Boyfrenemy

by Catherine Rull

Our eyes meet for a beat, but before I can read his expression his gaze suddenly zones in on something over my shoulders. “Who the hell is that?”

  I follow Keats’ gaze and find a tall, tanned woman walking towards us with purposeful strides. She’s about the same height as me, but with her figure, she could be a swimsuit model instead of being called “Tank” throughout high school. She’s in a long blonde wig arranged in two ponytails at the sides of her head and a knee-length sack-like pale pink dress that doesn’t hide her killer body nor her shapely long legs. Her face is made-up to look like she has dark half-circles under her dark eyes, and blue lips.

  “Querida!” she yells, waving a graceful long arm to attract Isabella’s attention. Her perky breasts jiggle a little with the action, the motion hypnotic.

  “Sofie, hi!” Isabella squeals, running over to the exotic beauty. They air kiss—hopefully because Isabella is covered in fake blood rather than because she’s become one of those people who air kisses. “I’m so glad you can make it.”

  “Of course.” She turns to the zombie bride. “By-hon, docinho, so good to see you again! How’s life at Gatton? Got a secret relationship with a cow yet?”

  “Yeah, I did, but I had to break it off. I’m home most weekends now with this one.”

  Isabella slaps him playfully on the stomach with the back of her hand.

  “Good choice,” Sofie says with a wink as the others return with their one-serving boxes of pizza.

  “Everyone, this is my uni friend, Sofie Oliveira. She’s the newest member of the bridal party, now that Fiona isn’t allowed to be on her feet.”

  My stomach drops. This is the first I’ve heard of this.

  I’m suddenly glad I’m maid of honour. I’ll probably be standing next to Isabella at the church and in the wedding photos. Sofie as the last bridesmaid will most likely be at the other end of the shots. Isabella is obviously not choosing bridesmaids so she can be the prettiest in the bunch on the day, because Sofie will no doubt steal the show.

  I watch Penny and Mia greet our newest member, Babe Spice, impressed by their genuine-looking smiles and friendliness. Am I the only one who thinks this is a terrible idea?

  “Sofie’s a member of the in-house counsel at Real Mines Australia,” Isabella tells the bridal party, then proceeds to introduce everyone to her.

  They all seem enthralled by Sofie, who looks like a cross between Sofia Vergara and Catherine Zeta-Jones. The only thing paying attention to me is a bee hovering near the corn syrup “blood” on my arms.

  “And this is Keats, Byron’s brother. He’s an investment banker at the Bank of Australian Investments,” Isabella says, making my head snap to attention away from the buzzing insect.

  “Oh, the ex-boyfriend. How awkward,” Sofie says, with a laugh and a hand on Keats’ arm that seems to put everyone at ease. “I like this blood on you. How do I get some?”

  I squirt her with the sauce bottle, the arc landing across her dress and face like the splatter from a sword fight. Sofie looks stunned—some of the liquid has gone into her mouth.

  “Sorry,” I say quickly, even though the only thing I’m sorry about is that, even bloodied, she’s still so gorgeous.

  ***

  “Oh good, it looks like it’s working,” Isabella says.

  She and I are strolling around the festival compound not really caring about the macabre wares for sale. It’s just fun to see everyone’s costumes.

  “What?”

  “Keats and Sofie. They look like they like each other, don’t you think?”

  Ahead of us, Keats and Isabella’s gorgeous friend are similarly wandering through the field, more engrossed in conversation with each other than paying attention to the simulated carnage around them. I can’t quite hear what they’re talking about even though I’m half-tuning out Isabella.

  “You’ve set them up?” My tongue stumbles over my words, my throat constricting at the same time. “Does Sofie know?”

  Isabella makes a face. “No way. She’d kill me. Anyway, I was just hoping they’d hit it off. I figured, he might move on if he found his own happy ending. I was just getting such a strong vibe off Keats that maybe he still wanted to get back together with me.”

  My saliva goes down the wrong hole and I splutter while I choke.

  “I know,” Isabella says, mistaking my uncoordinated swallowing reflex for disagreement. “I feel full of myself for even thinking it, but it’s still safer this way. And besides, I want Keats to be happy. He was a nice boyfriend. He didn’t deserve what I did to him.”

