by Jewel, Bella
Elliot:
In preparation of becoming your husband, I completed a Bachelor of Law and am now partner at a firm in the CBD.
How are you? Ready to tie the knot?
Danielle:
You did all of that for me? I’m utterly speechless, lol.
Jokes aside, Elliot, that’s wonderful. Really wonderful. Sounds like all your hard work has paid off. Good on you.
Am I ready to tie the knot? NO! Living the happy single life. What about you? Married? Kids?
Elliot:
I promise you’ll live a happy married life, too. And, no, of course I’m not married. How can I marry you if I’m already betrothed to another?
Kids? No. Although, we probably should’ve discussed whether we wanted any twenty-two years ago.
By that stage, his quirkiness had started to morph into you-can-stop-with-the-whole-marriage-bullshit. It was overkill. Weird. Then again, Elliot had always been, flamboyant, eccentric and overly dramatic. As kids, that was kinda cool. As an adult, not so much.
Danielle:
You’re not going to hold me to this ‘oral contractual agreement’, right? I mean … I digested the engagement ring, lol, so the agreement must be void.
At the very least, I expected an LOL back — my joke was funny — but I didn’t get one. Not even a laughing tears emoji.
Elliot:
The digestion of your engagement ring does not void our contract. The ring is merely decorative symbolism.
Danielle:
Oh. Really? Well, be warned; I can’t cook, and I have expensive taste.
I’ll admit, even though I’d been playing along with him, I was a tad creeped out so left the conversation as it was. It was now forty-eight hours later, and there was a little red number two attached to his Messenger bubblehead picture on my inbox list. A bold, annoying, hard to ignore, red, figurative apple of sorts. But I didn’t click on it. Clicking on it meant that he would see I’d read it, and it was common courtesy to reply to a message if you’d read it. Then again, failing to reply was a clear indication that you were deliberately ignoring it or just far too busy. Maybe I should do that?
Tucking my tiny stick figure legs to my side, I snuggled into my roommate’s giant beanbag. It was Thursday night and he was out of town. He played football for the Essendon Bombers and this week’s game was being played in Sydney.
We lived in Melbourne.
I liked it when the team played their away games interstate. It meant I got uninterrupted me time on my favourite beanbag with my favourite blankey and non-human — my pug, Dudley.
I was the Essendon Bomber’s merchandise store manager, which was how I met my roommate, Chris. He was infamous for being the team’s manwhore — their player player. When some of his teammates felt compelled to conduct an intervention — aka Operation Chris Castration — he begged me to room with him because, in his words … “it would stop his whorish ways if he lived with a chick he couldn’t fuck”.
Well, we did fuck.
But only once.
And we don’t talk about it because it had been wrong on so many levels. For starters, Chris is not my type. He’s far too cocky and slutty, and lazy, and annoying. But man, he can cook, and, strangely enough, our rooming together just works. I keep things tidy and prevent him from bringing disposable women home, and he keeps me fed.
Win win.
Tapping on Elliot’s Facebook profile pic followed by the photos section, I picked up my mug of chai and took a sip. It was freezing outside, being winter and all, and because Chris had conveniently forgotten to replenish our woodpile, it wasn’t a hell of a lot warmer inside either. I was going to hurt him when he returned on Saturday. Actually, I was going to hide his protein powder first, and then I was going to hurt him.
I cradled my mug to my chest, the warmth providing a very small reprieve from the chill in the air, but what also defrosted the sting was the hot, older version of Elliot that I was currently studying, and, sadly, it was the only uploaded picture he had.
To say he’d changed considerably since I’d last seen him was an understatement. Gone was his scraggly jet-black hair and typical sprinkling of teenage boy acne, instead, replaced with a short but sophistically styled cut that was still as dark as the ace of spades. His skin was perfect, albeit lightly cast in a five o’clock shadow of beard and mo regrowth.
I smiled and patted my lap for Dudley to jump upon. He’d just finished his dinner and was licking his chops like a happy little maniac.
