Broken Dreams Boxset

by Rebecca Barber

  Dropping the empty in the bin, I snagged another before wandering around. When I found myself standing in the dining room, I couldn’t even recall the last time we’d sat down at the table and eaten a home cooked meal. The last time I’d been near this table, I’d been eating Maggie. Now fuck, wasn’t that a good memory?

  Before I even knew what I was doing, I’d grabbed the bunch of fake flowers in the crystal vase and tossed them out. Then it was the hideous lace thingy in the middle of the table. By the time I was lying on my back, screwdriver in hand, I was a man on a mission. With the table in pieces, the paintings taken down and hooks yanked from the walls, the room was almost bare. Wishing I had a second set of hands to help me move the heavy, timber table top out of the way, I cleared everything else.

  Panting, I grabbed the corner of the carpet and tugged. Hard. For a moment it held tight, then with a loud rip it came away from the floor and I stumbled backwards, landing on my arse with a thud. “Fucker!” Seeing the blood on my arm where the nails had attacked me should’ve slowed me down. It didn’t. If anything, it pissed me off and pushed me to go harder. Faster.

  By the time I was done, I was covered in sweat and dirt, my hands on my head as I panted heavily. The dining room was naked. The concrete slab was showing with all its imperfections. Builders scribble, dripped paint and dirt. So much dirt. Considering Maggie was such a neat freak, and vacuumed twice a week, even rooms we didn’t go in, I was shocked to see the piles of dirt and sand where the carpet once was. Hefting the roll of old carpet over my shoulder, I wobbled down the hallway, struggling under its weight before heaving it over the balcony, letting it land on the driveway with a loud thunk.

  Back inside, I wiped my face with the bottom of my shirt. After grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, I went back to look at my handy work. “What the fuck have I done?” I asked the empty room, my voice echoing back at me.

  Since when was I a renovation, DIY guru? When we’d first bought the house, we didn’t have much money, but we did the best we could. I remember having to save before we could get someone in to replace the hot water system that cut in and out more often than not. The number of cold showers I’d had… a shiver raced down my spine just remembering. We’d never done any of the work on our own. We’d always got professionals in. Even the colours; a boring, bland beige colour was chosen to match the curtains and those annoying throw cushions on the same boring beige couch.

  I had no idea what the hell I was supposed to do now. I’d made a shit tonne of mess. Sneezing violently, I grabbed at my stomach. I wasn’t unfit, I spent enough hours in the gym to be in decent shape, but I was completely stuffed. My arms felt like I’d gone ten rounds with a heavy weight champion, and I had stitch. Manual labour was definitely not my favourite thing in the world to do.

  Checking the clock on the microwave, I noticed it was already after two in the morning. No wonder I was dragging my arse. It’d been a long day. After locking up for the night, I trudged up the stairs, noticing all the things I wanted to change as I went. How I’d lived so long without seeing the pretentious hat rack and the ugly canvas prints lining the walls, I had no idea. With the list of things to do growing with every step, I ducked my head and slipped into the bathroom. Everything could wait until I’d had a hot shower and some much-needed sleep.

  It was late when I woke the next morning, and I ached everywhere. It took a minute for the reason to come flooding back. Somewhere between my fourth and sixth beer, I’d decided that I had a secret talent for DIY and decorating. Rubbing the back of my neck, I grumbled, “Shit!” Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I looked at my stinging arm. It was red and angry and covered in scratches. I looked like I’d gone three rounds with Catwoman and had my arse handed to me. By the time I made it downstairs, I still had no idea what the fuck I was going to do, or really what possessed me to gut the dining room in the middle of the night. Maggie was going to have me by the balls when she saw this mess.

  While I sat and drank my coffee, I recruited Justin to come and give me a hand. I needed to get rid of the roll of carpet that was now soaked from last night’s downpour and would weigh even more.

