Malaise

by Max Henry

  This is it.

  I’m about to see Carver for the first time in two weeks.

  And I don’t have a clue what to say first.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  His smile is nothing short of infectious as I approach the table. The room is long and rectangular, twelve tables set out in two rows of six: plain, plastic, and a hideous shade of greenish-yellow.

  We could be meeting in a damn mosquito-infested swamp for all I care.

  He’s here.

  I’m here.

  Everything is right in my world again.

  Carver’s hair is messy and in his face, his stubble now a definite dusting across his jaw as he stands and steps out from behind the table. The bright green jumpsuit pulls across his arms where the sleeves end midbicep, the collar a low V showing a peep of his defined and inked chest. His eyes though, the story they tell… he’s missed me as much as I’ve been longing to see him again, too.

  “Meg,” he whispers, as though he can’t believe his eyes.

  My chest tightens, my palms hot. Is it possible for a guy to become even hotter while stuck in a corrections facility? Looking at Carver, I’m thinking so.

  “They didn’t tell me who the visitor was,” he says with a smile, arms wide for a hug.

  I wrap mine around his waist, and press my head against his chest. “I’ve missed you.”

  Carver’s fingers thread through my hair, holding me firmly, his other arm tight around my shoulders. “Me too, baby. Now give me a kiss before they pull us apart.”

  I lean back in his grip, my neck craned to offer it up to him. God, I’d give him a thousand kisses if he asked.

  His lips are minty against mine, the taste stronger as he sweeps his tongue teasingly along the seam of my lips before an officer to our right pointedly clears his throat.

  Carver’s arms drop away, and I reluctantly loosen mine to let him move back to his side of the table. Never have my hands felt so heavy, my actions so wrong; I wanted to keep hold for hours, days. Not that it would have been enough.

  “How you been?” he reaches out to take my hand once I’m settled, and then recoils, clearly remembering the rules. “Have you got your exam results yet?”

  I shake my head. “I applied to have my mail held at the post office until I get a permanent address, and I haven’t been back yet to see what’s come in.”

  “Where have you been staying?” His eyes darken, the frustration at having not known the answer these past weeks clear in the hard set of his jaw.

  “Hostel on Bellbird Avenue.” He’s obviously not impressed, but what can he do?

  “You look like you’ve lost weight. Feel like it, too.”

  “I haven’t exactly been eating that well.”

  “Meg….”

  “Money’s tight, Carver, and the supermarket doesn’t have any more shifts.”

  It’s there, in his eyes. I know what he’s going to say, or wants to.

  “I’m not begging my parents for help,” I answer before he can voice the thought.

  “I don’t want to see you starve, either. Why hasn’t Tanya set you up in my room at the house? Is she helping?”

  “Yeah, she’s there when she can.” I stare down at my knitted hands on the tabletop. “But I might have got offside with your dad.”

  “Hey? How?” He straightens in his plastic chair, shoulders firm. “What’s he done?”

  “It’s what he hasn’t done.”

  Carver just frowns, those gorgeous baby-blues trained solely on me, nothing else. We could be the only two people in this room for all he seems to care about the other visitors now crowding the space.

  I lean across the table, keeping my voice low. “I told your dad he needed to go down to the station and give you an alibi before your hearing.”

  “Why? What did he say?”

  Nothing you need to know. “He refused to help you, said it was up to you to sort this out.”

  “You were asking him to lie,” Carver whispers. “Of course he wouldn’t do it.”

  “You said you were with him,” I accuse. “Where were you really?”

  He leans back in the seat, his legs wide and palms flat on his knees as he finally takes in everyone around us. His gaze roams the other tables as his jaw flexes, his brow in a hard line.

  “Answer me, Carver.”

  His turns his head my way, and shakes it slowly. “It’s been hard being away from you. I worry about you all the time: what you’re doing, who you’re with, how you’re coping.”

  “Where were you?” My eyes sting, the answer seeming harder to stomach the longer he holds back.

  “Don’t get mad at me—”

  “But?”

  “I went to see your parents.”

  Our little corner of the room falls deathly silent. Looking at him is too hard, so I stare down at my fingertip as it draws lazy circles on the table instead. “Why?”

  “I wanted them to know that you were studying hard for your exams, that you were doing well, your head was in the right place, and that you weren’t the irresponsible delinquent they make you out to be. I wanted them to be proud of you, Meg, and to fucking stand by you while the three of you worked past Den together.”

  “You went behind my back.”

  “I did it for you.”

  “But you lied to me.”

  “Because I knew you would have been stubborn and pig-headed about it.”

  I close my eyes briefly and try to process what he’s just told me. He’s in here because the night he went to waste his time on my parents, somebody broke into his previous place of employment. Two things strike me about that: one, who the fuck did break in then, and two, my arsehole parents are the only people who can prove his innocence beyond a doubt.

  “I have to talk to them.”

  “No, you don’t.” He leans forward in his seat, rests his elbows on the table, and reaches both hands out, shaking them up and down a couple of times in frustration before he pulls them back to himself again. Arms folded over his chest, he asks, “What are you going to do now school’s over?”