  I swallow a few times to give my tongue the chance to form the words. “You’re okay with him dating a friend?”

  “Hells, yeah. But I didn’t think he and Penny would get along; Mia’s still off men, and you don’t believe in marriage. Keats is ready for something more serious.”

  Disappointment knifes me right in the chest. Would Isabella have really set me up with her ex-boyfriend if only I’d shared with her how I felt about him? “It’s not that I don’t want to get married.”

  “Oh, you’ve changed your mind?” She sounds surprised and happy for me.

  I look at Keats in his bloody bridesmaid outfit next to a much improved Baby Spice, now sitting on a grassy knoll sharing a pizza.

  “No. I guess not.” Keats looks up and catches Isabella and me looking at them. He waves at us, a small flick of his fingers, not missing a beat in his conversation with the glamazon. “Maybe.”

  “I guess, it’s just about finding the right person for you, and hopefully they feel the same way. How are things with Neil?”

  I’m tempted to lie to her, but instead I find myself saying, “Ever been with a great guy but something’s missing?”

  She nods, the plastic butcher’s knife on her head threatening to topple with the action. “It was like that with Keats and me. He ticked all the boxes but he just wasn’t Byron.”

  Keats so needs to hear this. It would probably break his heart or hurt his pride, but he could do with this reality check.

  Isabella stops walking to face me. “I don’t know when it’ll happen for you, Jess. But don’t settle. Your guy is out there somewhere. And he might not be who you originally thought was perfect for you, but it’ll feel right.”

  I look to the grassy knoll dotted by the “un-dead”. Keats stands up and pulls Sofie to her feet before they walk towards the churros stand. They make a beautiful couple. My heart clenches, so I avert my eyes. Whatever this is I feel for Keats, it hurts too much to feel right.

  “Oh, Jess,” Isabella says, her eyes concerned. There’s a knot between her brows, and I realise she’d probably seen me tear up. Taking a step towards me, Isabella places her hands on my upper arms. “Are you upset about Neil?”

  I nod, not trusting my voice to pull off the lie. I can’t tell her now about Keats. It’s too late. “I’m Byron’s Secret Santa. Any suggestions on what I can get him?” I ask to change the topic.

  Isabella tips her head to the side, lips pressed together in a sympathetic smile that tells me she can see I’m not okay. “Jess, I know we were kind of tomboy buddies in high school,” she begins with an awkward smile, “but would it be weird if I gave you a hug now?”

  I shake my head, and open my arms to Isabella. It’s our first hug after over fifteen years of friendship. And perhaps the first time I’ve ever really opened my heart to her. Well, part of it anyway.

  Chapter 25

  “Jess!” Heather McAllister greets me with open arms. She’s got an apron on, but underneath is a beaded black top, and a red and green Bohemian skirt with sequined detailing—gone is the frumpy recluse I met in April. I’m so proud of her. “Good of you to come.”

  “Thanks for inviting me.” We hug and I wish my mother was like her. From the little that I remember, Mum wasn’t exactly the warm type.

  Heather flashes me an aww-look. “You’re part of the family. Happy HTC.”

  “Happy HTC,” I greet back, her enthusiasm contagious.
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br />   The McAllisters have a strange yearly celebration called “the HTC dinner”. Because of Dr McAllister’s job, the family celebrated Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas all on the same day. Apparently, the emergency room is extra busy on Christmas Day, so Dr McAllister usually got requested to come into work, even when he wasn’t on call. And because Halloween was his favourite holiday, they celebrated all three special days as a family on the Sunday on or before 31 October every year. Now that Dr McAllister is gone and forgiven, his family is celebrating it again.

  “Here, open up your present.” Heather shoves a soft, wrapped parcel at me.

  As soon as I touch it, I can guess there’s something made of cloth inside, but I have no idea what it is. I’m tingly with curiosity but also feeling bad I didn’t get her anything.

  “Are you my Secret Santa?” I ask hopefully. My name, along with the others attending today, was put in a hat and drawn two weeks ago. I ended up buying Byron a backpack for the next school year—Isabella’s suggestion. We had a forty-dollar cap on gifts.

