“Hello, Mrs Mitchell,” he mumbled, barely above a whisper. He took one look at me and scrunched his nose. “Are you a huge fan of Santa as well?”
“Huh?”
He pointed to my face. “This morning you had a spot on your cheek. Now you have a white bubble-beard.”
I swiped at my chin. “Stupid, annoying, dumb, idiot, brother,” I groaned. I’m gonna kill him. Better yet, I’m going to paint his fingernails pink while he sleeps.
Connor ducked under the annex and approached my mother. “Mrs Mitchell, do you have an extra tea towel?”
“Sh … sure,” she stuttered. Mum quickly opened one of our kitchen tubs, reached in, and then handed him what he’d asked for.
My jaw dropped when he joined me at the makeshift sink and started helping. “You like drying dishes?”
“No. Who likes drying dishes?” He glanced over his shoulder at my mum and then lowered his voice to a whisper. “I just wanted to say sorry.”
“Oh.” I, too, glanced over my shoulder at mum and fired her an I-think-you-should-leave look.
Her eyes narrowed before shooting wide open. “Oh! I … um … I think I left my walking stick on the path,” she babbled. “It was a good walking stick. I’m going to go find it.” She hurried off, a childlike grin on her face.
Connor chuckled. “You’re a lot like your mum.”
I pointed to my hair. “Tell me about it.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s fine. It is what it is. You can’t choose your hair colour. Well, you can’t until you’re older.”
“No. That’s not what I meant eith— Wait! What’s wrong with your hair colour?”
“It’s red.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s really red.”
“Annnnnnd?” he drawled.
I stopped drying the plate in my hands and rolled my eyes at him. “Now who’s asking a lot of questions?”
Connor smiled then shrugged. He reached for a saucepan, and I think in that moment I liked him even more—I hated drying saucepans.
“Soooo,” I probed, “you were saying you’re sorry?”
“Yes, and I did.”
I waited for him to continue to apologise, but he didn’t.
“Is that it?”
“Yes. I wanted to say sorry and I did that.”
“But you can’t just say sorry and that’s it.”
“Why not?”
I slapped my tea towel down and turned to face him. “Because you haven’t said what you’re sorry for.”
“But you know what I’m sorry for.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.”
“But I could be wrong. If you apologised properly, I’d know for sure.”
Connor’s lips pressed together, his dimples sinking into his cheeks.
“What’s so funny?” I huffed.
“You’re getting snooty again.”
Squinting my eyes at him, I snatched up my towel and dried the last of the cutlery. “That’s because you make me snooty.”
“Everyone makes you snooty, Ellie.”
“No, they don’t.”
“Okay, so who doesn’t then?”
I paused for a second and smiled. “Santa and Madonna.”
We both laughed, and it was nice.
Connor was nice.
The weather was nice.
Camping was sorta nice.
And, for once in my life, drying the dishes was nice, too.
The next morning, I found Connor by the river again at the very same spot as the other times. It was soon becoming our thing—to meet up before everyone else started their day. He always had his guitar: a brown acoustic covered in random stickers—some torn, some new—and I always brought my notebook.
He would always beat me there, and it kinda annoyed me.
“Do you even go to sleep?” I asked as I plonked myself down on the dried dirt beside the rock he was seated on. “I set the alarm on my watch to six a.m. this morning, and I still didn’t beat you here.”
He was picking at strings, playing the same tune I’d heard every morning from the moment I’d met him. “Don’t bother trying to beat me,” he said with a chuckle. “Because you won’t.”
I went to object but instead opened my notebook and jotted down Dawn. Determined. Dimples. Doomed. Biting my lip, I smiled and finished my note by doodling a sun.
“What did you just write?” he asked, continuing to play his tune.
I shrugged and snapped the pages shut. “Nothin’. What are you playing?”
“Nothin’.” He strummed some more, this time with more enthusiasm.
“I’ll tell you if you tell me.”
Connor paused then recommenced strumming, repeating the same sound over and over. “You first.”
I huffed and hugged my knees to my chest. “Fine. I wrote dawn.”
“That’s not all you wrote.”
“No, it’s not.”
“What else did you write?”
“What are you playing?” I reiterated. “I want to know. It’s the same song you played on the first day of our holiday. I don’t think I’ve heard it before, but I could be wrong. What is it?”
He glanced over the river, his focus locked. “You wouldn’t have heard it before.”
“Says who? I listen to a lot of different music. Not just Madonna. I also love Mariah, Celine, Michael Jackson, New Kids on The Block, and Roxette. I even like that stupid song those twins sing.” I stopped hugging my legs and clicked my fingers a few times before slapping my forehead. “Crap. What’s it called?” The annoying song swirled around my head, but I couldn’t quite get it out. “Argh!”
Connor twanged his strings, the tune instantly familiar.
I zeroed in on his dimpled smile and pointed a finger at him. “That’s it! That’s the song. You know it, don’t you?”
He nodded.
“What’s it called?”
He started singing in a crappy Scottish accent, and I nearly rolled down the embankment from shock. “Oh my God! You do know it!”
He laughed. “Yep.”
