Boyfrenemy

by Catherine Rull

  “Oh, my God, look at that!” Sofie’s dark brown eyes sweep the feast on the table. “Perfect, I’m starving!”

  “Well, there’s a spare seat right there next to Jess,” Heather tells her, beaming.

  I quickly paste on a smile. Just what I need—easier comparison for Keats. Gorgeous, successful, polite and gregarious goddess. Or me. It’s not like she’s inhumanly sexy but stupid. Or smart but evil. At least I don’t think so. She looks like the kind of person who’d stop to check if an animal on the side of the road is still alive and needs to be taken to a vet. Even the McAllisters’ dog, Terry, has gone straight to Sofie to sniff and lick her ankles, inciting a laugh that sounds like tinkling crystal chandeliers.

  I hate her.

  “All right, let’s get started,” Keats says, standing up. He grabs a knife and a giant two-pronged fork. “Who wants ham?”

  ***

  Compared to Sofie, I’m like a teenager. She’s so well-rounded and grown up like Legal Eagle Barbie. I also somehow managed to be the odd one out in an even group of eight—the pathetic singleton who got the pity invite from the guy friend who is not interested in being more. Blake’s fiancée called him up just as we were clearing the table of dinner plates, so for twenty minutes I was literally the seventh wheel at the table. All of a sudden I’m not so happy that Heather has a man in her life when I don’t.

  I’m a crappy friend.

  “It must be presents time,” Heather announces as we sip our tea and coffee and wait for dinner to dissolve before we chase it with dessert.

  “Oh, I didn’t bring one. Keats, you told me not to bring anything!” Sofie slaps him on the arm, the sound telling me it would’ve stung.

  But Keats just chuckles. “You didn’t have to. Your name wasn’t in the Secret Santa draw.”

  “Oh, so I just watch everyone open a present?” she asks with a raised brow and a teasing frown.

  They’re already arguing playfully like an old married couple. I sneak a look at Isabella. She has a faint smile on her face while she watches her friend and her ex.

  “Not quite.”

  Keats gets up and comes back with a stack of gifts in his arms.

  “Are these everyone’s?” he asks the rest of us.

  I spot my crudely wrapped parcel for Byron. The backpack is uneven and lumpy. Maybe I should’ve bought a gift box for it. That’s what Sofie would’ve done.

  “You wanna play Santa, Mom?” Keats asks.

  “You can do it, pet.” She leans back in her seat while she holds hands with her boyfriend.

  Keats grabs the gift closest to him. Judging by the crisp folds, it must be Isabella’s present for someone.

  “Mr Barker from Santa Isabella.” Keats hands the present to the older man. “To Keats from Santa Mom.” He gives his mother a kiss on the cheek and sets the gift bag aside. “To Byron from Santa…”

  “That’s me. Sorry, I didn’t know we actually write who the gift is from,” I explain.

  “No worries,” Byron says, catching his present in one hand. “Thanks, Jess.”

  “Okay, Heather from Santa Pete. Blake from Santa Byron. Isabella from Santa Blake. Jess from Santa Keats, and that leaves one present…Sofie from Santa Keats.”

  “Aw.” Sofie claps her long fingered hands and beams. “When do we open them?”

  “Now.”

  Everyone tears into their gifts. I inspect mine—it looks like Keats got it wrapped at the shops, unless he has another hidden talent he learnt in his two-parent household.

  “There was a forty-dollar cap,” Keats explains to Sofie as she peels the sticky tape holding the opening of the tiny gift bag in place.

  “Meu Deus, são lindos! They’re beautiful, Keats.” Sofie pulls out a pair of silver chandelier earrings with green Murano glass.

  “Mia makes them. You know, one of the other bridesmaids?” Keats explains to her.

  Sofie smiles, taking her earrings off and replacing them with her HTC present.

  I return my attention to my package. It doesn’t look like jewellery. When I glance up, I realise all eyes are on me. Everyone else has opened their presents already.