  “Didn’t anyone ever tell you, if you’re going to murder someone you don’t leave the evidence on the driveway?” Justin asked as he breezed through the door not bothering to knock.

  “Very fucking funny.”

  After helping himself to a cup of coffee, he wandered into the construction zone. With a shake of his head, he turned back to me. “What the hell were you thinking?”

  “Ah…”

  “Yeah. Yeah. You weren’t.”

  “Well…”

  “The thing I don’t get is why start in the dining room? Why not do something about that butt fuck ugly lounge room.”

  That pissed me off. Justin had been stopping by for years. He’d been here, lugging boxes up the steps when we moved in. Hearing him knock what we’d built, even if I may have agreed with everything he was saying, still pissed me off. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “That couch, it’s uncomfortable as fuck. And then all those damn pillows. They’re supposed to be pretty but have you tried sleeping on one? It’s like putting your face on sandpaper.”

  “Maggie chose those.”

  “And Maggie’s awesome.” I mustn’t have looked convinced, so Justin continued trying to pry his foot out of his mouth. “You know I love that girl. But this house was set up to look like a magazine not a home.”

  “Hey!” I protested. Although his comments annoyed me, looking around, I knew he was right. Maybe that’s why I hated what he was saying so much.

  “Come on, man. You know I’m right. Tell me, have you ever felt comfortable walking around in your jocks and socks and just chilling at home?”

  “Not all of us think that’s the definition of home.”

  “No. Some of you have the stick so far up your arse you wouldn’t be caught walking around without your pyjamas with matching dressing gown and old-man slippers.”

  “You’re an arsehole, you know that, right?”

  “You only just figured that out?”

  “Come and help me move this table into the lounge room.”

  After we moved the table top, Justin helped me clean up the rest. Yanking the nails from the concrete and ripping the skirting boards from the bottom of the walls.

  “Got any idea what you’re going to do?”

  “Not really.”

  “Have you thought about opening this wall up?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Next thing you know, Justin had a knife and was cutting into the plasterboard sending a cloud of white dust into the air while ACDC pumped through the stereo as Justin attempted to sing along.

  I held onto the piece of timber and Justin started cutting. For two guys who had absolutely no idea what they were doing, we were having an awesome time making a mess. Although there was a nagging thought in the back of my head, wondering if I’d bitten off more than I could chew. It was too late now. All I could do now was start chewing. One bite at a time.

  In a high-pitched, pissed-off shriek, the question came from behind me, “What the fuck did you do?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  MAGGIE

  “What the fuck did you do?” I couldn’t believe my eyes. Drew and his dickhead mate Justin were destroying my house. One was cutting into the wall with a knife, and from his knife-wielding skills, it wouldn’t have shocked me if he sliced more than the wall. While the other stood there swinging a hammer like he was Thor’s long-lost brother. There was only one way this was going to end, and I didn’t really feel like a trip to the emergency department today.

  Work stopped.

  The hammer dropped.

  Drew let loose a long list of cuss words that would make a sailor blush.

  “Maggie,” he whispered as tears streamed down his cheeks and he clutched at his foot.

  “What did you do?”

  “Noth
ing.”

  “Drew…”

  “The hammer landed on my toe.”

  “Oh for fuck’s sake.”

  Grabbing Drew’s hand, I led him to the chair in the corner and pushed him into it. Bloody typical. There was a reason we always had trained professionals come in and do the jobs around here. Drew did not have a handy bone in his body. And up until now, it’d never posed as a problem. He’d never had the drive and enthusiasm to actually want to try. Seems, like everything else in my life at the moment, that too had changed.

  After taking off his dusty runner, I peeled back his sock to see the damage. His big toe was red, some of the skin had pulled back, and there was a nice bruise building there. “Can you wiggle your toes?” When Drew’s toes moved, I lifted myself off my knees. He’d be fine. Probably whinge for a few days, and if it was me, I wouldn’t be rushing to stuff my foot in a proper shoe any time soon, but he’d live. My dining room on the other hand…

  Brushing the dust from my knees, I looked at Drew while he stared at his foot. “Wanna explain what’s going on here?”