  I shrug. What does it matter? “I hadn’t decided, but don’t try and change the subject. Right now all I want to focus on is proving you didn’t do it, and if that means talking sense into my parents, I will.”

  “You won’t, Meg.”

  “Why the fuck not?” The guard to our right shifts at the sound of my raised voice.

  Carver shakes his head at the man to indicate everything is okay. “If I’m released, Meg, what are we going to do then, huh?”

  “Pick up where we left off.” I frown at him. What else would we do?

  “With you working for scraps at the supermarket, and me out of employment because nobody wants to hire a criminal?”

  “I wouldn’t work at the supermarket forever,” I reason. “I could apply at the textile factory.”

  He shakes his head, laughing bitterly. “Oh, babe. No way.”

  “If it meant rent was paid, and I had a better meal than damn noodles, I’d be happy with settling.” Am I even listening to myself? I’ve just admitted that I’m content with being the very thing I was trying so hard to avoid a mere month ago. Talk about a complete U-turn.

  “What would you do if none of this was an issue?” Carver lifts his hands to gesture to his predicament. “If you didn’t have to worry about me, and if your options were unlimited?”

  “Tanya made me look up courses at the polytechnic in town.”

  “Yeah? See anything you like?”

  “A couple.” I shrug. “But I hadn’t made my mind up on it. I don’t know if they’ll even take me since I’m applying past the cut-off.”

  “Go to the damn Post Office,” he demands. “See if your exam results are in and do what it takes to get on one of those courses.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you need a future outside of the shithole we live in, Meg. You’re bright, have one hell of a wicked mind on you, and you’d be wasted sewing coveral
ls for peanuts.”

  “It can wait.” Once his hearing is over, this is all sorted out and they realise he wasn’t at fault, I can try for mid-year intake. No way am I doing this now when it means I wouldn’t be around to support him.

  “It can’t wait. I love you, Meg, and fuck knows I want to be out there with you so damn bad it hurts, but don’t let the days pass you by just because I screwed up. Move on. Carry on with your life.”

  “But you didn’t screw up,” I argue. “You weren’t there. It wasn’t you.”

  “Not this time, but my history doesn’t help my cause, Meg. I don’t know if they’re even looking for anyone else, or if they’re just happy laying it on me.”

  “You seem like you’re happy to let them,” I snap. Why does he sound as though he’s been thinking this over? “Fight the charges, Carver. Get out of here and come to the city too. We can find a flat, get you a job where people don’t know your history—”

  “Even if they did search, they’d conveniently never find who really did it, Meg.”

  I frown, fingers tightly gripping the edge of the table. “What makes you say that? Do you know more about this than you’re telling me?”

  “I overheard a few things while I was held at the station those first days. It took me a while to piece it together, but yeah, I think I know who did it, and if I’m right, he’d never be charged.”

  “Are you saying it’s—”

  “Forget it,” he warns. “Just let it go, Meg. It’s not your problem.”

  “It fucking is,” I hiss through clenched teeth. “If you give up and leave me… then….”

  “What? You’ll be forced to carve out a future that’s best for you, and not let my sorry arse drag you down?”

  “Don’t say that.” I fight the unwanted tears at his resignation.

  “Face the truth, babe. I’ve been selfish with you. I’ve held you back all because I can’t stand the thought of not having you there with me, to talk to, to hold. But that’s not fair on you. My wants shouldn’t overpower your needs.”

  “What if I want the same thing, though? Huh?”

  He shakes his head, dismissing me. “Even if your parents came forward, I could almost guarantee I’d get done for this anyway. Jasper’s old man has it in for me—he’d probably pay whoever he had to, to get me locked away, just so he can walk in the pub and gloat to my old man.”

  “What the hell has their family got against yours?” I ask. “What’s it to them what you do?”

  “We’re two ends of the spectrum, Meg. Polar opposites. Repelled and repulsed by each other. People like me are a stain on the town to pompous fuckers like him. He wants our ‘kind’ gone. His vision is for a squeaky clean Whitecaps, and jailbirds and petty thieves like the Carvers don’t fit that bill.”

  “I don’t care if he’ll make it hard,” I whisper. “I’m talking to Mum and Dad.”

  “If they wanted to help they would have done it by now. You’re wasting yourself on me, Meg, and you know it.”

  “No, I don’t know it. I know that’s what people tell me, but I’m yet to feel that for myself. Everything you’ve done for me, every moment we’ve spent together, it’s made me a better person. So tell me, Brett, how does that make you a waste of my time?”

  He recoils at my use of his actual name. “I tried playing it straight and narrow, Meg. It didn’t work.”

  “Then don’t just ‘play,’ Carver. Give it a red-hot go and actually do it. Prove them wrong, and stop playing into their preconceived idea of who you should be.” I glance over at the officer to our right who seems disinterested in the conversation, eyes scanning the room. Lowering my voice, I lean forward again. “Do what you have to, to get out of here. Whatever it takes. Just come home to me when you’re finished.”

  His eyes darken, his Adam’s apple slowly bobbing as he regards me with a long sigh.

  My heart races: have I said the right thing? Am I enough? Does what he see give him pause enough to try and get off this charge? Does he want that future with me? He swallows hard, his fingers flexing over his ribs.

