by Max Henry
The space opens out as we step out of the trees, stealing my breath and bringing me to a stop. I’ve been here plenty on school camps and summer holiday programs, but never stood out here at night. The trees line a huge rectangular field on three sides, totally clear between save for the pièce de résistance on the far side—the flying fox. Moonlight catches the zip line strung between the tower and the landing pad, giving the whole structure an eerie feel. Yet, what really steals my breath is the grey, glassy look the moonlit river has behind it.
“Feel like a go?” Carver gives my hand a tug to get me started over the grassy area.
“Don’t they lock it at night so it doesn’t work?”
“They used to lock it at night,” he corrects, “but they haven’t bothered for a few years since people stopped coming out here so often.”
“Sounds like you come here a bit though.” I hunch my shoulders to ward off the chilly air.
“It’s a good place to get some alone time.” He lets go of my hand and points toward the tower. “Start climbing.” Carver jogs several steps toward the far end before he turns and jogs backwards, a cheeky grin in place. “You’re okay with ladders, right?”
“Ha-de-fucking-ha.”
I make short work of the timber rungs that scale the outside of the platform, stealing a look every so often at Carver as he grabs the zip line and jogs it back toward the tower. His muscles flex as he moves, his arm extended behind him. Every part of him is as appealing and easy on the eye as always. The chains that hang from the belt hoops of his jeans to the pocket swing with his movement, catching flashes of moonlight. His heavy boots echo a thud around us with each footfall, his breathing audible as he reaches the base of the tower.
I settle on the edge of the platform, my legs hanging over the side, while he climbs the ladder. An inked hand slaps over the top rung, down on the platform, and his head soon follows as he pushes himself up, a huge grin from ear to ear. “I’m not as fit as I used to be.”
“I’d love to see what fit looks like if your current form is out of shape.”
He quirks an eyebrow as he crosses to where I sit, guiding the zip line around the corner of the tower. “What you saying, Meg?”
“You know what I’m saying.” I stand and take the rope out of his offered hand, but he holds on, forcing me to look at him.
“One condition.” His dark eyes bore into mine.
I shift on the spot, trying to ease the buzz that sets in from a single look alone. “Yeah?” My voice wavers.
“Each time you go down this line, I want you to think of a good memory. Could be about Den, about school, about your friends—”
“I don’t have any friends.”
“—or anything that made you smile at the time,” he finishes pointedly. “And then you can tell me all about it on the walk back.”
“Wait.” I pop a hip and frown. “How am I supposed to tell you about it when you’re up here, and I’m down there.” I point to the pole covered in old tyres at the far end.
“Who said you’re flying solo?”
He wants us to ride together. “Is it strong enough for the both of us?” The most legitimate excuse I can come up with that’s not “I can’t be that close to you without wanting to jump you when we hit the other end.”
“Only one way to find out if it is.” He walks back on the platform until the rope is at a forty-five-degree angle to where we stand, and steps over so the crude wooden seat part is tucked into the back of his thighs. “Step in front.”
“And what? Sit on your lap?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs as though it’s no big deal. “Would you rather I sat on yours?”
“Very funny, mister.” It’s a flying fox, Meg. I hoist my skirt up and stick a leg over the rope before I can chicken out. He gives my arse a cheeky pat where it hangs out of my bunched skirt. “Hands off the merchandise,” I tease in an effort to get him to stop distracting me, and position myself in front of Carver, hands tight on the rope ahead of me.
“You’re going to have to shuffle back into me if you don’t want to fall off,” he very “helpfully” points out.
My semi-healed palm rubs against the rope as I drag my unnecessarily tight hold down the length, using the bite of the fibres to distract me from the heat of his body behind me, the vibrations from his chest as he tells me “Closer,” and the feeling that this is my home.
We’ve fooled around, made out, got hot and heavy, but there’s still that line we haven’t crossed yet. And I’m acutely aware the longer it is until we do, the more haywire I go in situations like this.
Butt pressed tight into the front of his jeans, I tap my toes inside my shoes, impatient to get the first ride over with. Carver’s arms wrap around my shoulders and he places both inked hands over top of mine on the rope, sliding his hold down until his large palms engulf my hands entirely.
“Ready?”
“As ever.”
With a sharp shunt, and the thud of my foot as it catches the lip of the platform, we’re airborne. Inhibitions are forgotten, my concerns and fears vaporised as we tear through the night air. I laugh, I cry a little, and I’m ready to go again the minute we hit the stopper at the far end, Carver’s arms banding tighter about me as we swing to a stop over the woodchip.
His words tickle my ear as we sit above the ground, wrapped in each other while the zip line lazily turns in a circle. “What’s your favourite memory then, Meg?”
I think I just made it.
TWENTY-TWO
The night has cooled to single digits by the time we leave the zip line and start the walk back to the car. I haven’t laughed or smiled this much in a long time—too long. Eighteen rides, and eighteen stories. Memories of me and Den when we were barely school age, memories of happier times with Mum when I was still young and wore dresses without having to be persuaded to, and finally the best memory of all….
