‘Didn’t go well?’
‘Don’t know. It’s twisted me up inside. But I want to forget about it for a while.’
‘This’ll help.’ Jacob produces a small bottle of clear liquid from a pocket. ‘Bit of happy juice in your OJ?’
I hesitate. Although I’ve drunk a little alcohol before, Kominsky preached that my body is a temple. But I’m fed up with being told what to do, what to eat, what to think. And this new training world Dad’s thrust me into is scary. Besides, Milo said I should be more independent.
‘Just a little,’ I say, settling back into the LEGO sofa.
While I sip my drink, Jacob plays a cheerful, jazzy number on the piano. Music isn’t my thing, but I like how it makes me feel. I let the tune’s merry mood relax me. Jacob plays another, then another, and fetches more OJ before settling cross-legged on the floor, cradling a guitar. He sings something quirky. It makes us crack up and the world slows down, and the events of today don’t seem that bad. In fact, the memory of how Colt tied my shoelaces makes me giggle. Jacob wants to know the joke. Then he leans against the sofa, his torso touching my legs, and tells me about a song he’s writing.
Later Jacob fetches more drinks, taps on an iPad until music I recognise from a past era about being ‘easy like a Sunday morning’ filters into the room. When he plonks down next to me on the sofa, the sides of our bodies press against each other. I wonder at the way the squares on the ceiling move in slow, swaying circles and we sip our drinks, talking, warm and happy, until my eyelids droop, and I decide not to fight it, and when I close them there’s a sweetness to everything in the world.
When I wake the music has stopped and a dim twilight fills the space. I’ve rolled over, head on Jacob’s chest. We’ve cuddled like this before, except not for a long, long time. I should move, but I’m sleepy and fuzzy and peaceful inside and I don’t want the sensation to go. I remain motionless in the muted light, aware of his chest rising and falling as the sunset smudges red across the sky.
I don’t know why the tears prick, but what I do know is I need more of this feeling, and when I think of tennis and Colt and Milo and Dad and the future, my body tightens and feels dark and bruised inside. I yank my mind away from them, from anything outside this room, and when Jacob strokes my cheek I don’t pull away.
For once I stop the battle that is a part of every day of my life, whether it’s keeping Dad happy, sucking up Coach’s criticism, training until I can’t stand, coping with another first-round defeat, doing schoolwork until I fall asleep mid-assignment, or denying myself ice-cream in favour of protein balls. And I stop fighting the fact that I’ve been in love with Jacob since I was thirteen.
His hand slides down, finding the strip of exposed skin above my shorts. Warm, soft fingers caress the flesh there. My insides flip-flop. He presses harder, kneading the rigid muscles up my spine, and there’s such a sense of relief I let out a small groan.
Jacob shifts onto an elbow. Our eyes crash into each other and I see the instant his say, We can’t. But that’s chased out by Just do it. Mine must say the same thing because his mouth moves closer. All thought turns loose and wafting and won’t be pinned down. His lips graze mine, light, like he’s testing if they’ll burn. He pauses. An invisible force holds me still. Desire floods like a hundred hot rivers along my veins. He brushes my lips again. I open mine to him and he whispers into my mouth, ‘I don’t know how to stop.’
His tongue slips between my teeth and there’s a sensation of bones dissolving, of skin trembling, of a heart pounding loud enough that it might be heard outside the soundproofed studio. He knows what he’s doing. My body also seems to know. I follow its lead until we flow together, our mouths craving, our hands finding the places we’ve needed to touch for too long.
I kissed a boy at a school dance years ago. It felt awkward and fake, like kissing a friend. Worse – he practically licked my tonsils. And I was at a player’s party last year, talking with a guy I’d become friendly with. He kissed me what you’d call passionately and all I could do was make myself kiss back.
But kissing Jacob is wanting it to never end. It’s needing a signal for Don’t-stop-don’t-stop so I can kiss him forever. I cling to him as though he’s the answer to every question I ever asked.
It’s dark in the studio now, the sun having winked goodnight, and it makes the floating sensation stronger. It makes the sudden knock and Aria’s calling louder.