  I take the opportunity of his silence to say what I feel he needs to hear before our time is up. I metaphorically open my chest and lay my heart bare on the table for him so he can see that this is the raw truth of it.

  “I never knew what I was missing until I had you.” His brow furrows, and I swallow away the last of my inhibitions. “After that night at the bonfire, it took me a while to realise what it was that made me crave your company. Aside from the obvious spark between us, it was because experiencing the best of you brought out the best in me: your selflessness, your compassion, your confidence, and your determination. You gave me reason to fight back. I said to you once that I wished I knew why you had faith in me, and you said you wished I could see why. Well, now I’m going to say the same thing back to you—I wish you could see why I have faith in you, too. You’re not a bad person, Carver,” I say, shaking my head. “You’re not the criminal you like to think you are. You’re just a boy who grew up without enough love to allow him to believe in himself.” My vision blurs, and I frown in an effort to get the last words out. “Let me give you that love. Let me return the favour and show you how great you can be.”

  He runs a hand over his face, huffing out a heavy breath. His eyes are bloodshot, and I just know I’ve got through. “Babe, I wish it was that easy. But our town, the community, it’s a fucking rip tide. You’ve been fighting to get away from it, and I’ve been pulling you under over and over until you’re too tired to fight anymore. You might not be able to see it, but I know it. I can’t keep consciously doing that to you.”

  “This isn’t why I came here today,” I say, fighting the tears of frustration, of anger and injustice. “I didn’t come here for you to push me away, for you to quit on me.”

  “I know, baby. I know,” he murmurs. “But it had to be said, and what better time than when at least one of us can’t escape the conversation.”

  “You said you loved me when they arrested you.” I play my final card.

  “I do.”

  “Then fucking prove it.” I push to my feet, the plastic chair complaining as it moves across the linoleum. “If I mean so much to you, come home.”

  He can’t touch me—I won’t let him get a goodbye hug and lay this to rest. I leave before he has the chance to even reach out. If I gave him that connection, I know what would have happened: it would have killed his need to get out so he can have our intimacy again, closure. I need him to want us bad enough to fight this. I need him to crave it.

  So I leave. I walk away, tiny shards of heart falling in my wake, and hope like fuck I’m doing the right thing.

  The deep baritone of his voice calling my name haunts me down the corridor as I stride toward the reception desk.

  He can’t quit on us.

  He can’t quit on me.

  I won’t let him walk away thinking it’s what’s best for me.

  Because it’s not.

  He is.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “I’ve got a way for you to earn some extra cash,” Tanya absently says as I swing the door of the Falcon open and drop into the seat. Her expression grows concerned after she looks my way. “What happened?”

  “He’s giving up. He said that Jasper’s dad will probably pin the crime on him to save paperwork, and that he’s okay with it—in not so many words.”

  She scowls out the windscreen. “Fucker.”

  “He told me where he was when the break-in happened.” Tanya’s head swings back my way, and I take a second to look her over for any clues. “Did you know?”

  “I only knew he didn’t come home like he told you. Where was he?”

  “Apparently talking to my parents.”

  She starts the car, a fierce determination making her usually bright blue eyes as dark as a brewing storm. “Did he ask you to talk to them? Get them to go down to the station and put in a statement?”

  I shake my head as she
pulls onto the road out of this grey soul-crushing hole. “He told me not to.”

  “Didn’t want you to get involved?”

  “Told me that he’s dragging me down and that I’d do better without him.”

  A small smile plays on her lips as she gives a polite wave to the guard on the way out. “If you’d met our mum, you’d know where he gets it from.”

  “Was she the same?”

  “She stayed with Dad and let it ruin her, all so we had a better shot at life, so, yeah.”

  “How did she die?”

  “Cancer.”

  “That sucks.”

  Tanya sighs as she indicates out onto the main road. “Yeah, it did. Brett hasn’t told you much, huh?”

  “Just said she was in a better place.”

  A bitter snort escapes Tanya. “Those last months were the worst. But what made it so bittersweet was it took Mum being too frail to even feed herself for Dad to finally look at her how he should have all along.”

  “He cared for her?”

  “Sometimes. At the end he’d spend hours beside her, talking about the old days, sharing memories of when they were young. I think he was guilty.” She swipes a tear from her cheek.

  “I’m sorry I brought it up.”

  “No.” She shakes her head, grabbing a deep breath before she continues. “It’s good to talk, and Lord knows those boys don’t do it enough.” Her eyes light up, and she smiles. “I can tell you a bit about her if you like? About Brett when he was young?”

  “That’d be cool.” I settle back into the seat, twisting slightly to face her as she talks.

  The trip back to Whitecaps takes no time at all with how invested Tanya has me in her tales of innocence and naivety. Two kids, who grew up as each other’s rock because their parents were preoccupied with simply trying to get by and make ends meet. She paints a vivid picture of Jon as a tow truck driver when he met their mum, a waitress at the truck stop.

  The same truck stop Carver took me to.

  My heart clenches at the hidden meaning behind our lunches, at the sentiment to why he took me there—conscious or subconscious decision on his behalf.