  Keats’ gift for me is soft. Socks? Lingerie? I rip the paper off, and out slinks a shiny garment all the way to the floor—bike shorts? I pick it up, wondering what the hell Keats was thinking. It’s a black, long sleeve, Billabong rash shirt—like what surfers wear—with a collar designed to go at least halfway up the wearer’s neck.

  “For swimming,” Keats says with a cheeky grin. “Maybe you can hop in the pool with us next time.”

  Bastard. He knows I do not swim in public.

  I dread the thought of seeing what size he got me, but a quick look at the swimming top tells me Keats has sized me up pretty accurately.

  Great. The gorgeous Sofie gets jewellery, I get swimwear to help me stay all covered up.

  Way to send home the message: we’re just friends.

  Why do I keep needing these little reminders?

  Chapter 26

  Early-November

  I am in the middle of mindlessly chewing an apple when my door buzzer goes off. I don’t want to get up. My feet are sore from wearing the heels that went with my Melbourne Cup outfit—a floral dress matched with a giant pink flower at a jaunty angle on my head. Except for the shoes, I feel too pretty and too tired to get changed. Besides, I paid a lot for this outfit and I am determined to get the most use out of it.

  The buzzer rings again. But I ignore it, wanting to catch up on wedding gown orders and inquiries on the Miz Peggy website. Wedding services customers, I’m learning, are humming with stress and kind of high maintenance.

  Talk about the dark underbelly of wedding preparation—the inevitable drama that comes with all that emotion flying around. Of course, not all weddings have the best man trying to steal the bride, but my Miz Peggy website has been flooded with women asking for advice on how to lose weight for the Big Day, or at least recommendations for the best control underwear.

  Seriously? A website dedicated to the curvy and obese, and they ask me to give them advice on weight loss? Honestly, I’m starting to regret adding the wedding services feature to my website. At least my original customers weren’t emotional messes suffering from hunger-induced hysteria about one day in their lives. But it’s too late now. The bridal party wear and services are total cash cows, and with a direct link to the pre-existing lingerie section of the website, I have brides loading up on honeymoon wear and funding my first home loan deposit.

  The buzzer goes again till I finally set down my tablet computer and amble over to the door.

  “Hey, you’re home,” Keats voice says through the intercom. “Can I come up?”

  “I’m kinda busy.” I seem to swing from wanting to spend every possible time left with him to needing to wean myself from my addiction to his presence. Today, I’m determined not to need him, especially since he’s just spent the day with Sofie at his work’s Melbourne Cup celebration at the races.

  “You sure you don’t want to go for a drive? It’s good to get some night time practice.”

  I press my fist to my mouth while I think. My pride says, “Hell, no.” My heart is busy happy dancing and reminding me what Jillie told me just this morning, “Who knows why he wants you around. The important thing is he wants you around.”

  “You’re gonna let me drive?” I ask. “I thought I’ve used up my ten driving lessons already?”

  “This one’s on the house, darlin’.”

  I slip on my pink heels which are still sitting where I left them next to the front door. I turn off my tablet, and grab my handbag and house keys.

  Keats is waiting in the passenger seat of his car when I reach him. He grins at me through the windshield while I make my way to the driver’s side of the vehicle. He’s in a fedora—probably part of his outfit for Melbourne Cup—that makes him look just that little bit more rakish.

  “You look nice,” he says like I’ve confused him. “Ready
to drive?”

  I nod and slide in behind the flat-bottomed steering wheel. I study him before I turn on the engine. “What are you doing here?”

  He shrugs. “Went for a drive—my car seems to know the route to your place.”

  “Was Sofie busy tonight?”

  He shrugs again.

  Good enough for me. I start the car. “Where to?”

  “Let’s go over the Story Bridge,” he instructs. “Then down Anne Street.”

  I pay attention to the road. Brisbane streets at 8 p.m. on a Tuesday night, even this close to the CBD, are relatively quiet. But there are lots of one-way traffic and lane changes required in the city centre. I’m still new enough to driving that I can’t chat when going over roads that I’m not too familiar with.