We spring apart and I pull down my T-shirt. Jacob leaps up, running fingers through mussed hair. His expression is so close to regret my heart wants to cry. He puts a finger to his lips. He’s not going to answer the door. He locked it.
When we hear Aria move away I’m still stinging with the memory of Jacob’s stricken face. He wishes we hadn’t –
I stand, ready to go, to never return, to never go back to where I shouldn’t have gone in the first place. But as I step away he moves nearer, slides his arms around my waist. Not so long ago, it was Aria he hooked up with, right here in the studio. I break away and run from the sound of him calling me back.
Each time a pebble hits my bedroom window it’s a reminder of what we’ve done.
Why is Jacob trying to reach me when there’s nothing more to say? I’d ignored his train of texts through the evening begging me to come over, but he hasn’t taken the hint.
I should be worried about Aria finding out and concerned about Mum and Dad’s reaction. They would never accept how I could do such a thing to my sister. And I should care that the Raggers could break, our childhood wiped away in one night, because all our memories would become taboo. But all I can think about is how Aria slept with Jacob and I wish it had been me.
It’s midnight and another stone hits the window pane, louder than the others. Without turning on a light, I find the guitar pick still smeared with dried blood from our sisters’ oath and clutch it through the plastic bag it’s been stored in for five years.
I’ve betrayed Aria. The Harper who, aged seven, squished sausage through Aria’s keyhole because she was sent to bed without dinner for drawing on my wall, is gone. The Harper who brought Aria gifts from her travels – a flower from Beethoven’s birthplace in Germany, violin rosin from Italy, a rock from outside Strauss’s home in Austria – vanished years ago.
Like Colt said, I am a spoilt, selfish brat.
The sound of Aria practising her violin wakes me before my alarm. I’ve had three hours’ sleep. I thrust arms into sleeves and feet into socks, angry that Aria had to love Jacob, angry at myself for being weak, angry at Jacob for disturbing the heart I’d sent to hibernate forever. And angry because I can’t forget Jacob’s mouth on mine – can’t stop wanting more.
When we arrive for training I’m in the mood to wrap the tennis net around the throat of the first person who speaks to me. I march onto the court and throw my bag at the ground. Colt stops stretching his calf and cocks an eyebrow. There’s no sign of Milo. I slump into a chair.
Colt’s footsteps approach. He wafts a takeaway coffee cup under my nose. ‘Glad I’m not the only moody bastard around here.’
I inspect the dark stubble around lips that could belong to a poster boy, and almost retaliate with a smart-arse remark about getting everything I want – including coffee. Almost – because being a smart-arse could be interpreted as being a spoilt brat. And Colt’s expression is warmer than I’ve seen it, conciliatory, even.
I take the cup. ‘Thanks.’
‘Sorry I took off yesterday – Milo enjoys pushing buttons.’
‘Bit intense, wasn’t it?’ I inhale the coffee aroma.
‘He’s right, though. Reckon he was born aged seven hundred.’ Colt scuffs his bag with the toe of his trainer. ‘Listen, I know it’s not your fault – the hotels and the tutor and stuff.’ He does that thing where he unzips me with his eyes and rummages around inside me – must have learnt that from Milo. But this time, ins
tead of looking switched off, something’s changed. He’s here, in the moment; with me, not against me.
I blurt, ‘You’re awfully judgemental.’ His gaze releases me and I sense the relief of being put down.
He watches Dad hovering at the gate. ‘Milo tells me you’re not a tennis brat. Spoilt, maybe, but not a brat.’
‘Thanks a lot.’ I kick at his shin. ‘What’s a tennis brat anyway?’
‘You’ve met the type – parties late, drinks a lot, spends all of Daddy’s money while off the leash on the circuit. Ungrateful types who waste their talent.’
I chew on my lip and scold myself – not for any partying, but I’m probably guilty of being ungrateful. I’m not sure I’ll make it as a professional without Milo, yet here I am, complaining that he and Colt aren’t right for me. I have to admit the mixed doubles plan makes sense. It’ll get my name out there for an agent, improve my ranking, and pull me out of the first-round graveyard. Suddenly my tennis goals seem easier than anything that’s going on at home.
