Knowing Me, Knowing You

by Renae Kaye

  I arrived first and ordered for both of us. Jamie wanted the pancakes, and he always drank mocha instead of real coffee, so I knew what he’d want when he finally turned up. I decided to join him and ordered myself some pancakes to go with my cappuccino. Jamie can never enter a room quietly. He arrived in a fluster of waving arms, bleached hair, and tight red jeans.

  “Oh my gawd. You will never believe the morning I’ve had. Guess who we have tomorrow on the air? Declan Tyler. I’ve been in a flap trying to get all the information ready for Harry to interview. Oh my gawd.”

  I sat back and listened to him go on. Everyone who was gay and knew a little bit about football knew who Declan Tyler was. He’d been the first AFL footballer to come out of the closet while playing at senior level. Okay, I conceded as I watched Jamie mimic strangling some unknown woman and then nearly took out the waitress accidentally with his gesturing hand as she brought over our drinks, Declan Tyler hadn’t so much come out of the closet as he was pushed out and exposed against his will.

  The pancakes arrived. I smiled and started to eat. Jamie was able to talk and eat at the same time. I didn’t mind his chatter. It meant I didn’t have to think of anything interesting to say. Finally he wound down, tilted his head to the side, and demanded, “Now, tell me. What’s wrong?”

  I was stunned. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re quieter than usual. That means there’s something up. Is it something unimportant, like a character killed in a book and you’re mourning? Or do I need to be worried?”

  God, I loved the guy. He was one of my best friends in the world. You would think the drama queen who never stopped talking and the bookworm who never opened his mouth wouldn’t be a good fit. But we’d been friends for more than half our lives. Jamie had kept many a secret.

  But I’d never—ever—mentioned a word about Ambrose. Maybe that was what was missing?

  “It’s my love life,” I confessed. “How do you stop your heart from yearning for the wrong person?”

  Jamie blinked. “You cut it out of your chest,” he told me point-blank.

  I chuckled. “Won’t you die, then?”

  He nodded sharply. “Exactly my point. You can’t tell your heart what to do. It beats without you thinking of it. So it acts without you thinking of it. You have no choice, unless you want it to stop beating.”

  “That’s rather morbid,” I commented.

  “What? You want me to write a sonnet about it?”

  “No,” I said sulkily. “I want what you and Liam have. Love.”

  Jamie reached out and grasped my hand. “Then it takes patience, understanding, and a little bit of daring. And all without any guarantees.”

  I felt my mouth turn down at the corners. “You and Liam have it perfect. I mean, I look at you guys, and you’re great together. I can see just from a glance that Liam loves you. And you love him.” I gave a chuckle. “It’s not like you’ve ever hidden it.”

  Jamie looked at me with compassion, and for once he didn’t say anything. He let me speak.

  “I want that, Jamie. I want someone who adores me for who I am, not someone who likes some of me, or most of me. I want the same love that’s between you guys.”

  “And this person you yearn for? He doesn’t like all of you?” Jamie asked with sympathy.

  Well, now. That was the hard bit. “He’s never said. Never said yes and never said no.”

  A knowing look came over Jamie’s face. “Ahh. The inability to communicate that the male of our species is said to have. I’ve never understood that. I have absolutely no trouble communicating. I mean, people seem to imply that I communicate too much. I’ve tried to work it out. Is my ability to communicate and my fellow males’ inability to communicate because of their gender? No, because I’m definitely male. Is it because I’m gay? Well, no. Because you’re a case in point. You’ve just said you haven’t been communicating with this other male. True it could be his fault, but I’ve always thought you need to speak up more. But that’s neither here nor there. Anyhow. Moving on. I’ve also wondered if my ability to communicate more than other males comes from the fact I was mostly raised by a single mother in a house with two other sisters. But then there was my stepfather for some time and—”

  “Uh, Jamie?”

  He stopped and got the point immediately. “Oh. Right. Shane’s problems, not mine. So this mystery man of yours hasn’t said if he likes all of you, but obviously he likes some of you, or else we wouldn’t be having this conversation. So I guess it would also have to do with when he has the opportunity to speak to you.”