“Come and meet Lots, Dudley. Lots is all kinds of hots!” I laughed and hugged my four-legged child, too slow to dodge his wayward meaty-smelling tongue. “Ew! Dudley, stop.”
He settled into his favourite spot, between my butt and my feet, and harrumphed a part snort, part growl.
“What? Are you jealous? Don’t be. You’re still the love of my life. I promise … even if your breath is about as welcoming as an abattoir.” I gently pulled him into my arms. “Come here. Check out Lots for yourself.”
Reaching around Dudley, I positioned the phone so that we could both see the screen.
Ice-blue eyes stared back at us. Oh my god, those eyes. They were definitely something that hadn’t changed since childhood. They were also the very first thing I’d noticed about Elliot Parker the day he moved in next door. I remember thinking to my five-year-old self that he was some kind of secret mystical being, like a giant elf, sent to mingle with humankind for the purpose of reporting back to the Elf King.
Those eyes had not been of this world, and they still weren’t.
Unable to ignore the obtrusive Messenger red number two any longer, I tapped on Elliot’s bubblehead icon.
The first message was in response to my expensive taste and expectation of an elaborate ring, but it was the second message that had been sent a day later that piqued my curiosity.
Elliot:
I earn enough money to cater for that expensive taste, so don’t worry.
Elliot:
Have I freaked you out? Sorry. Maybe I should explain so that it doesn’t look as if I’ve been stalking you for the past seventeen years, because I haven’t. I just want to make that clear.
Do you remember the community garden built by both our mothers in memory of Mr Hillier? Well, the local council have issued a demolition notice for the site on the grounds that it was not adequately maintained. I lodged an objection and was granted a temporary suspension notice provided the site meets regulations within 60 days of the issue date.
When mum mentioned that you and Mrs Cunningham were to be involved in the reconstruction of the new garden, I felt compelled to look you up. That’s when I noticed the date and remembered our pact.
Again, what the actual fuck?
Firstly, this was the first I’d heard about my participation in what sounded like a huge project. Thanks, Mum. Secondly, I couldn’t believe the council wanted to demolish our garden. That news hurt my heart. They couldn’t tear it down. It was special.
As I was about to type a reply to that effect, my phone started dancing within my hand, my mother’s picture staring me in the face.
I tapped speakerphone. “Your ears burning?”
“Why hello, dear. Saying hello is the correct way to answer your phone. I could’ve been anybody, you know.”
I shook my head and smiled. “No, you couldn’t have, Mum. I knew it was you.”
She laughed. “Oh, so you’re a Psychic now?”
“Nooooo…” I narrowed my eyes and shook my head again. “Never mind. So, what’s this I hear about Mr Hillier’s garden needing to be rebuilt or it will be demolished, and that we are rebuilding it? When were you planning on telling me this?”
“Now, as a matter of fact, but your new psychic abilities have allowed you to beat me to it.”
“I’m not psychic, Mum. I found out from Elliot Parker.”
“Ahh yes, Helen’s boy. Such a wonderful young man he is. Did you know he’s a famous lawyer? He stopped the demolitio
n so that we could fix the garden.” She sighed, sadly, kinda fake-like. “I always thought the two of you would end up getting married and giving me grand babies, so did Helen.” Mum’s part witch, part sing-song cackle, momentarily broke her words. “I think she still does.”
I snorted. Loudly. “Mum! The garden. What’s going on?”
“Okay okay. Gee whiz. As of this weekend, we are going to be working around the clock to rebuild the community garden. Seeing as Helen and I are listed as the garden’s founders, it’s up to us to make sure we succeed or it will be demolished.”
“What happened to the garden? The last time I saw it, it was fine.”
“When was the last time you visited the garden, Danielle?” Her all-knowing tone was critical of my answer because it was warranted; it had been a while.
“I don’t know … maybe a year or so?”
“Try at least five.”
“No way!”
