Henry Hamlet's Heart

by Rhiannon Wilde

  ‘Believe it when I see it,’ Len says, turning back around to make our drinks.

  Lacey sips her tea.

  ‘Henry,’ Len asks after a minute, ‘can you pass me the milk?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I jump up too fast, trying not to otherwise react to his casual use of my name.

  We drink and talk for a while, before Len disappears upstairs to get some photos to show Lacey. I start cleaning up, clanking cups against the sink.

  Lacey comes to stand behind me, smelling like musk and city rain.

  When I turn to face her, she looks so like Len for a moment that I start.

  ‘You’re doing my brother,’ she accuses point-blank.

  I’m so shocked that I slap the counter in my rush to deny it. ‘I – no – we’re not! I mean, we haven’t—’

  ‘You haven’t? Bloody hell. It’s serious, then. I didn’t think you had it in you.’

  (Why can’t I ever lie convincingly when it counts?)

  ‘No! There’s no … it’s—’

  ‘Cut the shit, Hamlet. I’m getting mad vibes from the two of you. Who the hell calls you “Henry”?’

  ‘It’s my name!’

  ‘Plus, he told me. Last week.’

  My eyebrows contract. ‘He did? What did he …?’

  ‘Not important. The important thing is that you both realise how monumentally you could fuck this up.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘I mean,’ she continues, ‘you’ve been a thing since forever. BFFs or whatever. Is it worth it, risking that?’

  I replay his ‘Henry’, and feel a squeeze of affection in my gut. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Break his heart and I’ll kill you,’ she says warningly.

  My eyebrows squish even further together. ‘It’s not likely to be me breaking hearts, is it?’

  Lacey shakes her head indulgently. ‘He is quite the commitment-phobe, my brosephine. Learned it from me.’ She picks up a cup and tea-towels the inside of it for a minute. ‘Worse after Mum, though. Like … I don’t know. Maybe he thinks he’ll feel all of it again, if he feels anything, ever.’

  I picture pre-Sarah Len briefly. Losing her was like a weight, but inverse. Like there’s a little less in him now of the stuff that anchors us.

  ‘He’s a runner,’ Lacey finishes bluntly. ‘But still! If anyone can try to straighten him out …’

  I open my mouth to ask what on Earth that means, but Len comes back before I get the chance.

  ‘What are we talking about?’ he asks, putting a stack of photos down on the bench.

  ‘How much we hate you,’ Lacey says sweetly. ‘Weren’t we, Hamlet? We’re actually thinking of starting a club.’

  We have sandwiches for lunch, and it’s fine, though it feels like Lacey is watching us closely. My stomach is still churning over runner. And the fact that she knows at all. That anyone does.

  John’s meant to be getting home at six, so Len drops me home in the late afternoon. When we get to my place, he parks on the curb and cuts the engine, then folds his arms combatively.

  ‘Out with it.’

  ‘Mmm?’ I play dumb.

  ‘What’d she say to you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Yes, she did. You’ve gone all weird.’

  ‘I haven’t—’

  He gives me a similar look to Lacey’s: cut the shit.

  I pause. ‘You told her.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I guess I wasn’t expecting that.’

  ‘I tell her everything. It’s not a big deal.’

  When I don’t respond, he adds, ‘Whatever she said, she was probably just trying to rile you up. She can’t resist it. Ignore her. I do.’

  I swing open my door and step onto the pavement, which is still slick from morning rain.

  He shuts his own door and stalks after me, confused. ‘Don’t just walk away.’

  ‘Why?’ I spin around. ‘It’s what you do.’

  He stops. ‘Where’d that come from?’

  ‘Just … She made me realise something. About this … Whatever it is.’

  Len’s eyes flare, but he waits.

  ‘It’s going to end eventually, isn’t it? You’re going to run.’

  He takes another step towards me. ‘Henry …’

  ‘You always do – it’s how it is with you. You don’t commit.’

