The Things We Never Knew

by Megan Mayfair

  She did want to spend the day with him. “That would be great, and you did promise them.”

  “I did. It would mean a lot to my sister if I helped.”

  “Then we’ll go.”

  The waiter brought out their dishes and Leon picked up a pair of chopsticks.

  “Hang on, wait!” She removed the phone from her handbag. “I need to take a photo.”

  “But it will go cold.” He looked at the noodles and tapped the chopsticks together.

  “I’ll be quick.” She stood up and angled her phone above the table. “Move your arm.”

  “Like this?”

  “Yes. That’s good. Also, can you shift the chilli.” She gestured towards the right side of his bowl.

  “What?”

  She reached over the table and picked up a chopstick and directed slices of red chilli to the middle of the dish. “That’s better.” She snapped a few photos and leaned back in her chair.

  “Am I allowed to eat now?” he asked. “Or do I need to move the beef a little to the right?”

  She nodded, flicking through the shots, satisfied with the effect. “All good.”

  “Great news, as I’m starving,” he said with a grin, before twisting noodles around his chopsticks and lifting them to his mouth. “But if you want to photograph more stuff, I wouldn’t mind one of those rice paper rolls.”

  With Michelle changed into her sneakers and one of Leon’s work shirts rolled up at the sleeves and tied in a knot at the edge, sitting jauntily over her jeans, she looked casual and cute, but still practical for an afternoon’s work.

  She wasn’t bad at fixing things or doing odd chores. She used to follow her father around their yard and shed as a child, ‘helping’ him as he’d repaint window fittings, or change light bulbs, or fix cupboard doors.

  As they walked into the grounds of the preschool, she felt a sense of nostalgia. Even though she hadn’t attended this preschool, it was similar to the one she had gone to—a small red-brick building, lots of trees, a playing area with a sandpit, and lots of paintings hanging in the classroom, vividly displayed as they passed.

  As they turned the corner, Michelle paused. “Are your parents here?” she whispered, grabbing his arm. Leon's mother distributed cups of milky tea to other parents, and his father examined a fence pane.

  This wasn’t the time to meet his family. She was wearing one of his shirts, for goodness sake, and her hair was scraped up into a bun. It looked mildly inappropriate and completely out of place in a preschool, like they’d been up to no good and she’d flung on his shirt after being unable to find her own.

  “Yeah. You know them.”

  “From when I was a kid, not as your girlfriend.” Her stomach knotted.

  He tilted his head. “Are you my girlfriend?”

  They looked at each other.

  “Guess so?” She hesitated. She was, wasn’t she? They’d been seeing each other a few weeks now and spoke just about every day. They’d not discussed any sort of official terms, but it seemed like a good description of their relationship.

  “Brilliant.” He gave a broad grin. “The day gets better and better.”

  Did it? She looked down at the shirt and did up another button to be on the safe side. Her past track record in impressing parents was pretty woeful. She needed to be on her best behaviour and minimise the amount of skin on display.

  “Michelle Fitzgerald!” Leon’s mother pulled her into a hug so tight that, despite a split-second panic that a rib might be crushed, she found herself surrendering. “You look exactly the same!”

  “Thanks.” The family looked largely the same to her too. Older. But that wasn’t polite to say.

  “Look, Bruno, look! Michelle Fitzgerald! You remember Jennifer and Greg, right?”

  Bruno, Leon’s father came over, who reminisced about the football club before they all got to work on the various chores the efficient preschool president had arranged. Michelle trimmed a hedge and washed thirty toddler-sized chairs, and then it was onto the cubby house to help Leon.

  “Screwdriver, please.” He held out his hand.

  Michelle leaned over and handed him a screwdriver from a toolbox. He turned it a few times and handed her the screws.

  “That one doesn’t look right,” she said, looking at them in her hand. She jiggled them and held up one that was longer. “No wonder it was loose.”

  He gave a low whistle. “You’re pretty good at all this.”

  “I wouldn’t say good, but I have enough boring practical skills to survive a zombie apocalypse.” She reached into the toolbox and looked through the screws until she found one the right size and handed it back to him.

  “I want to see you do it. It’s a bit sexy.”

  “Leon!” she hissed. “We’re at a preschool.”

  “I’m not propositioning you. I like girls who have practical skills.”

  “That sounds incredibly dirty, and rather inappropriate,” she said, but she took the screwdriver and affixed the door. She swung it back and forth. “Done.”

  “I’ll say.”

  Their eyes met and she leaned closer, an overwhelming urge took over to give into those delicious cornflour blue eyes of his and kiss him. She glanced around, no-one was watching and they were shielded by the cubby house.

  She put her hands on his collar and pulled him towards her, but as their lips were about to meet, she heard Leon’s name being called.

  “Fish and chips for dinner tonight?” his mother’s round face appeared at the window of the cubby house.

  Michelle pulled back and inspected a hammer. That could have been embarrassing. She shuddered. Being caught making out in a preschool playground by her boyfriend’s mother? Not a good idea.

  “Michelle?” Leon asked. “Dinner?”

  She looked at Leon. “If you’re up for it.”