“I’ve got one more for you,” I tell Carver as our hands swing between us in time with our steps.
“Fire away, then.” He gives me a little tug, releasing my hand to capture my shoulders with the same arm.
I loop my own around his waist, my hip jostling against his leg as we walk. “Well, there was this time when I’d had a really bad week or so, right? And honestly, I had no idea how long the shitty mood was going to last or when things would get better. It had just been one bad thing after another.” His hand squeezes on my shoulder. “But I met this guy, right? And, well, it’s not that I was looking for him, but he was there, and you know how these things go.”
“Not really, Meg. No.” His arm is like a log, weighing down on me, as does the tone of his words. “Enlighten me.”
“I wouldn’t have normally looked twice, thought anything of it. I mean, he was just so… I don’t know, unattainable?”
“Sounds like you didn’t know this guy too well.” His arm slips off and he goes back to holding hands, a distance between our previously joined hips.
“I still don’t.”
“Is this a good memory, Meg?” He stops walking, forcing me to turn toward him. We stand toe to toe while he looks me over, jaw rolling as he grinds his teeth. “Maybe whatever you and this guy did at the time was good, but where is he now?”
I can’t hide my smile knowing the conclusion he’s come to; he’s completely missed my point. His clipped words and serious frown give it all away—he thinks I’m talking about some summer fling, a meaningless interaction. He couldn’t be further from the truth.
“He’s right here.” My fingertip meets a solid wall of muscle beneath his shirt.
Confusion reigns supreme before Carver’s lips spread in an endearing smile. “You were talking about me?”
“Duh.” I roll my eyes. “You might not know much about me either still, but here’s one fast fact, buddy: I don’t sleep around, and I sure as shit have never had a one-night stand or anything remotely like it.”
A warm hand envelops the side of my neck, the other tightening it
s hold on mine. He just smiles, the look in his eyes echoing infinite relief. “Tell me how the story ends, then.”
“He realises how much she needs him,” I whisper, “and he’s totally okay with that.”
“I’m okay with that.” He dips his head, our noses an inch apart. “If it makes her feel better.”
“It makes her feel…” Hot. Excited. Thankful. Hopeful. Relieved. “…appreciated.”
Carver’s grip on my neck grows firm. His fingertips bite into the back of my neck, which in turn forces me to move my head closer to his. I brace for the moment, giddy-as-fuck, and impatient for that gentle brush of his lips on mine.
He kisses the tip of my nose and then breaks away. Cold air replaces his grasp on my neck, a wave of rejection in place of his body heat.
“Are you ready to take the last step, then?”
“To what?”
“Knowing everything. Not hiding. Sharing all our ugly secrets.”
I frown, crossing my arms protectively over my body. “I guess.”
“I’ve got one more thing to show you, so you know all of me, all of where I come from and what being a part of my life means.” He sighs, regret in his eye and leans in to sweep a gentle kiss across my lips. “It’s time to meet my dad, Meg.”
***
“Why do I get the feeling that until now you’ve been lying to me? That you never intended to let me see him?” I lean forward in my seat and stare at the tall, intimidating fences of where Carver lives.
“Because I was. Well, not really lying, I just hoped I could distract you and this weekend would become the next, and so on.”
“What made you change your mind, then?”
“Because if you and me are ‘a thing’,” he says with a frown, “I want you to see what you’re getting yourself into.” His face falls as he turns his head to vacantly stare at the fence.
“Nothing could put me off you,” I reassure him quietly.
He doesn’t look so convinced, staring out at the property before opening his door with a huff. I get out also, and wait for instruction beside the car. Last time I was here, things went so damn pear-shaped it feels cocky just sauntering up to the gate.
Carver rounds the hood of the car and stops before me, his hip leant on the side panel of the Falcon and his arms crossed over that ridiculously hard chest.
“Things are rough right now, right?” he asks.
“Right.” I find myself mirroring his stance.
“You feel like there’s no light at the end of the tunnel, like things won’t ever be the same.”
“Yeah. What are you getting at with this?”
“You’re grieving, Meg. It’s natural how you’re feeling, but it’ll also pass.”
I roll against the car so my back is against the window and my side is to him, facing the way we came down the dark semi-rural street. What he’s inferring already aggravates me: that this divide in my family will pass and all of this will one day blow over. I’m not sure I can hear what he’s actually going to say.
Carver sighs and runs a hand through his growing hair. “You’ve got a good family, Meg. Your parents might be bastards right now, but they’re going through something they never planned for. It won’t last forever, I’d put money on it.”
“Easy for you to say,” I bite out. “You weren’t there when they said the things they did. You only know what I’ve told you.”
“Yeah, I do.” He paces the driveway, passing through my line of sight while I do my best to ignore him. “But the reason why I brought you to meet Dad was to show you that life could be a lot worse. As horrible as you think your parents are right now, they still love you.”
“Do they?” I throw my hands in the air, irritated that he won’t just cut to the chase. “Are you trying to tell me that misplaced parental love excuses their behaviour? Because even if that were true, it doesn’t. And besides,” I say, slamming my arms back over my chest defiantly. “At the end of the day, everyone’s parents love them, whether they want to admit it or not.”