  Keats guides me along the river on Coronation Drive. The streetlamps on the opposite bank provide picturesque orange reflections on the dark water of the Brisbane River to our left. A few turns later, we come to a large roundabout with Keats directing me to take the Mt Coot-Tha exit.

  “It’s sixty along here, but watch your speed. It’ll feel a lot faster, believe me.”

  The road up the mountain to the scenic lookout is steep and winding, and in some parts narrow. I check the speed a few times as the car glides through the dark night and my ears pop with the altitude. The view to my left is breathtaking—beyond the scraggly trees and mesh fencing, the whole city of Brisbane is lit up like a frozen firework explosion.

  “Watch the road,” Keats warns as the car veers in the direction that has caught my attention.

  I mumble an apology while I try very hard to keep my eyes on the darkness cut only by the headlights of the Audi and the odd car coming down the mountain on the opposite lane.

  “You booked your driving test yet?” he asks.

  “Uh-huh. Monday next week.”

  Keats doesn’t say anything beside me, so I sneak a quick sideways glance to check what he’s doing. A muscle in his jaw tics before he says, “That’s soon.”

  So is the wedding. We’re eleven days out, and he’s still obviously pining after the bride.

  I slow the car when we near the summit of Mt. Coot-tha. Ahead, I spot the scenic lookout area with its restaurant, souvenir shop and viewing platform.

  Cars line the side of the road with people unloading huge telescopes from the backs of their vehicles, then trekking up the hill, lugging their equipment.

  Turning left at the roundabout, we survey the official parking area but there’s nowhere to leave the car, so we keep going until we have done a three-sixty and find ourselves approaching the same roundabout again.

  “Must be some cosmic event tonight,” Keats surmises. “Let’s try another spot. Turn right here.”

  The exit in that direction is dark but there are cars parked on the side of the road. The narrow fare way is bordered by gravelly stopping bays, beyond which are trees interspersed enough to show glimpses of the city below. We keep going up the road till there aren’t any more cars in sight. The dark, isolated location makes the hair on my arms stand. Isn’t this the setting for countless urban legends about people getting hacked to pieces?

  “Park there.” Keats indicates the other side of the road. “Signal and slow down, do a U-ey, then crawl the car to the shoulder. Let’s park with the back facing the view.”

  I have no idea what he has in mind but I do as I’m told, though easing the sports car onto the side of the road scares me. My imagination has me accidentally stepping on the accelerator instead of the brakes and sending Keats and me crashing past the trees and over the mountainside.

  I activate the parking brake and don’t breathe a sigh of relief until the engine is completely off. I turn my head to Keats but he’s already getting out of the vehicle. I follow him to the back of the car and watch as he opens up the hatchback and proceeds to push the tiny backseats down. Once they’re both flat, he climbs in, and props himself on his elbows.

  “Look,” he says, pointing at the view behind me from his vantage point. He pats the space beside him in silent invitation.

  Well, hell. He doesn’t have to ask me twice. As gracefully as I could, I crawl into the space beside him. It’s definitely roomier back here than in the front seats. And with the hatch door up, the mountain breeze cools the otherwise sultry night.

  I match his pose and prop myself on my elbows too. In front of me are our legs stretched with ankles and feet dangling out of the vehicle. Beyond are the dark silhouettes of trees and the sparkling city below. “So, what now?” I ask.

  His eyes remain on the view ahead. “We talk.”

  “About?”

  He shrugs. “Whatever. Friends talk.”

  I study him for a beat before I point out, “Are we really friends? All we have connecting us is Isabella and the wedding.”

  We’re so close to the end of our time together, it seems I’m ready for some honesty.

  Keats angles his body to face me. “Maybe at first. But you’re probably the closest thing I have to a best friend these days. I’ve hung out with you way more than I have with Deano.”

  “That’s just sad,” I say deadpan even though his words have warmed me all over.

  “Seriously, though,” Keats says, “I want us to be friends. And if I haven’t asked you a lot about yourself, it’s because I got the vibe that you didn’t want us to talk about you.”

