his back and shoulders. He tried to sit up but his head spun and he lay back, closing his eyes and groaning, straining to suck air into his lungs.

  Somewhere above him Dwayne skidded to a halt and shouted, “Dude! You okay?”

  “I’m not sure,” he gasped. “Everything burns. I think I might be dead.”

  Dwayne dropped his bike and scrambled down the slope to Evan’s side. “Not yet, bro.” He took note of Evan’s position and grimaced. “Though you might not need to worry about babies anymore.”

  Evan gave a strangled laugh in spite of the pain.

  “Can you move?” Dwayne asked?

  “I think so.” Evan raised himself onto his elbows as proof.

  “Anything broken?”

  He lifted his legs and wiggled his toes. He twisted his right shoulder, then his left, and while it hurt, it was surface pain — cuts and grazes probably — not the deep hot pain that might indicate something more serious. “Just my pride.”

  Dwayne laughed. “Bro, you’re crazy. There’s no way I’d attempt that drop-off — it must be at least four metres. Here, let’s get you up.” He crouched down behind Evan and wrapped his arms around him, beneath the shoulders. “Ready?”

  Evan braced himself, his chest tight. “I think so.”

  Dwayne dragged him back a few centimetres, releasing the pressure on Evan’s groin, but stopped when Evan winced.

  “All right?”

  “Yep,” he grunted through clenched teeth. “Keep going.”

  Dwayne hauled again.

  “That’ll do. Cheers.” Evan pulled his legs up slowly, then rolled into a crouch. He paused, sucking oxygen, and finally stood, wobbling.

  Dwayne reached out to steady him.

  “All good, Ev?”

  “Uh-huh. Just give me a moment.” He eyed the slope and then gingerly pulled himself up it onto the trail above. There he put his hands behind his head and straightened up, his back clicking painfully. His bike lay slumped at the trail’s edge like a slaughtered deer — antlers bent, front legs twisted and broken.

  “Ahh, shit! Looks like I’ll be walking home.”

  “Looks like. But, bro, just look at that thing.” Dwayne pointed up at the cliff Evan had fallen from. “You’re bloody mad, I tell ya. A busted wheel is nothing. You’re lucky you’re not getting stretchered out.”

  He followed Dwayne’s fingers. From beneath, it did look stupidly high, and he wondered what he’d been thinking. On a snowboard, sure, no question, but snow was soft to land on. Rocks and dirt and tree roots, not so much. “My back feels like it’s been barbecued. Can you take a look?”

  Dwayne eased Evan’s T-shirt up and sucked in a breath. “Chur, bro! You got some mean scrapage going on. This one below your shoulder especially — ripped a hole right through your shirt. You’ll have to relegate it to the round-the-house pile.”

  “Oh, Jeez, Yumi won’t be happy. It was a Christmas present.”

  “At least she’ll have fun picking the dirt out of your scabs.”

  Evan laughed, then leaned down to pick up his bike. “You go ahead. Wait for me at the bottom. I won’t be long.”

  “No way. I’ll walk down with you.”

  “Nah, it’s all good. You’ve done the hard yards biking up the bloody hill — you deserve the reward of biking down again.”

  “This is true,” said Dwayne, scratching his chin. “I did nearly give myself a coronary. It’d be nice if all that effort wasn’t in vain.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll be sweet.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay, then, if you say so.” Dwayne clapped him on the shoulder, making him wince again, then gathered up his bike. “See ya soon.” With a flick of the pedals he was away, rushing down the trail, giving a whoop of joy that echoed through the trees.

  As sore as he was, Evan was glad to be left alone. It would give him some time to figure out how he was going to propose.

  TWENTY-TWO

  At six o’clock on Saturday evening Kate pulled to a stop outside Lawrence’s rented house, the wheels of her Santa Fe crunching in the gravel. A small, two-bedroom, colonial-style cottage on the western edge of Cromwell, it was the guest house for a much larger dwelling. The owners, the MacDowells, had a long family history in the area, going right back to the gold rush. Both buildings were surrounded by a sprawling English country garden — or as much of an English country garden as was possible in the arid climate of Central Otago.

  After turning off the engine, she took a moment to compose herself. In the weeks since Lawrence had moved in she’d avoided coming here, preferring to do hand-overs in the familiar territory of her own home. It had taken further needling from her mother to get her to agree to his invitation, and she hadn’t confirmed her acceptance till earlier that morning when Lawrence had phoned to ask. She’d then spent the rest of the day regretting it.

  She slid out of the car and paused, listening to the gentle lap of waves on the lake-shore beyond the garden. Sniffing, she caught the faint scent of rosemary and thyme. All was peaceful — except for her heart, which pounded in her chest, threatening to burst through her ribcage. She pushed the door shut and made her way along the cobbled path towards the cottage. The path was bordered by a line of rose bushes, heavily pruned, standing like stunted, spiky skeletons in the darkening twilight, awaiting the warm hand of spring. She thought about turning around and driving home, but was stopped by the idea of having to explain that choice to her mother.