  He looks pained. I’m not sure how or why I’ve gone from zero to cling wrap in the space of a single afternoon, but I can’t find the off switch.

  ‘That’s not how it is with me,’ he says. ‘And anyway, you’re … different.’

  I tilt my head to the side, derisive. I hate myself for it. ‘Different, am I?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says through his teeth.

  ‘What does that—’

  ‘Hen?’ My mum’s voice cuts across the tepid air. The verandah light clicks on, the fluorescent bulb poking intrusive fingers out at us. ‘Is that you?’

  I shield my eyes. ‘Yeah! I’ll be in in a sec.’

  Len is still staring at me. ‘Do you want me to go?’

  ‘Yeah. I think I do.’

  He rubs his thumb over his bottom lip. ‘Whatever. Fine.’

  I’d call it our first fight, but we fight all the time. This just cuts deeper. My eyes burn watching him walk away. I will him to look back; he doesn’t.

  It’s just Mum in the kitchen when I get inside.

  She squints at my face, scrutinising. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Just hungry.’

  ‘There’s lasagne in the fridge.’

  ‘Mmm. Maybe later.’ I start walking up the stairs.

  ‘Hen—’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it!’ I slam my door.

  Mum immediately knocks once, and opens it a crack. ‘You sure you’re okay?’ she asks softly.

  ‘Fine,’ I can barely get it out. This is too much, all of it.

  ‘You’re clearly upset, sweets. Talking helps. Is it … is it to do with the flu girl?’

  (How can she know me this well but not?)

  ‘I just need a minute, Mum! Okay?’

  The concern on her face deepens, but she closes the door.

  I cocoon myself, watching old Friends episodes without seeing them and trying (failing) to figure out the swirling in my chest.

  Things have been good. Bizarre, but good. So why can’t I breathe right? Lacey’s knowing face flashes up again, like there’s already a ticking clock, and …

  I can’t tell my mum.

  Other people knowing is risk. Fear. I don’t want it to be, but it is, is, is. The thought of them (anyone) touching this. Tainting it. Taking it.

  And then there’s Len. I’ve watched this play out from the sidelines too many times to have any delusions about how it goes. All the doubt I’ve been in too deep to feel is a paperweight on my chest.

  My heart bashes away, sensing danger and wanting out. It’s still going when I eventually traipse downstairs for lasagne before bed.

  Mum watches me moving around the kitchen. I lean against the bench for a minute, holding the bowl up under my chin.

  ‘Sorry,’ I tell her with my mouth full.

  She comes over and kisses my head. ‘You’re really all right? Promise?’

  I look away, shovelling pasta. ‘Yeah. Think I just need an early night.’

  I’m dozing off when a sound outside startles me awake an hour or two later. I jerk upright and look towards the window.

  Nothing.

  Possums, I decide. We have whole families of them living in our rain gutters, because Ham insists on feeding them illicit carbs whenever he gets the chance.

  I hear it again, and jump out of bed. Carefully, I lean towards the glass, peering out into the street-lit dark.

  It’s
not a possum. Not unless one of them recently purchased a corduroy jacket.

  I push the window open. ‘What the actual hell are you doing?’

  ‘Oh, Hamlet,’ Len says. ‘Hey. Didn’t see you there.’

  ‘You didn’t see me when you were looming outside my window?’

  ‘This your window? I just thought this tree looked particularly climbable.’

  I stare at him sullenly.

  He wobbles a bit. ‘Let me in?’

  I do, but only because he’s straddling a branch I suspect is too thin to take his weight. He topples inside, wincing as he bangs his knee on the casement.

  He straightens up and we stand facing each other. I can see from the way his mouth is half-tilted into a smile that he’s decided to disregard what happened.

  ‘So,’ he says. ‘Are you finished being pissy?’

  I don’t respond.

  ‘Come on. Get over it already.’

  ‘No.’

  His eyes are light, teasing. ‘Bet I could make you.’

  I take a step away. ‘Nein cigar.’

  We’re quiet for a minute, arms folded, neither of us breaking rank.