  “No. I got Keats. Just open it!” Heather says with a laugh.

  Talk about pressure. Heather seems to have turned a corner with her outlook on life but I still worry that something I say or do might trigger a relapse of her depression. I push that thought away. I had to learn a long time ago that I can’t control how others feel and think.

  I rip the paper and pull out a light pink apron with a white frill at the neck and along the waist. A tear stings the corner of my eye. Other than Isabella, who’s been doing it since I met her in Year 8, no one else has ever given me a Christmas present before.

  “For today,” Heather explains. “Ready to learn another recipe?”

  I nod as I put the apron over the jeans and ruffled top that nicely hide my bumps and lumps.

  She touches my forearm and smiles up at me. “Here, let me help you with the tie.”

  I put the apron’s halter neck over my head and turn around so that Heather can tie it at the back.

  “Hey, Hay-gen, you’re here early.”

  I look up to find Keats just beyond the kitchen doorway. He’s in boxer shorts and a singlet, his eyes still partly closed against the bright morning sunshine. A poignant ache floods my whole body at the sight of him.

  I’m still in two minds about my feelings for him. We’ve been conspiring about this wedding for six months now, not to mention our driving lessons, regular phone calls and the texts in between. I was an idiot to think there’d be nothing more than lust, and I feel pretty stupid now clinging on to said feelings when he seems to have no intention of reciprocating them.

  There are three weeks left till the wedding. And I suspect we’d probably part ways once he realises I never had any intention of helping him break up Isabella and Byron. I’ll have to figure out how to keep meeting up with Heather without accidentally running into him. It would be like we were sharing custody of his fabulous mother.

  “Happy HTC!” I’m not sure I pull off that cheery greeting with my throat tightening at the thought of possibly losing two friends in a few weeks.

  Keats stops trudging to the bathroom to open an eye a little wider at me, still pouty with sleepiness. “Happy HTC,” he mumbles with a slow sleepy smile before he resumes his somnolent trek to do whatever he does in the morning.

  “I need another helper in here,” Heather calls after her son.

  “Hm,” he groans without looking back.

  “He and Byron used to wake up with the sun on the morning of HTC, and their father and I would wake up to the sound of squealing. Those boys loved the presents under the tree and in their Christmas stockings.”

  I can’t imagine Keats as a little kid, but I remember him at twelve. Short for his age but with charm beyond his years.

  ***

  Keats joins us just as I am measuring flour into a large mixing bowl.

  “Morning,” he says, face now washed, teeth brushed, hair finger combed. He heads straight for the fridge, rifles through containers in there before raiding the produce drawer and coming up with a banana. “What do you need me to do, Mom?”

  “I need the pumpkin peeled for the pie.”

  Keats reaches around his mother to get a cutting board from under the sink and a knife from the block near the jars of sugar, flour and corn flour on the kitchen counter.

  “Happy HTC,” he says, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “I can make the whole thing today, if you like?”

  She pinches his chin, leaving a smidge of flour there.

  “You want to learn how to make this bread or the pie?” Heather asks me.

  My body hums at the thought of being next to Keats for the next few hours. Hm, tough call.

  “Um, maybe the pie.” I’m a weak, weak person.

  “Make room, Keats,” Heather tells her son who scoots down the solid wooden table in the middle of the kitchen that serves as a food preparation surface.

  “Give me a sec,” he says, quickly chewing his banana before going to the fridge and drinking directly out of an orange juice bottle with his name written on it in marker pen. “All right. Ready to see magic?” he asks me.

  ***

  I haven’t been at a family Christmas dinner in over ten years.

  I was always invited to Isabella’s house—my brother and I were—but I rarely took them up on the offer. It was a pride thing, which on hindsight was stupid of me. Christmas at the Harpers was always a happy feast. I shouldn’t have treated my brother to that only when our father was especially drunk and in a bad mood. Kris has never quite forgiven me for how I raised him. He still hates the “festive” season, and has not contacted me at all in months.