  I acknowledge his words with a nod. Does this mean he wants to stay in touch beyond the wedding day? Do I want to live through the torture of being just friends with him?

  But this is a start, I think in Isabella’s optimistic voice. “Why don’t you ask me something,” I find myself saying with a tentative smile, “and I’ll tell you what I’m willing to share?”

  Keats’ blue eyes light up, reminding me of a kid given permission to go nuts in a toy store. “Shit. What to ask first…?” He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “What’s, um, what’s the deal with your parents? You never seem to talk about them.”

  My hands clench on my lap and my face drops. I didn’t think Keats would go there so soon, or at all. I was ready to answer questions about being a receptionist, or even talk about Neil.

  “Sorry,” Keats apologises quickly, concern in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s all right. Friends know these things about each other.” I drum my fingers on my thigh, take a deep breath, and start from the beginning—my parents and me before my brother, then after Kris was born, and our mother’s desertion. Before I know it, I’m sharing with Keats my dad’s alcoholism and the poverty of my childhood which only ended when I moved my brother and me from under our father’s roof when I turned eighteen. I haven’t seen or heard from our dad ever since.

  While I talk, I watch the thoughts cross Keats’ features, half-illuminated by the city lights below the mountain. I see sympathy, empathy, concern and shock. I wait for his disdain, or maybe pity. But neither appears. Instead, Keats exhales loudly when I finish talking, like what he’s heard has taken it out of him. He studies my face and there is something in his eyes that I haven’t seen much of in my life—admiration?

  I must be reading him wrong. “So I never had a lot of friends. I still don’t,” I confess, my eyes on the gear stick between us. “Just Isabella in high school. She gave me something to strive for—an ideal,” I add, realising as the words leave my mouth just how true they are. “Not that I succeeded much in emulating any of her achievements.” And there lies my resentment.

  “Byron’s the same. It’s tough being the older brother of a high achieving little shit.” He runs his fingers through his hair, shaking his head with an ironic smile—like he can’t believe his luck. “So, it must be your turn to ask me a question?”

  It takes me a beat to come up with something to ask him. I don’t know what has brought on this mood he’s in, but this feels like a turning point in our relationship—whatever that relationship might be. I need to make this query count. How often would I get an open invitatio
n to pry?

  Then I have it. I should ask him whether he’s at all interested in me as more than a friend. I should just find out once and for all. Except, I’m not brave enough to dive into that great unknown.

  “So, what happened with Sofie?” This is my circuitous way to get to the answer I really want to hear, like slowly wading in the sea to make sure I don’t die a horrible death by shark attack. “I thought you’d be with her now.”

  He shrugs, palms up. “Me, too.”

  “Did you strike out?” I’m enjoying our new-found candour.

  “No.”

  “Oh.” Does that mean he went to my place straight after being with her? Or they weren’t together at all? “So what happened?” I ask again.

  “I’m not sure. She’s perfect—smart, sexy, funny, cultured, classy, educated…And, by most standards, hotter than Isabella. Even Ms Wilsborough loved her today.”

  Each of those words hurt like hell. This frankness thing isn’t so fun all of a sudden.

  “I thought she was the perfect solution to the whole Isabella situation. I didn’t tell you but, since meeting Sof at the Zombie Walk, I’d been contemplating giving up chasing Isabella. I thought maybe I could forget her and be with Sofie instead. And I wanted to. I mean, I don’t want to hurt my brother if I don’t have to. Being with Sofie made a lot of sense. But there was something…missing.”

  Yeah. Me. This ironic thought makes me smile in the dim car interior.

  “Did you figure this out before or after you slept with her?” I clarify.

  “We haven’t...and I haven’t wanted to.” He bites his lower lip, expression pensive. “I can only pin it down to one thing.”

  I hold my breath. This is the part where he tells me he’s realised he should be with me, right? It has to be, or all those chick flicks and romcoms I love so much have lied. I flash Keats an encouraging smile.

  He takes a deep breath, before saying, “I must be more in love with Isabella than I thought.”