‘And I don’t think I’m better than you,’ Colt says, dropping into the chair next to me. ‘I envy you. You’ve got all the talent and everything you need to make it. Truth is, I need you – this mixed doubles gig – I need to earn some big prize money.’
‘So you can afford to go to more singles tournaments?’
He stretches a straightened arm across his chest to warm up. ‘Don’t take it that way. I need this for my family. You need this gig to improve your own singles chances, but it doesn’t mean the doubles game isn’t important to you.’ He extends the other arm. ‘I guess I can be pretty hard-nosed, but we’re partners now. I won’t judge you if you won’t judge me.’ He grins – a precious gift made just for me.
Something inside me comes unstuck and falls away.
‘Okay,’ I concede. ‘Where do we go from here?’
Colt bends to remove a racquet from his bag. ‘Forward. As Milo always says.’
I savour the coffee on my tongue before swallowing. ‘You remembered what Aria said – that I’m addicted to coffee.’
‘I’m your eyes and hands now.’ Colt stands and rubs a bicep, revealing the tattoo under his sleeve. I can and I will.
By the gate Dad greets Milo before leaving me to it.
I jerk my chin at the tattoo. ‘I can and I will what?’
Colt raises an eyebrow then goes to help with a bag of rope Milo’s carrying.
‘Guten Morgen,’ says Milo with a guttural German accent. ‘Hope you slept long. Now we work.’ I groan into my cup. Milo throws Colt’s racquet to him. ‘I’m assuming that as it’s 6.10 you’re warmed up?’
There’s a silence in which I hug my knees and Colt walks to the baseline.
‘Up and at ’em, Harper. The devil’s favourite furniture is the long bench. And I hope that’s black coffee.’ Milo tilts the chair forward and I spill out of it. I gulp at the cappuccino and pick up a racquet, dragging it behind me. A ball bounces on my back and I assume it’s Colt hurrying me up, but he’s smirking at Milo.
‘Morgenstund hat Gold im Mund,’ shouts Milo across the court. ‘The morning hour has gold in its mouth, Harper.’
Colt sends a gentle lob across the net. I smash the ball at his feet. He tracks me, amused. I send over a couple of balls, one after the other. Colt reaches the second and I return it, putting my entire body behind it. It slams across the net. Colt drops back, returns it, but it’s high, and I go in for the kill. I think I even aim at him. It slices the air and wallops Colt on the thigh. He laughs out loud. I check to see if it happens again. It does. Straight away I’m enchanted by his oversized smile. It’s better than a hard-earned match point. It’s not just the way his face opens up, it’s the look in his eyes, like he’s admiring me for making him laugh because it’s something rare and hidden and infrequently awarded.
‘What’s with the rope?’ asks Colt, breathless, when Milo calls us over.
‘You already know in doubles that you need to keep a similar distance between you to avoid creating holes for the opponents to hit into. And I take things literally.’
Milo loops one end of the rope around Colt’s waist and secures it, then does the same with me. I swap my gaze over to Colt, checking in, but he simply snaps up a racquet and gets into position, assuming his self-appointed spot on the service line. I move nearer the net and the rope pulls taut.
‘That’s the distance you want to maintain – you’ll trip if the rope slackens,’ yells Milo. He sends a gentle shot across the net and I return it. Next he makes me move left and the rope tugs, but Colt follows and the rope loosens. The next shot is high and goes overhead to Colt. I should step back further, but I move too late. Colt yanks me with him and I skid and bump onto my butt. Milo chuckles, but Colt has the decency to keep it buttoned, and helps me up.
We return a few shots until Milo lobs a ball at the gutter and I go for it. Colt is too slow. Except he doesn’t go down – he’s much heavier – and it’s me who gets wrenched backwards and onto my backside again. This time I brush away Colt’s offered hand, patting my grazed bum as I get back into position at the net.
‘Good thing we’re not playing mirroring right now.’ I hear Colt’s words and take a moment to grasp that he means he’d be the one patting my butt. I can’t believe Colt made a joke, never mind a flirtatious one. I glare at him, but it falls flat because Colt’s smile overtakes his face. Whoa!
We get the hang of the exercise. It’s less about knowing how to hit a ball and more about moving as one entity. The mood on court lifts and we fist-bump between wins.