  Isabella and Byron arrive first just after three in the afternoon with a couple of bottles of wine and presents for their Secret Santa recipients. Isabella’s eyes widen when she spots me in an apron chopping broccoli next to Keats but she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she and Byron start setting the table when they realise we have things under control in the kitchen.

  Just before four, two more guests arrive. Mr Barker and his son Blake. Keats tenses up when the older man comes in and greets his mother with a peck on the lips.

  “Smells delicious, Heather,” Mr Barker says and the way she chortles afterwards makes me wonder if he was talking about the food.

  I smile, happy for my friend. Keats notices me and mouths, “This is all your fault,” at me with an accusatory finger. But the wistful expression he gets whenever his mother smiles tells me he appreciates the positive changes in her.

  By 5 p.m., the table for eight on the back veranda is close to overflowing with food, and despite my initial reluctance, I was involved in cooking all of the dishes that will be served today. And proud of it. The only downside is, I didn’t realise how hot it would be in the kitchen—I usually just cook one dish at a time with Heather or Keats. I’m sweaty and gross, and in need of a change of clothes.

  “Shall we start?” Byron asks when all seven of us are seated around the table.

  Heather is at the head, Mr Barker to her left, Blake next to him, then Isabella and Byron at the other end next to each other. Keats is sitting to his mother’s right, like a chaperone with one eye constantly watching the older couple’s interaction. Between Keats and me is a spare chair because I sat in front of Isabella before Keats chose his spot for the meal. I was hoping he’d sit next to me but it seems making sure his mother is watched like a hawk is his priority.

  “We’ve got one more coming,” Keats says, surprising me.

  “New girlfriend?” Byron asks his brother.

  Keats shakes his head. “Just a friend,” he replies, but he looks uncomfortable with the dimples on both sides of his mouth on show.

  “Bullshit,” Blake says. “Must be pretty special if you’ve invited her to HTC dinner.”

  “Why are you all assuming my friend’s a ‘she’?” Keats says, shifting in his seat.

  “You trying to tell us something?” Byron jokes.

>   Keats’ mobile phone suddenly rings. He pulls it out of his jeans pocket and excuses himself from the table. He is smiling big when he answers. The six of us at the table gawk at him, intrigued.

  “Yeah, it’s the second house down from the corner with the black tin roof. Just come on in and head to the backyard to the back veranda.”

  As soon as Keats presses the hang up button, Byron and Blake laugh at him.

  “Shut up, you bastards. You better not embarrass me when Sofie gets here either.”

  “Sofie?” Isabella beams. “As in my friend, Sofie Oliveira?”

  “Hey? Did I hear my name?” comes a voice from the bottom of the stairs followed by the click of heels ascending the back steps.

  My stomach drops as Sofie in all her gorgeousness reaches the top. Today, she’s in a floral, light yellow maxi dress with thin straps and a low neckline that displays her perfect, perky cleavage. Her luscious, long, chocolate brown hair is down over her shoulders, framing her chest while dangly chandelier earrings elongate her already long neck.

  “Jesus,” Mr Barker says under his breath. Then to Keats, “Well done, mate.”

  “Isabella, querida!” Sofie goes to Isabella first, arms already up and ready to hug. She kisses Byron on the cheek before turning around to the rest of us. “Hello, everyone. Keats tells me I should probably greet you, Feliz Natal—Merry Christmas…in October. Sorry, I’m late. It’s not a day off in China. Hi, Blake, Jess, Keats.” She leans in and kisses Keats on the cheek, putting a goofy smile on his face even though the gesture seems platonic.

  Keats introduces Sofie to his mother, then continues with, “Sofie, my mother, Heather. And that’s her…friend, Pete Barker—Blake’s dad.”

  “Hello, nice to meet you.” Sofie shakes both their hands, and I feel socially inept at how comfortable and confident she is at meeting new people. “Thank you for having me. It would have been another Sunday alone in my apartment if Keats hadn’t invited me. Here, please.” She hands Heather an expensive bottle of wine.

  “Thank you. And you’re more than welcome,” Heather says, eyes fixated on the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in person. I could almost see Heather imagining how gorgeous her grandchildren would be. “It looks like you already know most of us here, and we have plenty of food.”