Ardent Strangers

by Samantha Kately

  The ‘Stranger’ part is true? That’s all I mean to him? Wonderful.

  “That long, eh?” says Hudson, stepping back in amazement. “Three days and you’ve managed to form a band, enter this show, and move in together. That’s impressive, man.” He slaps Aaron on the shoulder. “Not that I blame you, though.”

  I smile tightly. Definitely blushing. I look to Aaron for help and see his fist clench. This is getting personal.

  But Hudson is on a roll… “Reminds me of when I was in Vegas and woke up to this cute brunette. The amount I spent on that ring was blatant robbery, but sometimes you’ve gotta take a chance. Takes balls, and I can tell you two have got ba—” He never does get to finish that sentence, the one about balls, because he is clutching his earpiece again, and the camera crew are chuckling quietly. Hudson’s handsome face turns sour. He turns to me. “As for the other question… “Evangeline, I hope you don’t mind me asking you this, but—” He winces and I find myself doing the same. “There’s been a lot of speculation today about whether you are the ‘Evangeline’ Nathaniel Blake has been searching for.”

  I want to cry right there. I think he can see that, too, but he holds his earpiece, undoubtedly following the line of dialogue being fed to him. “The website has been flooded with theories, saying that you fit the description of the girl in question. Same age, long black hair, slim build—which I say is not giving you justice.” He clears his throat, as if he’s been told off again. “So, is it true?” he asks, while sympathetically patting me on the shoulder.

  “Me? Her?” I laugh once. My eyes are about to tear up.

  I can still see the pain on Nathaniel’s face before I fled from him today. I deserted him. Now I’m pretending that I’ve never even met him. He deserves better than this. If he’s watching this, he must hate me.

  Aaron looks past Hudson. His eyes darken, as if telling me to say nothing. For the first time Aaron speaks directly to the camera. “Let’s make one thing clear. Evangeline and I never signed up to be gossip fodder on some trashy reality show. We signed up for a music competition, or at least that’s we thought. One more personal attack on Evangeline and we walk from the show.”

  “Well said, Randall.” Hudson nods, and I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing about himself. He holds his earpiece and plasters on a smile.

  The camera guy is grinning ear-to-ear, and Aaron looks ready to punch him.

  “We look forward to seeing you perform at the first live show on Sunday night.” Hudson spreads his arms, clasping Aaron and me on the shoulders. “If it’s anything like tonight, it should be interesting.”

  “Thanks,” I mutter.

  Aaron rakes his hair back, peeved. We are nothing like the previous contestant, Rayne Wright. We have to look like the most ungrateful winners in the history of winning. But right now I couldn’t care less. I want them out of my house—and Aaron’s house.

  The camera light flashes off and Hudson relaxes, taking his earpiece out with relish. I think he’s going to squish it, but then shoves it into his jeans. As the crew exit the house, Hudson turns to us, leaving a gaping distance between Aaron and me. I long to close the gap, but I’m too overwhelmed to move.

  “Evangeline, I’m sorry. That was rough,” says Hudson, plucking a cigarette from his jacket. “And not my idea.”

  Aaron grunts.

  “You think I’m pathetic, don’t you?” he says to Aaron. “You know what? You might be right. Or this is just a pathetic gig. Tell you what, if you guys can make it to the top ten, I’ll take you on the Water’s Edge world tour. I owe you after that performance. How do you feel about being one of our supporting acts?”

  Aaron’s raises eyebrows, as if he doesn’t believe a thing.

  Go on tour with Water’s Edge! That would be beyond anything I could imagine. Actually, I’m with Aaron. Was Hudson even serious?

  “You don’t think I won’t?” says Hudson.

  “Put it in writing and I might,” says Aaron, almost smiling.

  “Alright.” He taps on his phone, asks for our emails, and before we know it we each have a message stating the deal, along with Hudson’s contact details.

  I’m in awe. I think Aaron is plain stunned as he stares at his phone. This is his dream staring straight up at him. It’s mine, too, but it doesn’t quite feel right.

  “Well, better go,” Hudson says. “I’ll be betting on you. I like your style,” he says, pointing back and forth between Aaron and me.