‘That kind of worked,’ says Colt, when it’s over.
‘Don’t sound surprised,’ says Milo, juggling racquets. ‘Now we go back to mirroring. Best get your rope off.’
Colt steps closer to unknot my rope. I hold my breath, vastly aware of the wall of muscle that he is. When he’s done I do the same for him, taking ages because my fingers transform into bananas.
We practise our serves. Milo concentrates on correcting my wandering ball toss. Apparently they’re a reflection of my inner confidence – shaky and inconsistent.
Then comes a new game: Milo feeds us the ball and we return it and race around half the court while the other player hits the next shot before taking their turn around the court. The snag is that if we fail to make the return, Milo doesn’t slow the play by double bouncing, but straight away feeds the next ball. The more we mess up, the harder it is for our partner and in turn ourselves. Neither one of us wants the blame. Colt and I knuckle down until we fall to our knees, heaving air into our lungs and begging Milo to stop.
‘Colt,’ shouts Milo, the sun catching the mirrors of his sunglasses. ‘You said you’re free from four. I’ll pick you up then.’ To me he adds, ‘We’re going to Balmoral Beach for more torture. Plan to get wet.’
‘You’re about as distracted as a cat in a roomful of wild dogs,’ says Mr Fraser. He’s been my tutor since I started Year 11, and I’m pretty sure I’m his worst student. ‘How about we leave it for today?’ He slaps his laptop shut and arranges my exercise books into a pile.
‘Sorry. I didn’t sleep well last night and I have a thrashing headache.’ Plus my mind can’t stop replaying everything that happened with Jacob.
After I walk Mr Fraser to the door, I skulk into the kitchen and lie helplessly on the sofa. The first hint of a spring breeze sneaks through the windows.
Aria wakes me when she and the dogs crash into the kitchen after work. ‘You sick?’ She removes a floppy black felt hat and chucks it at me. It misses by a metre. ‘We’re making popcorn and slurpies. Like the Raggers used to. Want some?’
We? I sit up straight. Jacob is bent over the snuffling dogs. My heart scurries unhappily.
I feign sleepiness and lie on the sofa, a cushion over my head. Jacob and Aria muck around shaving ice and popping corn, the room filling with the bu
ttery smell of childhood.
The sofa sinks and Jacob presses an icy glass against my leg. I sit up and accept the drink, leaning against the arm of the sofa and glancing behind me at Aria who is scooping up spilled ice. Jacob mirrors me, covering my bare feet with his. I inspect the slurpie as though it’s something from an alien planet. When Aria dumps herself between us, squishing our toes, Jacob’s smile is chaotic, as if it doesn’t know whether to be a grin or a grimace.
Although Aria generally shuns the outdoors these days, she wants us to spend more time together and walks to Balmoral Beach with me.
‘I admit I have an ulterior motive for coming,’ she half-shouts – she’s slightly behind me, her flowery skirt billowing, so that I have to keep stopping for her to catch up. We’re going to be late. ‘Colt’s hot, don’t you think? I could do with a distraction from Jacob.’ She’s trying to sound nonchalant but her words don’t hide the heartache in her voice.
‘You’ve never been on the receiving end of one of Colt’s glares or dressing downs. And you don’t want to be – believe me.’
They’re waiting for us when we arrive, a paddleboard on the sand between them. Colt is wearing nothing but navy blue swimmers. I give him a once over, careful not to get caught staring. Yeah, hot.
Milo greets us, his long grey-brown hair blowing across his face. ‘Before you ask, this exercise is about teamwork. You must stand up together on the paddleboard and work to get from the jetty to the restaurant, spin around, and back to the jetty. You keep at it until you don’t fall – to earn your supper.’
‘I’m stiff from this morning’s session,’ I groan.
‘He who rests grows rusty,’ says Milo.
‘No rabbits in the pepper today? What did that mean anyway?’
‘German proverb. Look it up. You’re welcome to join me in the spectator zone, Aria.’ Milo points further up the beach to a red deckchair. She seems to have lost her tongue and just nods.
I strip down to swimmers, grateful I decided against the bikini. Colt’s glance whips down my body so briefly I’m sure I imagined it.
The Harper Effect Page 6