  Before Drew could answer, Justin cleared his throat behind me. “Guys, I’m going to take off.”

  “You don’t have to,” Drew offered, desperately.

  One look at Justin and I knew exactly what he was doing. He was running. Ducking for cover. Not that I could blame him. There was a very good chance there was an epic argument on the very near horizon for us. If I was him, I wouldn’t want to be caught in the crossfire either.

  “Yeah. I got some shit to do.”

  “See you later, Justin.”

  “See you, Maggie.” He leant down and placed a quick kiss on my cheek before whispering into my ear. “Don’t be too hard on him, Mags.”

  “Mmm. We’ll see.” I wasn’t promising anything.

  “I’ll stop by tomorrow afternoon with Trent’s ute and we can get rid of the carpet.”

  “No worries. Thanks, man.”

  Justin fled as quickly as he could. While Drew stuffed his foot back in his shoe, swearing and carrying on like a toddler who’d just had his dummy stolen, carefully I stepped over the debris and into what was once my dining room.

  It was bigger than I remembered. I guess seeing it completely empty made you look at things differently. Wrapping my arms around my waist, I took everything in. I was surprised I wasn’t pissed off anymore. Sure, I was a bit annoyed that he hadn’t bothered to cover anything up before he started filling the house with dust, but it wasn’t worth nit picking just for the sake of starting a fight.

  “So, what’s the plan?” I asked, turning my attention back to Drew who’d come to stand behind me. I could feel the warmth from his body against my back and it took all the control I had to not lean into him.

  “Um…”

  “Please tell me you have a plan.”

  “Well…”

  “Drew! You didn’t just start pulling apart our house without at least some kind of idea, did you?” The pained, nervous look on his face told me everything I needed to know. He had absolutely no idea what he was doing or what to do next. “You know it can’t stay like this, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.” Drew rubbed at the back of his neck. “Any suggestions on what you want to do in here?”

  “What I want to do?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “You’re the one who ripped up the carpet and started bashing holes in the wall.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And now you want me to tell you what you should do?”

  “Why do you sound surprised?”

  “This was not the conversation I was preparing for this morning when I came over.”

  “I get that. So, any suggestions?”

  My mind was spinning. I still had no idea what had possessed him to even think he could renovate, but criticising wouldn’t help. Instead, I went along with him. “A few.”

  Four hours later, I was sweaty, starving and exhausted. After Drew and I had sat down on the cold, concrete floor and looked around, we had a plan in place. And once we had a plan, we got to work. I ducked upstairs and pulled out some old, baggy-arse sweat pants and an oversized t-shirt before I started the job of emptying out the lounge room. When did we end up with so much crap? And where did it come from? I guess it didn’t really matter now. I’d taken care of that. The bin was overflowing and I was busy making another pile. Anything that managed to survive the cleanse was wrapped up and packed into the spare room.

  “You sure about this?” Drew asked, slightly nervous.

  He was dirty and gross. His hair was full of white plaster dust making him look like an old man, and there was a black smudge of something, something I didn’t even want to know what it was, across his cheek. As soon as I nodded, Drew grabbed hold of the corner of the carpet and with a loud a rip, it came free.

  A second later, Drew was sitting on his arse with a handful of carpet and a scowl on his face, while I laughed like a lunatic. When he’d reefed it back, either he didn’t know his own strength or he hadn’t been steady on his feet, because before he had time to brace himself, he was tumbling backwards and landing with a thump.

  “You’re not laughing at me are you, Mags?”

  Absolutely I was. “Not at all. I’d never laugh at you.”

  “But I’m not laughing?” Oh well. You get that. Drew was a big boy. He’d live. Once he stopped pouting.