  I shake my head, laughing. “Thanks.”

  Aaron grasps Hudson’s hand. “Yeah, thanks.”

  As Hudson pulls the door shut Aaron is staring at the kitchen, and when he turns my way his smile drops completely. That’s the effect I have on him now. Perfect. I have a feeling we’re about to have ‘The Talk’ again. He’s going to tell me that we’re over again.

  I rush to my room and slam the door. In seconds, I’m under the covers of my bed.

  “Eve?” he says through the door. “Eve, please?”

  If I answer, I’m going to regret it.

  “Fine. I’ll talk, you listen.” But he says nothing. I roll onto my back, wondering if he’s walked away. I hear a bump at the bottom of the door, and see his shadow blocking the light on the other side. His voice is quieter, rougher, as he says, “When I came to Melbourne last week I was having the absolute worst week of my life. Damien meant everything to me. I was his big brother. I was supposed to protect him. I even left a prestigious job so I could be by his side. But I couldn’t save him in the end. And the irony of it all is that you, Eve, you are the best thing that’s happened to me in…. Well, possibly ever, and I can’t even let myself enjoy it.”

  A minute passes and his words circle my head. ‘The best thing that’s happened to me….’ I could say the same about Aaron.

  “I don’t want to lose you,” he breathes.

  At what has to be the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard, I sob once and leap out of bed, ready to tell him the truth. But as I open the door the front door slams shut. Aaron is nowhere in sight.

  What if he never comes back?

  My phone glints at me from the coffee table. I snatch it up and begin a text: ‘I don’t want to lose you either. Come back. Please.’

  I scroll through my contacts and find Aaron’s new number. I hit send, then slump onto the sofa. As fate would have it, I’m sitting on the right side—Aaron’s side. I snuggle into the corner and clutch his pillow, hating that it smells faintly of his aftershave, subtle and clean. It makes me miss him more. Amazing, since I’ve only known him a few days.

  The heater rattles behind me, but the house is too quiet. The television is on mute. Original Star is still on, the stage alive with a four-piece band who are doused in smoke and lights. The band’s name ‘Fatal Attack’ appear at the bottom of the screen.

  So, this is number one. And they look professional.

  I turn up the volume and hear a fast beat pulsing beneath gritty chords. This is exactly how a music show should be—unlike the poor treatment Original Star had given us. Thinking about our disastrous segment—the interview, my late appearance, Aaron defending me—makes me queasy. I might never see that stage, except on TV. But the show has moved on. Fatal Attack are taking charge of the stage as if they’ve been playing there for years. The drummer is lost beneath his long hair as he pounds his kit. The bass player and lead guitarist are off to the side of the stage. The audience in the front row grab at the guitarists’ legs and they smirk at each other, as if this is the sign that they’ve made it. But it’s the guy with the short blond hair and trendy utility jacket who makes it all come together—the lead singer’s voice is hard-edged and raw as it cuts over the music. He has that conviction that sets him apart from the more amateur singers who had polled lower. Yep. The guy is good. Really good.

  My phone beeps and vibrates. I snatch it up, sure that it has to be Aaron.

  A text from Penny. All of my shifts at the café have been suspended so I can do
the competition. My inbox receives another twenty texts and emails congratulating Aaron and me. I type back a text of thanks and hit ‘Send All’, then throw my phone down on the sofa.

  Another beep.

  I watch the end of Fatal Attack, unable to check if the text is from him. The show ends. The phone glints at me again. I snatch it up and find a text from Aaron: ‘Give me a few hours. Talk in the morning.’

  My heart drops. I feel as cold as his words.

  Time Capsule

  Worst sleep ever. I roll over, look at the clock, and groan. 9:30 am. I should be well rested, but I’ve tossed and turned the whole night, thoughts of Aaron waking me and then twisting back into my dreams, concocting all kinds of scenarios.

  I sit up suddenly and find myself restrained by some seriously tucked in bed sheets. Only one person tucks sheets that tight—military grade tight. Aaron. Aaron put me here sometime during the night. Again.