“Yes way. It’s been at least two years for me, and I live here.”
Hunching with guilt, I hugged Dudley a little tighter for reassurance. The garden was special to Elliot’s family and mine and we’d neglected it. I felt awful.
“How bad is it?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Well, the garden beds are no longer visible, swallowed by weeds. The shed is rotten, the windows smashed, and the panels have been kicked in and graffitied.” Mum paused. “And of course some disrespectful little so and so’s with nothing better to do have defiled Mr Hillier’s plaque. There’s also a good chance the gum tree is dead or at the very least partially dead.”
“Shit! So there’s a lot of work to do?”
“Yes, sweetheart, there is. And we owe it to Mr Hillier to fix this. We also owe it to Elliot for working his magic and allowing us this second chance.”
I nodded; she was right. What Elliot had done for our families, the Coldstream community, and Mr Hillier’s memory was pretty cool. He’d fought for all of us knowing how important the garden was.
All of a sudden, he wasn’t so creepy.
“Okay, Mum. So what time do we start on Saturday?”
“Be there at 7:00 am on the dot. And bring a shovel. Love you.”
“I don’t have a shov—” Before I could finish my sentence, she hung up. 7:00 am on Saturday morning? Are you kidding me? Ugh! There goes TGIF drinks after work.
Chapter Two
Message from Danielle Cunningham
I’ll admit, I was a little unsure as to your level of creepiness for a minute or two. You got me good, Lots, lol. See you Saturday.
I first fell in love with Danielle Cunningham when I was eight years old. She wasn’t the most popular girl at school, but she was the most beautiful, inside and out. That’s why I’d fallen in love with her, because she was kind and she cared. She’d cared about me and what I’d had to say.
Not many people ever did.
She’d also had the cutest button nose, apple cheeks, dark brown hair that reminded me of those chocolate curls that were sometimes on the top of birthday cakes, and bushy eyebrows that looked like caterpillars. A few kids had teased her about her facial caterpillars, but I always thought they were cool.
The second time I fell in love with her was when she’d eaten my Cheezel ring and said she’d marry me. Marriage was a big promise for anyone let alone an eight-year-old, and it was a promise I planned to have a bit of fun with, maybe even hold her to. As for the third time, well … there hadn’t been a third time yet, but I knew there would be. I knew because my entire body had just frozen solid then slowly thawed the moment she stepped out of her Volkswagen Beetle wearing a thick grey beanie that was miles too big for her head. So if the mere sight of her could do that to a grown man, a man that hadn’t laid eyes on her in seventeen years, then yeah, I knew I’d fall in love with her for a third time.
It was just a matter of when.
Awkwardly diverting my gaze to the scrap pile of wood pieces in my gloved hands, and instantly regretting that decision because Danielle was far better to look at, I quickly glanced back at her as she took a few steps toward us before pausing at the threshold of the garden. She toed a few rocks where a perfectly curved, brick path had once wound through brightly coloured flowers and plants.
My stomach twisted as I took in the sorrowful look on her face, because it was the same look I’d possessed moments ago when I’d stood where she was standing. The state of our memorial garden was a knife to the heart and a cold hard slap to the face, those exact sentiments emphasized by her wide open, coffee cup eyes that were melting as tears threatened to spill down her cheeks.
Danielle’s jaw fell slack, her mouth forming an O, her shoulders slumped, her arms lifeless by her sides. Every particle that composed who I was wanted to wrap my arms around her and tell her that we’d fix this, that we’d restore the garden to its former glory and pay the respect and gratitude to Mr Hillier that he deserved. We owed him that and so much more.
We owed him our lives.
When we were just ten years old, Mr Hillier had heard our terrified cries for help during a flash flood that had very quickly turned our storm drain hide-and-seek game into a matter of life or death. We’d become trapped underground behind a metal grated storm drain cover after being unable to return the way we’d entered the drain system we’d often hung out in. The rising floodwaters had been fierce, unapologetic, and rapidly climbing the height of the ledge Danielle and I were huddled upon.