  I screwed up my nose. One text message in five months wasn’t really communicating.

  Jamie went on. “I also have to wonder about his identity, because I don’t think he’s a part of our social circle, not unless one of our friends is cheating, and that would be heartbreaking. Of our group, the only single ones of us are you and Hiram. And I don’t think any sort of sparks have kindled in the past seven years?”

  I shook my head. Hiram had actually joined our group as my boyfriend, set up through a friend of Jamie’s. Hiram had been new in town, and Jamie sent me on a blind date with this unknown guy. We’d clicked and managed to talk our way through the date and found lots of things we had in common.

  So we started dating and became an item. The sex—and I gave a bit of a shudder when I had to recall that we’d had sex, as it was something I liked to forget—had been perfunctory. Nothing bad, but nothing good either. But we persisted. Having a boyfriend was better than not having one.

  Hiram was the mature one to sit down and say, “There’s no sparks, are there?”

  Since then, Hiram had simply kept coming along to our social gatherings as Hiram, not Hiram, Shane’s boyfriend. For a while the group continued to ask, “Still no sparks?” But then gradually I think most of them forgot we’d been together once upon a time. Hiram was great, just not for me.

  “Still no sparks,” I told Jamie.

  “Then it must mean there’s someone at work,” he declared, and I frowned. He saw. “Oh. If you don’t want me to know exactly who, then that’s okay. When you’re ready to tell me. But if he’s not a part of your social circle, then he has to be someone at work or someone you see in the course of your working. Tell me his initial.”

  “A.”

  “Okay, A. Andy? I like Andy. I always hoped I would get a boyfriend who was a Handy Andy, if you know what I mean.”

  I fought the impulse to bury my face in my hands. It was an occupational hazard of being a friend of Jamie’s.

  “So this Andy probably doesn’t have much of a chance to communicate with you over dusty files and moldy maps.” Jamie had a weird idea of what I did for a living. “So what you need to do is get him to a nonworking environment. Have you asked him on a date?”

  “No,” I replied truthfully. Ambrose and I had never been on what you could call a date.

  “Then you need to ask him on one,” Jamie cried with a flourish of hands.

  I winced. “I don’t want to go on a date with him. I want to forget about him.”

  “Ahh,” Jamie said knowingly. “But you can’t because he’s still around at work, right?”

  It was sort of right. “I can’t really avoid him.”

  Jamie nodded as my phone buzzed in my pocket and I fished it out. It was a text from Ambrose, although the name flashed up as AJ on my phone. The message was accompanied by a photo.

  Last look at my knee without scars. Tomorrow it will be different.

  I tucked the phone away and vowed not to answer.

  “Then your best bet is to replace him in your heart with someone else,” Jamie declared.

  I groaned and slumped in my seat. “Vinnie tells me I’m not allowed to use Grindr. Something about me not handling it.”

  “Oh, darling,” Jamie purred, “Vinnie is right about that. The right guy is out there somewhere for you. Do not despair. I will hunt him down for you.”

  Then he glanced a
t his phone, which sported a bling-encrusted cover. He screeched. “I have to get back to work. I owe you for the meal. Later.”

  He dashed off with a wave in my direction, and I pulled my phone out again. I looked at Ambrose’s knee. As an old friend—a school friend, a childhood friend, a friend of the family, whatever—I was sorry he had to go through this pain, and I hoped he’d be okay. But as a….

  I hesitated. What was I to Ambrose? A friend with benefits? A sex toy with a heartbeat? Something more?

  Whatever I was to Ambrose, the fact that I loved him had to come second to the fact that I’d been his friend for over twenty years.

  I typed, Good luck. It will be fine. I know it.

  Chapter Seven

  TRACY INFORMED me that Ambrose’s surgery went well, and Ambrose sent me more photos over the next two days, this time without messages.