  He sighs. ‘Look. Lacey was out of line. I don’t think she meant anything by it. She just doesn’t have much faith in me, when it comes to this sort of stuff.’

  ‘What sort of stuff?’

  ‘The stuff we’ve been doing.’

  ‘What are we doing, Len?’ I snap. ‘Do you even know?’

  He sighs again. ‘Jesus. You don’t have to over-analyse everything.’

  ‘I haven’t! That’s the problem. I haven’t thought, at all.’

  He sits down on the edge of my desk, leaning back and looking at the constellations on my ceiling we stuck up when we were six.

  ‘We’re … I don’t know. Exploring something,’ he says eventually. ‘It’s normal.’

  ‘It’s normal to hook up with your best mate, is it?’

  ‘Sometimes, maybe.’

  We’ve avoided talking about any of this, and now the room is crowded to the brim with questions.

  I sit on the bed, the springs giving like the extra weight in me is tangible.

  ‘Do you have to be so bloody casual all the time?’ I whine. ‘Have you even thought about any of this, or does none of it matter to you?’

  His head snaps up; he looks hurt. ‘I’ve thought.’

  ‘Really?’ I shoot back. ‘Because it doesn’t seem like you have. And … I have, okay?’

  He’s watching me steadily.

  ‘I … think. About you,’ I mumble. ‘I mean, I have done. A lot. For a bit.’

  I wait for him to say something, laugh, get up and leave. He doesn’t do any of that.

  The fan clicks its slow rotation above our heads.

  ‘I’ve thought about it,’ he says quietly.

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Yes. Not, like, seriously, or anything.’

  ‘Oh. Why?’

  (Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t I know?)

  ‘You’re not exactly what I’d call uninhibited. I didn’t think you’d want …’ He breaks off, a slash of pink on both cheeks.

  I look at him in shock. ‘Since when? Since when have you thought about it?’

  He chews his index finger evasively. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’d say you do.’

  He looks at his jeans, pulling one leg down over his Docs. Looks out the window – everywhere but me. ‘A long time, all right?’ he says. ‘Maybe always.’

  Four syllables like a hook in my chest.

  ‘I don’t understand any of this,’ I say.

  Slowly – I don’t know whether for my sake or his – he comes over and sits down beside me on the bed. I lean my head back against the wall. Our shoulders press together.

  ‘I mean,’ I plough on, ‘up until a couple of months ago, I thought I’d probably be –’ gulp ‘– straight, and you were too. Mostly, anyway. Now I don’t know anything.’

  ‘Must be terrible for you,’ he says. ‘A smarmy school captain’s worst nightmare.’

  ‘Be serious, please. We have to talk about this stuff eventually.’

  His mouth twitches. ‘So, talk.’

  ‘Okay. Well. Are you?’

  ‘Am I what?’

  My face burns. ‘You know what.’

  Len tilts his head towards me, eyes so direct I almost can’t look. ‘It’s never really been an either/or kind of thing for me.’

  ‘But like …’ I suck in air. ‘What if it is for me? What if I am?’

  ‘Okay,’ he says.

  ‘Shouldn’t I know?’ I demand.

  ‘I don’t think it always works like that.’

  ‘It should.’

  ‘Should it?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because – because.’

  He picks up my hand and pulls gently, until I’m forced to look up properly.

  ‘You don’t have to have everything all figured out and put in a neat little box. Sometimes people do things just because they want to.’

  I sit there for a bit, running the words over in my head and wishing more than anything that I could view things the way he does.

  ‘And then there’s you,’ I continue.

  He sits back against the wall. ‘What about me?’

  ‘I realised, today, how high the stakes are,’ I whisper. ‘If Lacey knows, then everyone else will, and that’s terrifying—’

  ‘Why?’

  I avert my eyes again. ‘Because … it just doesn’t make sense, I guess.’

  ‘What doesn’t?’ he whisper-yells, exasperated.