Recalling that memory, even after twenty years, still sent a chill down my spine. It had been the single most frightening experience of my life; helplessly watching as a ferocious aquatic monster chased us down.
Thankfully, Mr Hillier — a local tree-lopper at the time — carried a chain in his utility truck and was able to winch the metal grate free of the concrete it was encased in, setting us free.
I’d never forget that day, never forget the level of fear a person could feel, but, most importantly, I’d never forget Mr Hillier, which was why restoring the garden was so important. During the past decade, I’d allowed my busy lifestyle to overshadow what was once a fitting tribute to a hero, my hero, and that was about to change. Hillier Community Garden would return to its former glory and then some.
My body stiffened once again as Danielle sheepishly smiled, waved, and closed the space between us. I went to lift my hand to return her gesture but fumbled with the planks of wood in my arms.
“Shit,” I muttered, rebalancing them as she stopped before me.
“Lots! That’s ‘lots’ of wood in your arms.” She giggled and nudged my shoulder, and I all but crumbled to the ground under the weight of nostalgia and tree offcuts.
“These?” I raised my arms, flexing my biceps in the process, not that she could see them through the wood. “Na, this is nothing. I’ve only just started.”
She dipped her head, and I caught a glimpse of a small smile before it was hidden behind several loose strands of hair that were still chocolate in colour, her manicured fingers poking them behind her ear.
“So, how are you? It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other. You look … you look good.”
Her stuttering puzzled me. Maybe she’s cold? I should lend her my jacket. I went to shrug out of the woollen coat I was wearing when I realised she was already wearing one of her own; a white puffy one with a furry hood that dangled over her shoulders. Maybe she just stutters now? Maybe she’s nervous?
Realising I hadn’t yet answered, a playful idea entered my head, and I didn’t really think too much before deciding to just go with it. I was a little nervous, and that rarely happened.
“This is bad luck, you know.” I gestured between the two of us. “I’m not supposed to see the bride before the wedding.”
She laughed, but then her hand found her hip, and she shook her head mildly. “This again? This fake engagement stuff? Really?”
I remained impassive. “You say that as if you mean it.”
“I do mean it! We are n
ot engaged, Elliot.”
“Technically, we are.”
“No, we’re not.”
“Yeah, we are.”
She shook her head, vehemently. “I don’t believe you.”
I shrugged and stepped away from her, dropping the wood planks into a wheelbarrow. “Whether you believe me or not is irrelevant.”
This time, both her hands found her hips, her fingers gripping the denim hugging her skin. I fought my rising eyebrow — her elevated frustration was cute. As a child, she’d possessed a fiery attitude, except with her mum, Jeanette. Jeanette was all she had — no siblings, no father.
“I don’t see how it is irrelevant. My not believing you is very relevant,” she stated.
I smiled. “You’re wrong.”
Danielle stared at me. Really stared. It was a defiant body language tactic I’d used in the courtroom many times, yet I was impressed with her determined eye contact dedication.
I couldn’t help but laugh. “You haven’t changed much.”
“You have!” she blurted while simultaneously scoffing.
Her apple cheeks instantly blushed, and I wasn’t sure whether that reaction was good or not. It was hard to tell from her broken stare and awkward shifting of boot-covered feet whether she was referring to my physical change or my playful baiting, which wasn’t something I’d ever done when we were younger — I’d learned to become a smartarse during my adult years.
Before I could question the rose in her cheeks, Jeanette sprung out from behind the garden shed and encased her daughter in a hug. “Good morning, Pumpkin.”
“Mum! Okay, ow… you’re kinda hurting me.” Danielle tried to gently struggle free. “And you’re covered in dirt!”
“That’s generally what happens when you do gardening, Danielle.”
I bit my lip at Jeanette’s response. From memory, she was a force to be reckoned with, a gale force that often blew poor Danielle right over.