‘And he started drinking again?’
‘The higher my ranking, the more he drank. And – he can’t control his temper. That’s why he earned the nickname “Spitfire”. He fought with my uncle at the company board meeting and then went to their house and trashed the place. He blamed them for pushing me into tennis, even though it was me who wanted it.’
‘How could they punish you for your father’s mistakes?’
He shakes his head. ‘They didn’t follow through on the ultimatum. They said Dad had to go. They wanted me to move in with them, but when Dad announced his plan to return to Sydney I couldn’t let him go alone. It’s my fault he can’t stop drinking – my tennis is rubbing his face in it and not letting him move on. And I knew he’d destroy himself if I didn’t come back with him.’
‘Tough choice. You walked away from your dreams.’
Colt’s eyes lose focus, become glassy. Someone lets the door slam in the room next door, flushes a toilet.
‘I tried to forget tennis, but it seems like the genes are ingrained in me and I was falling apart without it,’ he continues. ‘I figured tennis might save us both – if I can become the best I can support him, help him get better. Then Milo found me. A part of me knew it’d work out. It’s as if I know my future is tennis and whatever path takes me there, I’ll somehow make it. I’ll be number one.’
I jab his shoulder. ‘Cocky, much?’
He chuckles and rolls onto his front, too. ‘I call it confident and positive thinking.’
Our arms under our pillows, elbows touching, eyes prodding, I wonder what it’d feel like to be his girl. ‘And your uncle and aunt haven’t tried to contact you?’
‘I haven’t told them our address, or called. There was a big argument before we left – I doubt they’d want to hear from me.’
‘Why wouldn’t they? You made the – honourable choice.’
‘You think? Not the mug’s choice?’ He reaches out and strokes my cheek with the tips of his fingers and in the same motion rolls onto his back away from me. In that one movement I’m sure that whatever feelings I’m fighting, he’s fighting the same ones.
Zipping off the bed, I escape into the bathroom. ‘The right choice if you’re human and not some robot,’ I call, before shutting the door.
I slump on the wooden laundry basket, alarm bells ringing in my head. It’s one thing for me to find myself attracted to a scarily intense doubles partner who’s unobtainable, but it’s quite another thing for him to be attracted back.
When Colt wins the final at the Cambodian Futures tournament he breaks through the world top 100 barrier. Earlier in the day I lost in my final, but it’s still a reporter’s Christmas Day. The story of two Australian players simultaneously shooting up the rankings in time for the Aussie Open next month makes the Sydney Morning Herald’s sports pages. The media show replays of our recent games, rehash interviews, and compare Colt’s game to his father’s. But mostly they ask where Jagger is today, repeating clips of his boozed-up appearance at the Australian Open nearly twelve years ago.
We arrive in Sydney in the bony morning light. From the moment the plane hits the tarmac, Milo’s phone beeps. While waiting for our luggage, Milo responds to texts and listens to messages. Colt and I survey the conveyer belt. Since Colt opened up about his dad and I got the sneaking suspicion he’s into me, I’ve kept my distance and he’s done the same – except he’s relaxed and cheerful rather than locked away and moody. I repeat the list of reasons why we can’t hook up at least twice per hour.
‘This is it. The moment before your lives change forever,’ says Milo, arms around us. ‘Your agent is working hard and you’re in – the Australian Open mixed doubles event and wild cards into the singles qualifying tournament – plus two sports brands have offered “his and hers” deals with all the tennis equipment you can wear and break.’
And when we enter the arrivals hall a spray of camera lights flash, making me squint. ‘Tennis royalty,’ says Milo. ‘Get used to it.’
Milo’s arranged a surprise: a stretch limousine to transport us home. I sit between him and Colt, sipping a glass of champagne mixed with orange juice. Colt sticks to OJ. I begin a boisterous round of ‘We Are The Champions’, compelling them to sway from side to side. But when we arrive at Colt’s house he stiffens beside me, his face a cracked mirror.
He drops his glass into the footwell and shoots out of the car before it stops, jogging to where a woman in a sleek black pantsuit waits on the porch. Milo and I gawp out the window as Colt dives his forehead into Natalie’s shoulder. Her arms wrap around him, her face slack with sadness. I’m swamped by the need for his head to be on my shoulder, for it to be my arms around him. I reach for the door handle but Milo stops me.
‘Something’s happened. We need to know,’ I snap. Natalie is talking fast, her hands holding either side of Colt’s downturned face.
‘Let him decide,’ replies Milo.
I tap my lips with my fingertips repeatedly until Milo lowers the window as they walk toward us.
‘Natalie’s driving me to the hospital,’ says Colt, bending to communicate through the window. His gaze bounces around the car, unable to settle. ‘Dad’s taken an overdose.’
Milo rubs his temple, shakes his head. Colt slams a fist on the window frame. ‘And while he was in rehab. Someone has to take responsibility.’