  ‘Shh, God. For you to want me … that way!’ I burst out, my fingers twisting together between us. ‘I don’t get it.’ I breathe in. This is the big one, the thing that’s bothered me since the start. ‘Even more than the other stuff, I don’t get … What I am, to you.’

  Len’s face shifts, a rolling thunderstorm.

  He leans in. Closer and closer, until he’s got me pinned between him and the wall.

  ‘You’re half of me,’ he says, his voice soft and serious. ‘What else is there?’

  And, yeah. There’s not much need for talking, after that.

  17

  On the day of Len’s eighteenth birthday, I jog up the front steps of Scott’s Corner with my biggest backpack (filled with food, clothes and five cans of Aerogard) slung across my back and my wrapped-and-rewrapped half-boyfriend present in my arms.

  He opens the door before I knock, hair wet and no shirt on. Smiles with his eyes first, then everywhere.

  ‘Um,’ I say, shifting my feet on the mat. ‘Happy birthday.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You ready?’

  ‘Yeah. Almost.’

  We head upstairs so he can throw things into a backpack while I catch occasional stray items of bedding he hurls in my direction.

  ‘Remember to dress for the wilderness,’ I say.

  He slips a green, black and blue checked flannel shirt over his head.

  (I immediately think about taking it off.)

  ‘“Wilderness” enough for you?’

  I zip up the bag loudly.

  Lacey’s still in bed when we get downstairs, but John’s sitting at the kitchen table fully dressed, with a fancy filter coffee in front of him.

  ‘Henry. What brings you here?’

  ‘Um. Just collecting this one for birthday shenanigans.’

  John’s eyes run over the heavy bags and pillows in our arms, before coming to rest on Len. They’re ice blue. Focused.

  I wait for him to pick up on the birthday lead. Instead he sips coffee, then goes into the front sitting room.

  I look at Len, but he’s
stuffing shoes into his bag. I go outside to dump some of the bigger items on the verandah, wrestling with the pillows until they sit one on top of the other.

  When I come back the kitchen’s empty. I think Len must’ve gone back upstairs, but then I hear voices coming from the sitting room.

  ‘Give me the keys, Lennon. Richardson’s borrowing it. He needed something with a tow bar. I’m sure I told you.’

  ‘I’m sure you didn’t,’ Len insists.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ John sounds irritated.

  I feel like I’m peering through a window. I start to backtrack towards the entryway.

  There’s a serrated edge to Len’s voice I don’t recognise. ‘Right. It’s not like we had plans today, or anything.’

  ‘Worried your little friends won’t think you’re so wonderful without the nice car?’ John snaps.

  Blood rushes to my head, flood-fast like when I’m about to be sick.

  ‘No. But it’s my car.’ Len.

  ‘Oh. Did you pay for it?’ John. ‘Was there a transaction of funds between us I’m unaware of?’

  There’s a metallic sound: keys being snatched, from one hand into another.

  ‘My car,’ John hisses.

  He storms into the kitchen, keys in hand, and grabs his coffee without acknowledging me.

  The heavy front door clicks shut softly behind him. I wish it would slam. That would make more sense.

  I find Len in the sitting room. I want to talk, to run my fingers over that edge in his voice until I understand it, but he’s already backing away too fast to chase.

  ‘Let’s take my car,’ I offer quietly instead. And we do.

  Ged’s dad was a pro football player in the early eighties, and the house in the hinterland is a vestige of that. A small cottage nestled into the side of a mountain, with shag carpet and dozens of big arch windows overlooking the valley, it’s just over-the-top enough that I love it on sight when the Pissar miraculously delivers the silent two of us an hour later (after I kick it in the bonnet, hard).

  The Boiyss are blessedly on form, swallowing us in ridiculousness as soon as we’re inside. Ged claims the biggest bedroom, Harrison the second. Vince and I end up sharing one on the lower level, and Len gets the A-frame attic with the best view.

  Vince leans on the doorframe of the master, arms folded, as Ged rolls around on the silky bedding.