  A brief wave of happiness rolls through me. He came back. Then I remember ‘The Talk’ that looms before me like a black cloud on the horizon and I want to run in the other direction. Not going to happen, considering he’s probably in the next room.

  Pushing off the covers, I discover that I’m still dressed in my sweater and jeans. I don’t dare look in the mirror. If I make it to the bathroom undetected I’ll survive. I need to look fresh before my talk with Aaron. That’s the plan. Ten seconds later that plan has been thwarted. Stepping out of my bedroom, Aaron looks up at me from the sofa. He sips a takeaway coffee and gives me a grim smile that sets my heart into panic mode.

  I wave. “Hi.”

  With an unenthusiastic wave from Aaron, I close the distance, sitting in my spot. He nods to the other takeaway cup on the coffee table. I clasp it tightly, hanging onto its warmth, as if a cappuccino was a form of liquid courage.

  “How are you?” he asks.

  I shrug and inspect my coffee lid. It’s black. No surprise there. I look at it nevertheless.

  “I ran into your friends Quinn and Penny last night,” he says.

  “The Black Rose?”

  “How did you guess?”

  “We go there every Wednesday night after work. I know some of the Celtic bands.” I glance across to him. “Sometimes I play with them.”

  “Guitar?”

  I shake my head. “Violin.”

  “I’ll have to remember that,” he says, his eyes brightening. I can almost see him filing it away for a future song. He sips his coffee. “Quinn and Penny were worried about you, given what happened at the café yesterday.”

  Nathaniel. If my mind wasn’t confused enough, Aaron has to go and throw Nathaniel into the mix. Right now I don’t care about the man on the bridge, or whether I visit some pub around the corner. I want to know what Aaron is thinking about us. “I don’t want to talk about Nathaniel.”

  “Okay.” Aaron holds up his hands in surrender, then relaxes back in the chair. His fingers drum his knee. “I heard you have the day off.”

  “Yep.” Great. Now that he knows my friends he has inside information.

  “If you don’t have plans, I’d like to take you somewhere.”

  “Where?”

  “I’ll explain on the way. Let’s go.” He’s out of his chair the next second, flipping his keys as he waits for me to follow.

  “Oh, fine.” I slam my empty coffee half-heartedly on the table, then stumble up from the sofa, wishing I’d made it to the shower.

  Ten minutes later we are in the car after making a pit-stop at work. Aaron and Quinn, it appears, had been making prior breakfast arrangements last night. It seems Quinn knows more about where I’m going than I do. He and Penny even gave me encouraging smiles as they passed me two hot paper bags of food and said goodbye. Those same papers bags are now scorching heat through my jeans. I might be a nervous wreck, having no idea what Aaron has in store, but that doesn’t stop the savory smell of Quinn’s cooking from torturing me.

  Rich houses and private schools pass us by, along with boutique shops that have been revamped. A little way up, a tram dings and a stop signs pokes out from the tram. That’s when it occurs to me that we are driving away from the city, towards Melbourne’s inner east. We stop for the tram. Aaron’s fingers drum the steering wheel for a good minute. “I’ve arranged an appointment with a real estate agent.”

  “You’re moving out?”

  The tram dings and his focus is set on the traffic. “It’s not what you think. Not exactly. No offence, but your house is too small for the both of us, so I looked up some real estate sites.”

  “I see.”

  “The rentals were no better than where we are now.”

  “Thanks.” I give a half-hearted laugh, the streets of Richmond flying by as we follow the tram tracks down Victoria Parade.

  “Last night I came across a house. I bought it this morning.”

  “You bought a house? That was fast.”

  He shrugs. But his gaze is uncertain. “I’d like you to check it out with me.”

  “You haven’t seen it?” What if he’s going through a mid-life crisis and I’ve been too blind to notice? No, this is his way of dealing with his brother; a turning point, a re-evaluation. I need to support this, even if it kills me. “So, good house, then?”

  He smiles wistfully. “I can’t think of one better.”

  “Oh?”

  “It was my family’s house.”

  Wow. I was not expecting that at all. At least he hasn’t gone mad.