  On the doorstep she paused again, feeling nauseous, a strange mix of loathing and curiosity churning in her stomach. She felt the need to fart, and let one off, a little insect squeak in the night, before raising the brass door-knocker and dropping it three times in quick succession.

  She heard movement inside and Lawrence opened the door. Soft vanilla lamplight flowed from behind him, accompanied by mellow, shuffling jazz music.

  “Ahh Kate,” he said, a broad smile on his face. “Fashionably late, as always.”

  “A woman’s prerogative,” replied Kate, her tone cool as the night.

  “Of course, of course.” He moved aside to wave her in. “May I take your jacket?”

  She swallowed, then nodded and stepped across the threshold. She shrugged her jacket off and handed it to him, glad he made no move to touch her, then surveyed the room. It was open plan, high-ceilinged, yet cosy and warm, firelight flickering through the sooty grate of a pot belly stove against the wall t
o her right. Beyond the stove, a wooden staircase rose up and across the rear wall, leading to the bedrooms. To her left was a small kitchen, the cupboards chipped and battered, and in front of her were two ancient sofas, faded green with bright orange blankets draped over them. The overall effect was comforting, old-fashioned, almost kitsch.

  “Take a seat,” said Lawrence, waving towards the couches. “I’ll bring you a glass of pinot.”

  Kate didn’t move. Typical, she thought, assuming I want a drink. She did, in fact, but that wasn’t the point. Lawrence had always made decisions for her. It had been one of the major frustrations of their marriage, but for the most part she had allowed it to happen. It was only since their separation that she had begun to realise just how much control over her life she had given him.

  She watched as he took a bottle from the counter and filled two glasses. He was wearing black dress pants and a pale-blue shirt that made his olive skin seem even darker than usual. The shirt was ironed and tucked into his trousers beneath a slim, black leather belt. He looked good, but except for the absence of a tie he could have been dressed for work. He was out of place in this house — the garish colours, soft wood-grains and tattered furnishings were at odds with his stark modernity.

  She waited till he had finished pouring the wine before she said, “Do you have anything white? I feel like something a little lighter tonight.”

  “But I’m making pasta, he said, frowning. “Pinot Noir is the perfect match for my tomato sauce.”

  “Still, I’d prefer a white.”

  “I think there’s a Chardonnay in the fridge,” he said with a sigh. “Will that do?”

  Kate flashed a smug smile. “Perfect.”

  He went to the fridge, found the bottle and a fresh glass from a cupboard and poured her a drink.

  Homemade tomato pasta. Lawrence was a competent but limited cook. Kate had done the vast majority of the cooking during their relationship and the number of dishes he had mastered could be counted on the fingers of one hand. Tomato pasta was the most prominent of these — his signature dish. Still, she thought, Corbin will be happy. He loves pasta. It was then she realised she hadn’t seen him.

  “Where’s Corbin?” she asked, her brow wrinkling. “Upstairs?”

  Lawrence strolled over with her glass and handed it to her, gesturing to the sofa. “Sit,” he said.

  Kate bristled. “I’m fine standing, thanks. Where is Corbin?”

  “He’s with your mother and father.”

  “What? Where?”

  “Relax, Kate, it’s fine. He’s staying the night with them. They picked him up earlier this afternoon.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” asked Kate, her voice rising.

  “I’m telling you now.”

  “But it’s your turn to have him. He’s supposed to be spending time with you. You can’t go palming him off onto someone else every time it’s inconvenient for you to look after him.” She wasn’t sure what she was most angry about — the fact Lawrence had given Corbin to someone else to mind, or the fact that the someone else was her parents.

  Lawrence’s expression darkened, but his voice remained calm. “I don’t hand him off when it’s inconvenient. I love my time with Corbin. It hadn’t even crossed my mind, but then your mother called to offer and I thought, why not? I figured it would be nice for us to spend the evening together without having to worry about him, so we can talk.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “I don’t know. Wherever the conversation takes us. Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I thought it would be a nice surprise. And Corbin was thrilled with the idea of a sleepover with Nan and Grandad. Now, please,” he said, gesturing to the sofa for the third time, “have a seat. There’s magazines — you could even read a book if you like.” He pointed to a large bookcase beneath the upstairs landing. “Dinner will be ready soon.”

  Kate didn’t move, and he raised his eyebrows, questioning. She relented. It was unusual for Lawrence to apologise so early in a disagreement, and Corbin really would be excited to spend the night with her parents. Though she would need to have another word with them — this interference in her life was unacceptable.

  The couch springs creaked as she lowered herself into it. She sniffed her wine and took a sip, then selected a Home & Garden magazine from a small stack on the coffee table and settled, flicking through it.