  There were pictures of his knee swathed in bandages, a picture of his hairy leg with the brown stain from the antiseptic solution they used in the operation, a picture of his crutches in the corner of a hospital room, a snap of his hospital meal, and a selfie with his face screwed up in pain. To these I replied with pictures of my own—my own two legs, winter pale from the lack of sun, but without scars, my dinner of chicken and rice, a selfie of me squashed on the train from work with all the other sardines, and a photo I spent ten minutes setting up using the timer on my camera. It captured me sitting on the couch, reading a book and sipping a coffee.

  I wondered who was looking after him, since Vinnie had indicated Kendra and Ambrose were on the outs.

  Then Tracy called me Friday as I was preparing my evening meal.

  “Hey, Shane. I need you to do me the biggest favor.”

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “Can you go tonight and pick up Ambrose from the airport?”

  My heart sank. Tracy rushed on to tell the whole story. Ambrose’s doctors had advised him against flying back to Perth so soon, but apparently Ambrose was ignoring them. He’d rung Tracy as his flight was boarding, so she didn’t even have a chance to talk him out of it or go behind his back and talk to the coach or someone else he’d listen to. Then he turned his phone off.

  Tracy was the manager of a small restaurant—a job she kept because she needed to keep busy, despite the fact Ambrose wanted to give her money so she didn’t have to be employed—and her shift ended near midnight. Ambrose was flying in at 10:25 p.m.

  “Fine,” I sighed. “It will give me a chance to yell at him for making you upset.”

  Tracy was quiet. “Don’t yell too much, Shane. He’s not taking this injury well. He hasn’t been happy for the last couple of months. I’m not sure why. And now this?”

  I tried to pull on the family-friend hat. “Do you think it was breaking up with Kendra?” I asked.

  She sighed. “I don’t know. That was months ago. Just lately I feel he’s lost his love for the game. His playing has been off. You know?”

  No. I didn’t know. Because I was in recovery from Ambrose-aholic sickness.

  “Maybe a good yelling will do him good?” I suggested.

  She was quiet for a bit. “Just take it easy with him. Okay? I have a feeling his emotional state is really fragile at the moment. Pick him up and take him to my house. I’ll be home as soon as possible. Could you stay with him until I arrive?”

  I might’ve been wallpaper to most people, but I wasn’t uncaring. “Okay. Fine.”

  THAT’S HOW I came to be lingering around Terminal 3 at ten thirty on a Friday night instead of tucked up in my bed with the latest book from Ruth Ware. I texted Ambrose and told him to look for me, but he hadn’t replied, so I didn’t know if he’d received the message.

  According to the electronic noticeboard, the plane had already landed, so I sighed and reached for Ruth to keep me entertained. I was a bookworm. Of course I brought along a book to read if there was even the remotest chance of me having to wait for anything. Every page or so I looked up, but I couldn’t spot Ambrose in the crowd.

  When a call came over the speaker, I ignored it until a familiar name pierced my consciousness.

  “…Jakoby please come to the service counter. I repeat, will Tracy Jakoby please come to the service counter.”

  No, Tracy couldn’t, but Shane could. I shoved Ruth back into my courier bag and searched for the service counter. It was late on a Friday night, and the woman behind the counter looked tired and bored.

  “Yes. Can I help you?”

  “Umm? The call for Tracy Jakoby? She can’t come tonight, so she sent me. Is there a problem?”

  “Oh.” The woman looked nonplussed for a moment and then asked, “And what passenger have you come to collect tonight?”

  “Ambrose Jakoby.”

  She stared at me hard, as though I were a stalker fan trying to kid her.

  I sighed. It was too late at night for my patience, and I had been running on nerves for hours. “Look. Ambrose is big enough to cause a fuss if he doesn’t know me. Can you tell me where he is? Is there a problem? Is he okay? He wasn’t supposed to fly, but it seems he knows better than the doctors.”

  She pursed her lips and pointed. “Go toward the toilet sign. To the left of the sign is a passageway. Head down there, and you’ll see a counter.”

  That seemed to be all the information she was willing to give me, so I followed the directions, and when I reached the counter, I found the answer to all my questions.

  Ambrose was sitting in a wheelchair, one leg propped up and resting on a chair near the counter, and he was holding what appeared to be an ice pack to his knee. Two pretty flight attendants were flirting with him.