“Who sings it? Tell me.”
“No.”
I stopped laughing and sat straight, legs crossed, like I did when sitting on the floor at school. “WHY NOT?”
“Because this is fun … me knowing and you not knowing.” He stood up, his grey shorts bunching between his thighs where the guitar rested against him, and continued singing and stomping around as he sang about walking five hundred miles. I couldn’t help it and giggled hysterically, which was when the name of the song popped into my head.
“500 Miles!” I shouted. “By the Proclaimers. That’s it!”
“I don’t think that’s what it’s called, but yeah, that’s the song.” Connor chuckled and took a seat back on the rock. “So, what else did you write?”
“Three more words.”
“You gonna tell me what they are?”
“You gonna answer my question properly?”
He sighed. “What I was playing was nothing, Ellie. Really. The song isn’t any song at all.”
“Sure it is. There are lyrics and music. That’s a song.”
A gentle breeze blew between us, my red curls reaching out to catch hold of it, his brown-auburn wisps diligently staying put. We stared at each other for what could’ve been seconds or minutes, I wasn’t quite sure, because time didn’t exist as it was supposed to when you were distracted by the smallest of things.
“Dawn. Determined. Dimples. Doomed. That’s what I wrote,” I said, quietly, my eyes fixed to his.
He held my gaze. “It’s a song about Aaron. I sing what I can’t say, remember?”
“Can I hear some of it?”
“Not yet.”
I nodded. “Okay.”
Although I was a little disappointed with his response, I offered him a small smile then directed my gaze to a nearby stick, snatching it up and breaking it into
several smaller sticks. To be honest, I was surprised he’d even told me about the song in the first place, because I knew it was a big step for him. I also knew it wasn’t the time to push him any further. He’d share the song with me when he was ready. Somehow, I knew he would.
Laying his guitar against the rock, he lifted one knee and rested his chin upon it. “So why’d you write those words?”
I glanced down at my obnoxiously bright pink notebook and shrugged. “Because I could smell dawn rising around us, feel your determination, see your dimples, and …” I paused, wishing I hadn’t said what I’d just said. Oh crap! I just told him I noticed his dimples.
“And what?”
My cheeks flamed. “I … I don’t remember.”
I did, but I really didn’t want to explain the last word. I’d written it because, in that moment, seeing his dimples and the determination rolling from him, I knew I was doomed to ever stand a chance when going up against him—and I went up against most people if I felt the need to—but more so doomed that no other boy would ever compare to him. In that moment, I’d felt doomed with a capital D, and I couldn’t exactly tell him why.
My mouth opened, my explanation tethered to the deep confines of my throat. “Um … I—”
“It’s okay.” His smile was soft. Accepting. “Tell me when you’re ready.”
Silence settled around us, and after a moment or two, Connor picked up his guitar and started strumming again. I grabbed my notebook, ready to crawl among the pages and die of embarrassment, when he started singing.
I should’ve said goodbye,
instead of asking why?
And it rips me in two.
Where are you?
My body froze. I couldn’t move, do, or say anything. He seemed so fragile but at the same time so strong, his posture confident, his words raw. The story he was telling me was real and … sad, because, to me, it spoke of guilt he was feeling when he shouldn’t have been feeling it. I mean, I wasn’t a ‘grief guru’ or anything, but I knew it wasn’t his fault that Aaron died, and I didn’t want him to think it was.
That wasn’t right, and it definitely wasn’t fair.
Wanting desperately to stop him blaming himself, I battled within, undecided whether I should interrupt and beg him not to feel that way or to just sit and listen to his story, to his unspoken words and how they filled the space around us. How they held hostage my ability to move, and how, for the second time in days, Connor Bourke stole my air.
Chapter Six
Connor
I didn’t know why I felt the need to sing to Ellie and tell her everything I’d been feeling about Aaron’s death. But I had, and it was terrifying.
My gut churned, and I thought I was gonna puke all over myself and her but, thankfully, I didn’t. I guess that by singing, I was trying to send her a message that she could let her guard down and trust me enough to share what was in her notebook, and that I wouldn’t judge her for it. I found her notebook interesting. I found Ellie interesting. She somehow made me forget, but at the same time made me remember without my memories crushing me. I didn’t know how she managed it, but she did.
So … I sang. I sang what I’d been singing on and off for months and what I knew she wanted to hear, and after a while, it wasn’t nearly as scary or as hard as I thought it would be.
It actually felt good to finally let it all out.
Stolen way too soon.
I can’t go on.
Where are you?
I should’ve said goodbye,
instead of asking why?
And it rips me in two.
Where are you?
As I sang the final words, I blushed like an idiot and placed my guitar on the ground. “There you have it. That’s what I’ve been playing.”
My palms were sweaty, and I felt hot.
Ellie glanced down at her wrung hands then looked up and scrunched her nose, and I wanted to dive into the river and never surface.
“It’s not really a dance song is it?” she asked, her green eyes glittering.
I was fast learning that was a telltale sign she was holding back a smile, so I laughed; I couldn’t help it. After finally opening up and sharing exactly how I felt about losing my best friend, the first thing this crazy girl said to me was ‘It’s not a dance song’.