  The thing was that fish and chips with all the family turned out to be very much like fish and chips with her family.

  The Marek’s kitchen was much like her parents’ kitchen—warm, comfortable and welcoming, and the noise levels were comparable as various siblings wandered in and out, talking and laughing.

  The management of the fish and chips even followed the same process.

  Firstly, there was the unenviable task of trying to get the order straight. Fried or grilled fish? How many potato cakes? Would anyone eat the scallops because, last time, no one did and they were thrown out? Would the shop give them lemons or did they only do that at the shop they used to go to?

  When Bruno arrived with a series of paper trays wrapped in butcher’s paper, Leon’s nieces and nephews squawked like hungry seagulls at the beach, bringing back memories of her own father on a Friday night with the monster Fitzgerald order.

  “You should get the chips first,” she whispered to Leon as they held their plates and assessed the mountain of fried food.

  “Huh?” Leon picked up a pair of tongs and started placing food on her plate, then his.

  “Everyone gets a bit of fish and a potato cake, but the chips are communal, right?”

  He frowned. “I guess.”

  She nodded, purposefully. Being the youngest of five hungry siblings meant she’d had to become crafty to ensure she didn’t starve. “So, you take your chips first so you have optimum helping sizes.”

  He looked at her in amazement and watched everyone help themselves to their fish and potato cakes first. “How come I never figured that out?”

  “I’m the smallest in my house. I had to fight dirty, or go hungry.”

  She bit into a crispy piece of fried flake. It was crunchy and oily and delicious. Hundreds of family take away nights flooded back to her.

  “You can hold your own,” he said, pointing to her cleaned plate a few moments later.

  She wiped her hands on a paper napkin. “I’m a Fitzgerald. A stack of potato cakes doesn’t last long around our table.”

  “Sounds familiar.” He waved a hand around the bustling room.

/>   After the dishes were stacked, Leon grabbed her hand and they snuck out to the backyard. They sat on the old swing set, behind an apple tree, looking up at the stars.

  “I’m glad you came with me today.”

  “Me too.”

  “I like you in that shirt,” he said, running a finger down the buttons. He put his hand on her collar and pulled her slowly to him. “You look sexy.”

  “I thought that was just when I was doing carpentry work.”

  “Don’t get me started on that,” he said and kissed her.

  Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to fall into him, wrapped in his shirt and in his arms, a strange feeling of the past and future merging together in a moment that felt as charged and emotional as a first, stolen kiss.

  Chapter 22

  Bebe and Harry walked through the city and approached an alleyway covered in graffiti and paved with large, uneven cobblestones. Several neon lights indicated restaurants and bars.

  “This is it,” he said with a grin, gesturing towards a narrow, metal staircase.

  “Are you sure?” She scanned her surroundings. “Or are you leading me somewhere dodgy?”

  “It’s dodgy, all right. It can’t be good if they let my band play here. We’re pretty bad.”

  She laughed at his self-deprecating humour, scaled the staircase, and lined up behind a group at the door. His lack of ego and arrogance was refreshing. Bebe found that men ‘talked themselves up’ to impress her, but it usually left her cold. She liked to figure out people for herself, and Harry was certainly proving intriguing.

  They made their way into the bar. The venue was small and dimly lit, but elegant in an eclectic manner. A small stage was situated at the back, where a woman was sitting at a piano, playing and singing a ballad with a devilishly throaty, sexy voice. The song set the entire tone for the club—it was pure noir.

  A bartender in a white shirt, sleeves rolled to expose his forearms, and with a black bow tie nestled at the base of his neck embraced Harry and they spoke for a few moments, though Bebe was too focused on the singer to pay much attention.

  “I’m going to get a few things ready as our set is nearly up. Can I get you a drink?”

  She shook her head. “You get sorted. I’ll make myself comfortable.”

  He grinned and disappeared towards a stage where he chatted with a couple of guys.

  Bebe perched herself on a barstool and signalled to the bartender then waited for him to make her a gin and tonic. The singer was crooning a familiar song, and Bebe tapped her foot in time to the rhythm.

  The dim lighting was soothing and the warmth and sexiness of the music already relaxed her. She took the gin and tonic, sipped it, and rolled her shoulders, some tension releasing with the motion.

  She cheered as the singer finished her set then waited for Harry and his band to play.

  A small round of applause and a couple of whistles greeted Harry and two other guys, around the same age, as they took to the stage. One had a saxophone; the other sat at the piano. Harry sat behind at the drum kit.

  He twirled the drumsticks in his hand like an expert, and Bebe put her fingers in her mouth and whistled loudly in appreciation.

  She wasn’t sure if he knew it was her, but he appeared to hear it as he gave a chuckle and ran a hand through his hair in a way that was sort of cool but also a tad uncertain and awkward. Adorkable was the word that sprung to mind as she watched him briefly confer with the pianist before counting the band in with several taps of his drumsticks.

  Within a few bars of the first song, she was hooked. She sat mesmerised as the music filled the bar. She wasn’t much of an expert on what was good or bad jazz, but she knew what she liked, and this she liked. The pianist had a great voice, and the saxophonist had an incredibly handsome face, yet she found herself unable to take her eyes off Harry.