  He looked up and noticed me, and I thought I saw relief. “Shane!”

  “Hey. Your mum sent me. She couldn’t get off work. Didn’t you get my text?”

  He grimaced. “My phone died on the plane. I forgot to charge it before I left.”

  I wanted to give him a hug. He didn’t look well. Perhaps I was imagining it because of what Tracy had said to me. I could see exhaustion and pain in his face. That was understandable. He’d recently spent four hours on a plane when he should’ve been elevating his leg. But I could also see something else—a weariness. I couldn’t hug him there, so I went in with the manly fist bump.

  To my surprise Ambrose grabbed my wrist, pulled me down to his level, and hugged me awkwardly.

  “Get me out of here,” he whispered, and I squeezed slightly to show I heard him.

  “Righto.” I turned to the woman who was closest to him. “He should have some crutches. What happened to them?”

  “They had to be stored in oversized luggage. I’ll have to see where they are.” The woman walked to a nearby door and scanned the ID around her neck to get through.

  “How’s the knee?” I asked, and the second woman answered for Ambrose.

  “Not good. He says he has pills to take, but they’re in his checked luggage. He’s been in a lot of pain and was unable to get off the plane without assistance.”

  “No problem,” I said. “Did you have a bag to carry on, Ambrose?”

  Ambrose pointed to a black backpack on the floor, and I picked it up and almost threw it on his lap.

  “Right.” I took control of the wheelchair, and Ambrose gingerly folded his leg down to the footrest. I threw a look at the second woman. “I need to get him home ASAP. So we’re going to find his bags. Can you please bring the crutches to the baggage collection area?”

  I didn’t give her a chance to reply because Ambrose had already disengaged the brake. I wheeled him quickly down the passageway.

  “Thanks,” Ambrose muttered.

  “We’re not clear yet. Keep your head down. Did you bring a hat?” He usually wore a hat when flying to keep from being so readily recognized.

  “Forgot.”

  People made way for the wheelchair, and we were soon at the carousel with only a couple of bags whizzing around on it. The other passengers had already grabbed their stuff and departed. Ambrose
pointed to his suitcase, and I grabbed it.

  “Shit,” I complained. “What the hell do you have in here? Fifty pairs of footy boots?”

  “Maybe there’s books for you,” he said, but the grin didn’t reach his eyes. He needed to get some of those pills into him and lie down.

  I looked around and saw the flight attendant with the crutches approaching. I cut her off before she could engage Ambrose again by standing between them and taking the crutches myself.

  “Thank you,” I said and turned my back on her. I helped Ambrose stand and saw him grit his teeth as he balanced on one leg while I got the crutches set for him. I pointed toward the exit, slung his backpack over my shoulder, pulled up the handle of his wheeled suitcase, and made to follow him.

  But the woman got the last word. “Good luck on your recovery, Bro-Jak.”

  I saw dozens of heads swivel our way, and people began to point and pull out their cameras. I dashed ahead of Ambrose and quickly made for the ticket machine to pay the fee to get out of the car park. I wordlessly pointed at the aisle I’d parked in, and he crutched his way over.

  As soon as I could, I hurried after him, unlocked the car he was patiently waiting next to, opened the boot, lifted his case into the back, and called, “What’s the combination on your bag? I’ll find those pills.”

  “Two eight oh six.”

  I frowned as I whirled the dials to the familiar number. Had he picked my birthday on purpose?

  A ziplock bag with various packets of pills inside was sitting on top of his clothes. It bore Ambrose’s name and information on the hospital’s printed tag. I frowned at the number of packets it contained. When I climbed into the driver’s seat, I lobbed the bag in his direction.

  “Doing okay?” I asked.

  “That’s just asking me to lie to you, Shane.”

  I winced. “Fine, then. Do you need me to google what hospitals are on the way to your mum’s? And fair warning, I still haven’t learned how to read a map in the years since I got us lost up near Serpentine.”

  At least he smiled at that memory. “No. I don’t need a hospital. Just drive me home.”