  Several turns later and I’m eating Quinn’s steak sandwich creation in a parked car, trying not to drip mushroom sauce everywhere. Aaron seems to be suffering the same dilemma as he grunts repeatedly and readjusts the steak, salad and bread, licking gravy from his fingers.

  We’re parked in the heart of Canterbury, one of the wealthiest suburbs in inner Melbourne. The street is bridged with elm and oak trees and beautiful gardens everywhere. Cars line the street. We’d been lucky to snare the last car spot outside a grand house of red brick veneer and stained-glass windows full of flowers. Vines creep lovingly over the eaves and down a trellis at the end of a porch. Beyond the wrought iron fence is a garden full of enchantments: a hand painted birdhouse in white and blue filigree, a ceramic bird bath on a pillar, ornaments and chimes dangling from oak and magnolia trees. A cherry blossom hangs starkly amongst rose bushes and topiary. It all seems far too sweet and sparkly for its new owner, one Aaron Randall, and I wonder if this garden is due to its current owners or his mother had some influence when they lived here.

  He reaches into the backseat and retrieves a brand new hammer, complete with a receipt taped to its handle.

  “Do you mind putting this in your handbag?” I must look at him strangely, because he says, “It’s not a weapon. I just need it for one of the rooms.”

  I nod, a little disheartened that he had to clarify it isn’t a weapon, that he assumed my associations with him are always linked to violence. Maybe he thinks I’m damaged by Jeremy and he believes I need constant reassurance. Maybe I do.

  I lift the flap of my handbag and wedge the hammer next to my purse. When I close the flap the hammer’s handle juts out of the side.

  10:30 hits and we are walking through the gate when Aaron takes my arm.

  “Evangeline, this is going to sound forward.” I frown, but he continues, “I know you have your own place, and that’s fine, but considering that we were intending to be housemates and...” He smiles tightly. “I thought that you might like to move in here. Your own room, of course.”

  “You don’t have to feel responsible for me, Aaron. I’ve managed perfectly well on my own for the past seven years.”

  “I’m not saying that you haven’t. I know I said I wouldn’t shift out unless you asked me to, and when I started looking at houses I’d intended on us choosing one together, but when I saw this place for sale I couldn’t let it go.”

  Because of Damien. I should have realized sooner. Now I do feel heartless. He’s trying to find a way
to be close to his brother and I’m making it all about me. He’s asked me to move in with him, and not just any house but a house that is as sentimental as they come. I should feel privileged.

  Weird that we’ve known each other less than a week and I’m thinking about living with him for a second time. Although, this isn’t much different from posting an ad for a housemate—they’d be complete strangers, too. At least with Aaron I saw enough of his character and integrity at the hospital, which is more than I’d get while interviewing a potential housemate through a wanted ad. And his house looks far superior to the shoddy house we’re living in now. More importantly, I like having him around.

  “How much will my rent be, then?”

  Aaron laughs. “That would be zero.”

  “Oh no, you don’t,” I say, pointing at his chest. “I’m paying rent, or I’m not moving at all.”

  He gives me a dark look. “Evangeline, I bought this without consulting you. I don’t expect you to pay for something you never asked for. Forget the rent. I’d like you here.”

  I glare up at him, deciding whether to pursue the rent matter any further. I put aside the issue and go with something easier, “If you don’t mind me asking, how old were you when you moved in here?”

  He looks over the garden, shielding his eyes from the sun. “I was thirteen. Damien was eleven. We both attended a grammar school not far from here. Then when I turned eighteen we sold up and returned home to London.”

  “Private school, boy. I should have known.” I smile, trying my best not to ask about Damien. He looks back at me, and seeing even the smallest of smiles makes me happy. I haven’t screwed this up. Yet.

  He brushes his hand over a lavender bush, picks a bunch of purple stems and smells them as if he’s inspecting one of his purchases. I realize I’ve been staring at him the whole time, but it’s hard not to when he lifts my hand and gently lays the lavender in my palm, then closes my fingers over it, keeping his hand there. “This could be yours,” he says, nodding at the garden, the house, and at the lavender in our hands. “All you have to do is say yes.”