  We’d come up with a plan. One we thought we could actually pull off. At least Drew was convinced we could. I was much more sceptical. We were going to gut the lounge room and the dining room in one go. New everything. Paint, curtains, lounge and instead of carpet, I’d suggested timber floorboards and Drew had jumped on the idea.

  “I need food,” I grumbled.

  “What do you want to eat?”

  “Pizza?”

  “Barbeque meat lover?”

  “Is there any other?”

  With a shake of his head, Drew found his phone and made the call. “It’ll be about twenty minutes.”

  “Okay.”

  “Did you want to go upstairs and shower and I’ll use the other bathroom?”

  “You sure?”

  “Go ahead.”

  After I cleaned up, I changed into some fresh clothes. Standing in what was once my bedroom, I stared at the wardrobe. Most of my clothes were still hung there. My favourite perfume was still on the dressing table and the half-read book waited for me beside the bed. It looked like I’d never left. Grabbing my hair brush, I tried to tame the crazy knots before controlling it into a tight plait. Scooping up my dirty clothes, I had no idea what to do with them. I couldn’t put them in the hamper and expect Drew to wash them, but it seemed odd to be stuffing them in my handbag like a dirty secret.

  “Pizza’s here!” Drew’s voice echoed up the stairs.

  “Coming!”

  After stuffing myself with one too many slices and enough garlic bread that I was bordering on slipping into a carb coma, I was relaxed. We’d argued over paint colours before we started tossing ideas back and forth about what came next. Once we finished the lounge and dining room, what would be out next project. Seeing the amount of shit I’d thrown out, including the incredibly ugly artwork that had hung on the walls, had me dreaming of transforming this house into something that was actually us. But it was more than that. I was too old; I’d been through too much to have the time and energy to deal with the drama of other people’s expectations. It’d taken a long time to come to that conclusion, but standing in the middle of an empty room, fantasising of what could be, I knew there was no turning back. Not now. Not ever.

  “I hate the laundry,” I blurted out without thinking.

  “Doesn’t everyone hate laundry?” Drew asked, caught off guard. I’d interrupted his ramblings about sand paper and gap fillers.

  “I mean our laundry. The layout is terrible. And there’s no storage.”

  “Okay.”

  He was completely clueless. Not that I could blame him. Up until this
very moment, I’d never once complained about it. I’d always just kept my mouth shut and got on with it. After all, it wasn’t a big deal. It was only the laundry. Except, it was a big deal. If we were doing this, if we were going to change things, then I was putting my requests in. And I was getting in early.

  “I hate it. I want to fix it.”

  Wiping his hands on a napkin, Drew tossed the crumpled paper into the centre of the table, pushed his chair back and sauntered towards the laundry. I almost made some smart-arse comment about being impressed he even knew where it was, but I bit my tongue. So far today, we’d barely had an argument. I had to admit, it was kind of nice.

  “What would you do to it?”

  Leaning against the door frame, staring into the small dark and dank space, I couldn’t help but notice the way his jeans pulled tight across his butt. I’d always loved his arse. Drew had one of those perfect, perky, tight arses that were made to wear jeans. I’d noticed it on our first date and even now, after all these years, it still caught my attention.

  Gulping down the thoughts I was having, the ones I shouldn’t be, I focused on his question. “It needs more light and cupboard space. Can we put a cupboard up on the wall there and, instead of having the dryer on the floor, can we mount it?”

  Drew didn’t answer. Not in words anyway. Instead he bent over and slid the dryer across the floor with a scraping sound much like nails on a chalkboard. That horrible, spine tingling noise that hurt your ears and caused goosepimples to break out, covering my skin. “Sorry,” he apologised. After a few minutes dusting away the cobwebs and poking around behind the machine, he straightened up and looked at me. “This will go on the wall, no worries. It’s probably best here,” he offered, pointing to the corner away from the door.

  “So it’s doable?”

  “It’s more than doable. It’s easy.”

  “Oh. Okay.”