He shakes his head and marches toward the steel gates, highlighted by the glow of the headlights. “No, they don’t.” The catch makes a horrific screech as he slides the bolt out of the ground and swings the gate open. “Come and see what obligation, rather than choice, looks like.”
The house is front and centre to the right of the gates, an old weatherboard villa with a covered porch across the back. Light spills from the uncovered windows, illuminating our way through the scruffy garden. We follow a paved path that I remember dashing down last time, and reach the steps to the house.
“Whatever gets said to you inside,” Carver warns, “none of it is personal, okay?”
I nod, staring at the welcoming white door I vaguely remember stumbling through last time, and wondering what in fuck he’s on about. His dad can’t be that bad, right? I mean, he seemed gruff when we bolted, but I wouldn’t have said he was anything other than a hard-arse.
“I mean it, Meg,” Carver stresses. “Promise me you won’t take his insults personally. Dad is just a real cunt at times, and that’s when he’s being nice.”
“Promise.” His words of warning begin to sink in, and the previous calm I had when I thought he was simply being melodramatic, vanishes. Foreboding crows beat their wings inside my gut, turning my stomach into a flapping, roiling mess as we step up to the door.
Carver lets us both inside, guiding me behind him to keep me close as we step through the entrance hall and into the kitchen.
“Hey, bro,” Tanya greets from where she’s situated at the dining table, painting her nails. “Hey, Meg. Good to see you again.” She jerks her head toward the lounge and silently mouths something at Carver that I don’t quite catch before she returns a warm gaze my way. “Want your nails done?”
“Uh, no. Thanks, though.”
I hesitate awkwardly between the two of them, expecting Carver to direct us through to the lounge to where I presume his father is, given Tanya’s gestures. I mean, introducing me would be the polite thing to do if he wants to get us off on the right foot, isn’t it?
Oddly enough, nobody moves.
“So,” Tanya calls out, breaking the silence. “Drink, Meg?”
“Um.” I look to Carver for an answer, but he’s not giving away anything in the way of what our plans are from here. “I guess.”
Tanya places the brush back in her bottle and screws the lid on. With her hands held out in front, waving them to and fro, she pushes her chair out from the table and stands. “How about you, bro?”
“No. I think I’ll pass.”
They both glance around the corner to the lounge room. Anxiety sets in, my skin warming and my hands pulsing with each beat of my heart.
“If tonight isn’t a good night—”
“It’s fine.”
“Don’t worry about it.” They speak in unison.
The corner of the room feels that bit more inviting all of a sudden. I melt against the wall as Tanya opens the fridge door and gestures to the beverages stacked on one of the lower shelves.
“What’s your pick?”
“Juice is great, thanks.”
Tanya thumbs in my direction while she lifts an eyebrow at Carver. “She realises it’s like midnight on a Saturday, right?”
“What?” I tease in return. “It’s odd that I want juice to drink, but perfectly normal that you’re at home painting your nails alone?”
She grins, and a feeling that we’ve just cemented a lifelong friendship makes me smile too.
“She’s definitely my favourite, Brett.”
I look across to find him watching me with a slight smile. “Yeah. She ain’t so bad.”
Tanya retrieves a two-litre bottle of juice from the fridge with stiff fingers and shuts the door, then collects a clean glass from the cupboard and lays it all out on the counter without damaging her nails. I walk across and lean over the side opposite to her as she pours the drink, resting my elbows on the laminate surface.<
br />
“Have we got company?” The question resonates off every surface of the room, the voice deep and husky, just as I remember.
I stand ramrod straight, any misconstrued ideas that this mightn’t have gone so badly after all long gone.
“Dad.” Tanya places the juice bottle down on the counter before her shaking hand sends the contents everywhere. “You scared the shit outta me.”
“Meg.” Carver beckons me to his side, and I waste no time in obeying.
His father is one intimidating son of a bitch. If I thought first impressions of Carver were rough, then this guy is something else entirely. He stands a whole head shorter than Carver, but what he lacks in height he well makes up for in stature. The man has a stocky, muscular body that has been clearly honed out of need rather than want. Tattoos adorn his arms and neck, just like his son, but he also sports a few more in prominent spots over his face. Where Carver has a small letter R at the edge of his eye, his father has a full swastika on his temple, rough and probably done in someone’s back room rather than a legit parlour. Lettering is etched into his bald scalp, but I daren’t look long enough to read it. His white T-shirt pulls tight over his barrel chest, and the man looks like an extra straight out of Romper Stomper with his stonewash jeans and loose suspenders at his sides. Even his fucking socks have swastikas. What the hell? Isn’t this shit dead?
“You brought a girl home, son, and you didn’t think to introduce the lovely lass to your old man?”
“We were heading through to see you after I poured her drink,” Tanya answers for Carver.
I twist my head to glance up at him and soon see why. His eyes are narrow slits, his nostrils flaring, and his neck corded with subdued rage.
No love lost here, then.
“This where you been the last week then?” Carver’s father asks. “Hiding her away from your old man in case she prefers the real thing?”