  Slowly, she allowed herself to unwind, enjoying the wine, the music, the warmth and colour of the room. The butterflies in her stomach still fluttered, but their intensity lessened with each sip. For a while neither she nor Lawrence spoke, and there was a comfort in their silence bred of familiarity. Even so, as she stole occasional glances at him from the pages of her magazine, watching him glide through the triangle of stove and fridge and sink, his movements unhurried and deliberate, she was struck with the thought that a spider spinning a web would move in similar fashion.

  A short while later Lawrence announced that dinner was ready and motioned for her to join him at the dining table. In the centre of the table was a candelabra set with three candles. As she moved to sit, Lawrence lit them.

  “Candles? Really Lawrence?”

  “You love candles.”

  “Yes I do, but…”

  “But what?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing.” She sat down and Lawrence pushed a plate of pasta towards her, thin noodles of spaghetti drowning in a rich, red sauce.

  “Puttanesca,” he said in his best Italian impression, and she smiled. “Tuck in. I’m just going to put some more wood on the fire.”

  She twirled a fork in her spaghetti and took a bite, watching as he opened the grate of the potbelly and threw a few short lengths of wood into its maw. Returning to the table, he sat down opposite her, smiled, and raised his glass.

  “Cheers,” he said. “Thanks for being here.”

  She looked him in the eye. “Thanks for inviting me.”

  “No problem. I hope it’s our first meal of many.”

  Her stomach twisted and she didn’t reply, instead taking another mouthful of spaghetti. A drop of sauce spilled down her lip and she dabbed at it with a napkin.

  They ate their meal, making small-talk centred around Corbin and his latest achievements, sharing the intimacy that came from being parents of the same child, but avoiding the subject that hung in the air between them like a gathering raincloud.

  She had almost finished her dish, stabbing at an olive with her fork, when Lawrence said, “I’m sorry, Kate.”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “For what?”

  Lawrence sighed, loud and heavy. “For everything. For cheating on you. For breaching your trust. For ruining our marriage. It was a stupid, selfish thing to do and I wish I hadn’t. If I could turn back time…”

  She skewered the olive and sucked it off her fork, deliberating his words. Despite what Suzanne and her parents had said, despite his flowers and his card, hearing the words still came as a surprise. Lawrence wasn’t the apologising type, and yet here he was, apologising twice to her in one evening.

  “What about Rachel?” she asked, studying his face for a reaction.

  “Like I told you, I called it off.”

  Calm. Nonchalant, even. “Yes, but how does she feel about that?”

  “I don’t know — terrible I guess. Does it matter?”

  “Yes. You can’t blame her for everything.”

  Lawrence shook his head. “I’m not. She made the initial advances, but I chose to respond to them.”

  Kate wondered whether this was true. “So why now? After all these weeks?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just suddenly realised what an idiot I’ve been, what a huge mistake I’ve made.”

  “And it’s got nothing to do with me seeing someone else? The timing seems a little convenient, don’t you think?”

  “Not at all.” He pushed his plate away and leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table. “I miss you, Kate. I want to make it up to yo
u.”

  Kate lowered her fork and shook her head, inwardly cursing as she felt the tears begin to swell. Please, God, I don’t want to cry. Not in front of him. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing them back.

  When she had regained control, she opened them again, blinking. “It’s too late. I’ve moved on.” Even as the words slipped between her lips, she wondered if they were true. She felt like she was standing, giddy and vertiginous, on the edge of a cliff — a great canyon wall with a dark river flowing far beneath. Vertigo isn’t the fear of falling, it’s the fear of not being able to stop yourself from jumping.

  “What, with snowboard boy? How’s that going anyway?”

  “His name’s Evan,” she said, her voice tight. “And it’s going great, thanks for asking.”

  “Is it?” asked Lawrence, placing his hand on hers. She didn’t pull away. “Look, I know he might seem shiny and new in comparison to me, but I promise you, I can be a better man. We’ve got history, Kate, and we’ve got Corbin. Isn’t that worth fighting for?”

  “Why didn’t you think of that when you were fucking Rachel!” she snapped, breaking away.

  “To be honest — I did,” he said, sighing again. “The guilt was terrible.”

  “I don’t give a shit about your guilt.”

  “I know, I’m just saying.” He rolled his hand over, palm upward, stretching his fingers towards her. “All I want is for you to give me another chance.”

  “Oh, God, if only it were that simple,” she said, leaning back and dragging her fingers through her hair. “You betrayed me, Lawrence. I don’t trust you anymore. How am I supposed to get over that? Besides, for the first time ever I feel as though I’m living life for me, and it feels good, you know? I don’t want to revisit the past.”

  “I’m not asking you to do that. I know things have changed. I know it’s going to take time for you to rebuild your trust in me. And it’s great that you’re living life for you. Maybe that’s part of the reason why I strayed. You were always there to cater to my needs, and I… took you for granted.”