  He expertly tapped at the drums, his head nodding along, sometimes even closing his eyes as if being carried along by the rhythm of the music.

  She tilted her head. It was always such a pleasure to watch people who were doing something they truly loved. Like the way she’d watched her mother smile in absolute peace at art that hung on a gallery wall, or designers she worked with who had been totally absorbed in their creations. Hours could pass, the seasons could change, the world could end, yet when people were immersed, it didn’t matter. They were in their own bubble of joy.

  Chewing on her straw, she became lost in the music, but despite as good as it was, she wanted Harry to herself.

  Those arms beating the drums, she wanted around her, pulling her into him. Her stomach flipped at the thought of kissing him again.

  She glanced around the room. There were several women in the audience, and clearly, the overall attractiveness of the trio hadn’t been lost on any of them. Many were leaning forward and whispering to each other.

  She looked back to Harry and found his eyes on hers as he played. He struck a grin and winked, and it was like a lightning bolt went through her. She’d thought he was cute and a nice guy, but now? He was causing butterflies to hurtle around her stomach at such speed in a way that she’d not felt for a very long time.

  After the set and thunderous applause, Harry approached her and held out his drumsticks.

  “For you,” he said.

  She took them from him. “Do you always do this? There’s no shortage of attractive groupies here, it seems.”

  “No. First time I’ve handed these out.”

  There were so many guys she’d met whom she wouldn’t have believed this from for a minute, but with Harry? No. From the way his eyes lingered like she was the only person in the room, he was being honest.

  She twirled one around her fingers, mimicking what he’d done before the set. “Thank you. I love them.”

  “Can I get you another drink?”

  She nodded, and as he ordered she ran her finger along the smooth drumsticks and placed them in her handbag. Like her mother, she wasn’t always the most sentimental of people when it came to possessions, but something told her this thoughtful gift was one she’d treasure.

  As they clinked glasses, Harry leaned against the bar next to her, his legs touching her knees. Like the handholding at the cinema on their previous date, the movement was small and minor but incredibly intimate.

  “How long have you played for?” She stirred her straw around the drink, watching ice cubes and mint twirl.

  “Since I was a kid, and with these guys for a few years.”

  She leaned forward. “Which one is the corporate sell out again?”

  He grinned. “The saxophonist. Financial planner by day.”

  “That’s a shame. You’re good.”

  Harry pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “It’s fun.”

  “You were in another zone up there.”

  He tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

  She leaned into him. “I saw it. It’s like disappearing into another world, isn’t it? When you’re doing something you love. I see it in my mother with art. It’s like nothing else matters but that pure experience for the moment.”

  “That’s kind of like what it is. When it all comes together like that—the music, the lights, the atmosphere—it’s magic.”

  “It is,” she whispered.

  “Like when you design?”

  She nodded. “Exactly.”

  He leaned in closer. “Aren’t we lucky to have that sort of magic on earth?”

  “We are.”

  Their eyes locked, and she fought an overwhelming urge to kiss him. She was about to suggest they leave when he took her hand and said, “Let’s get out of here.”

  They left the club, and as they walked back up the alley, they grasped hands tightly. He gently tugged her along to the sounds of their shoes against the concrete.

  Harry stopped, and she paused, their hands still connected. He gave her wrist a little pull so they were closer to the wall of a building. She leaned back against the brickwork a
s he stepped in closer to her, their bodies touching.

  The streetlights were dim but reflected off the damp paving stones, giving the alleyway a magical feel. Was she in an old movie? It certainly felt that way—she could even hear the strains of jazz music from the club.

  He ran a hand along her jawline. Her stomach cartwheeled in sheer anticipation for what might come next.

  Enveloped in the darkness, the brick wall was cool against her back and the warmth from Harry’s body was against hers as he leaned into her, his lips touching hers, gently at first but with increasing strength. The kiss was slow, intimate, and sexy. It was far more charged than she had ever thought possible when she had first agreed to go out with him. It was intoxicating.

  He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into him and enveloping her just as she’d fantasised about when she’d watched him play. She draped her arms around his shoulders. Her mouth explored his, tasting the whiskey he’d been drinking after his set and smelling a peppery aftershave. It was a heady mix.

  She didn’t want the kissing to end and pulled him closer.

  What on earth was happening here? She’d chalked him up as a nice guy only a few days ago. Since when did nice guys kiss like this? In a knee-weakening, resolve-melting sort of way? Up-against-a-brick-wall type of passionate kissing?

  She wanted him. She usually liked to really get to know people before she jumped into bed with them, but she had to admit that if that was where tonight was heading, she may break her own rules for him.

  Finally, Harry moved his head back and smiled. Their eyes locked on each other, the flickers of the neon light of the bar creating a glow around him. “Come on, let’s get you home.” His voice was low and almost as delicious as the kiss they’d just shared.

  Regaining her breath, and her composure, she grasped his hand as they walked towards the main street, and they waited at the tram platform.

  Their eyes met, and lingered on each other, before she looked away at the passing traffic. When she glanced back, his eyes were still on her.

  He cleared his throat, as if to say something, but didn’t. He glanced at her, a smile on his lips.