“No, it’s not!” I buried my face in my hands and shook my head. “I guess I could try adding a cool beat though.” Cupping my fist over my mouth, I tried to beatbox.
I failed, miserably.
Ellie giggled and sprung up like a jack in the box. She started doing these weird dance moves as if she was flexing her muscles and double-punching over her head.
“Are you okay?” I asked, confused.
She puffed out a breath. “Yeah, why?”
Ellie continued her weird punching.
“What are you doing?”
“Dancing. What does it look like?”
Her red curls bounced atop her denim jacket covered shoulders, and the gigantic bow in her hair started to slide out of place.
“Like you’re auditioning for ‘Rocky’?”
“No,” she puffed again. “It’s ‘Express Yourself’ by Madonna. Haven’t you seen the music video?”
I shook my head and shrugged.
“You suck. It’s so awesome!” Her face turned the shade of her hair. “Not because of the sweaty half-naked men. They’re gross. It’s so awesome because of Madonna’s dancing. I love how she dances.”
Ellie stopped ‘dancing’ and sat down next to me. She flipped open her notebook and wrote something down. “Your song doesn’t need a cool beat, Connor.” She frantically scribbled. “It’s beautiful. Sad, but beautiful.” Turning her notebook around, she pointed to the words, Express yourself. Forgive yourself. “It wasn’t your fault you didn’t say goodbye, you know. You just weren’t ready to lose him.”
“So how do you forgive yourself for something you can’t change?” I asked.
She scratched her head before fixing her lopsided bow. “I don’t know. Maybe tell yourself that it’s okay to make mistakes as long as you try really hard not to make them again?”
“That’s easier said than done.”
“Of course it is.” She huffed, picked up a leaf, and gave it a dirty look before putting it down again. “But if we don’t say it to begin with, we’d never do it, right?”
“Right,” I murmured.
Under her bubbly, goofy personality, Ellie was smart, which I gathered had something to do with all the reading she did, or maybe it was because her dad was a teacher.
Reaching forward, I picked up the leaf she’d put down. “How many books do you read in a week?”
“What?”
“Books.” I nodded to the worn one next to her notebook. “You read them, yeah?”
She rolled her eyes at my sarcasm. “Of course I do.”
“Well, how many then?” I scrunched the bone-dry leaf in my hand and it instantly crumbled into tiny pieces.
Ellie wrinkled her nose. “Um … maybe one or two. Why?”
“I was just wondering.”
“Do you read?”
“No, not really.”
“You should.”
“Why?”
“Because you get to escape into a world outside of your own.”
Meh. That sounded like a waste of time to me. You couldn’t ‘escape’ the real world even if you tried. It caught up to you, always, and reminded you of how much it sucked.
Stretching my legs, I stood up because I didn’t want to talk about books or life or pretending that life wasn’t real by sticking my nose in a book.
“What are you doing?” Ellie narrowed her eyes as she watched me snatch up the fishing rod from its propped position against the tree.
“I’m going fishing.”
“What? Ew!” She shuddered dramatically, her body contorting like a giant spaghetti noodle.
The sight of her squirming was hilarious, and I couldn’t help
but want to taunt her. It was fun, especially when she got snooty. “You don’t eat fish?”
She scoffed. “I never said that.”
“You do realise they don’t grow on trees, right? That someone has to actually catch them and remove them from the water so that you can eat them?”
Ellie stood up and brushed herself down, something she always did after sitting on the ground. “Yes, Snarky McSmarty-pants, I do. That doesn’t mean it’s not gross.”
I chuckled at her stupid insult. “What’s gross about it?”
“What’s NOT gross about it? Hm …” she drawled, placing her hand on her hip and tapping her chin with her pointer finger. “Let me enlighten you. How about scales, bait, blood, fish guts … fish smell. The list goes on. YUK!”
“You’re a chicken, Eloise Mitchell. I thought you were tougher than that.”
Deliberately turning my back to her, I walked toward the river while counting down seconds in my head until she objected and came after me, because she would follow; I just knew she would. I didn’t know Ellie all that well, but in the days we’d spent together, I’d tapped into her competitive streak.
Eight, seven, six …
She huffed.
Five, four …
She growled.
Three ...
A stick snapped.
Two, One—
“I bet you can’t catch one,” she called out.
“I bet I can,” I called back, smiling.
“Well … I’m … I’m gonna watch you fail.”
Bingo.
“Suit yourself.”
Early morning sunlight rippled across the surface of the water like liquid glitter. Beautiful. Calm. Tranquil. It was the best time of day to fish.
Normally.
Slowly closing my eyes, I fought a smile that was desperately trying to lift my cheeks, a smile I did not want to smile because, ‘normally’, I would be reeling in a fish because, ‘normally’, I would have the advantage of silence, something I did not have when Ellie was around.
“Nothing yet?” she called out for like the tenth time.
I shook my head.
Ellie screamed, jolting fear right through my body.
“What? What happened?” I asked, dropping my fishing rod and reaching for her.
Unspoken Words Page 4