‘I’ll meet you at the hospital soon, okay?’ says Milo, and I can only nod in agreement.
Colt mashes his lips together, straightens. ‘I gotta go.’
And he walks across the road, arm in arm with Natalie, away from us, away from me, away from my heart, which is weeping for him. And away from the space I’ve got used to him existing in, night and day during the last two weeks – the space right beside me.
When the limousine arrives in our street I fake a smile. But it falls away when neither Jacob nor Aria appears in the welcome line-up.
Something’s wrong.
Slightly numb, I’m cajoled through the usual hugs and kisses from Mum and Dad, who don’t answer when I ask where the rest of the Welcoming Committee is. Then Milo and Dad go into the study to check through next year’s tournament schedule – I suspect that’s code for talking about Jagger – leaving me and Mum to prepare breakfast in the company of Beethoven’s 6th.
‘Where are Aria and Jacob?’ I ask again as Mum butters piles of toast.
Scratching her nose with a knuckle, she turns down the radio. ‘Aria’s staying at a friend’s house.’ My stomach hitches. Oh. Mum reduces the heat on the scrambled eggs then scrunches a foil wrapping until it’s a tiny ball. ‘The thing is – Jacob didn’t get into the Con.’
I push down so hard on the knife I’m slicing watermelon with that it gets stuck in the rind. Mum doesn’t need to explain how devastated Jacob must be, or how it means Aria took a gap year and then gave up the audition for nothing.
Mum reaches over, yanks the knife from the rind and keeps slicing. ‘Sorry it’s not much of a homecoming. I can’t think where Jacob is today. By the way, Aria’s booked her flight to Rome – straight after the Australian Open.’
I suppress the urge to suck my hair. ‘I should go to Jacob.’
Mum’s usual bright smile ebbs into a frown that implies, Don’t start a war. As I turn to go she says, ‘I support your father on this subject.’
Turning back slowly, I fold my arms. ‘Does Aria know?’ Mum bites her lip, shakes her head. I shut my eyes and exhale. ‘Neither of you get it, though. I love Jacob.’ But even as I say it, I think of Colt.
‘Love comes in so many forms.’ Mum discards the knife and leans against the counter. ‘I guess love resembles colours. Colours get broken into different shades so if love is red, your feelings for Jacob are more of a pink.’
I grind my jaw. ‘How can you possibly know that?’
‘Because I know you. Everyone
has a safe place. Yours is Jacob.’ Mum smooths her bob, tugging at the curl that refuses to curve under. ‘When I was a young woman I had lots of pink loves. I loved poets and artists before I learnt who I was, and that my future needed more than sweet words and sketches –’
‘You can’t reduce what I feel for Jacob to a colour and a need to be safe. But don’t worry – I’ll do the right thing, for Aria’s sake.’ Even though some of what she’s saying makes sense, I don’t want to hear any more and I head out onto the deck.
What colour is my feeling for Colt?
Whatever the answer, I can’t avoid Jacob forever.
The wall between our homes may as well be a trench in World War One. How do I tell Jacob we’re over, we can never be, when his world has blown apart? I should be picking up the pieces, helping to put him back together, but instead I’m stomping all over the debris.
Inside the studio, the curtains drawn, I don’t see the pyramid of beer cans until it’s too late. When I kick them over, they make enough noise to wake the dead. I scrunch my nose against the smell of beer and bubblegum.
The shape of Jacob sits up on the red lips sofa. ‘Aria?’
‘Harper,’ I say, yanking open the curtains. He groans, lies down, and puts an arm across his eyes, reminding me of how Colt sleeps. My heart cartwheels at the memory.
‘You both look like angels,’ Jacob says, his tongue sounding weighted down.
‘Are you tanked? At nine in the morning?’
‘Hmmm. Come here,’ he says. I hover. He’s wearing swimmers and his stomach muscles flex as he lifts himself onto one elbow. He loops his fingers through mine and tugs me closer. I kneel on the floor beside him. ‘I’m not allowed to kiss you,’ he says. ‘Orders from your dad.’
‘I wouldn’t want to kiss you. You’re wasted.’ His eyes glisten as they bore into mine. I draw away. ‘Don’t, Jacob.’
‘Don’t what? Don’t kiss you? Don’t love you? Don’t live here because it’s killing Aria? Don’t ever play music again?’
I bite the inside of my cheek at the sight of his war-torn face. I have no idea what to say because I can’t say it’ll be all right. Maybe it won’t.
‘Come on. Get showered.’ I drag him up. ‘Let’s go for a walk in the woods.’
Fifteen minutes later, Jacob pulls up with slicked-back hair, looking sheepish and smelling of coffee. He sticks his tongue out and jabs me in the ribs as we climb the wall.
Purple Time is always short, but this year it’s shorter than ever. Already the lilac haze has diminished and the sound of our tread is muffled by the spongy purple carpet. The instant the woods swallow us, Jacob’s hand rests on the curve of my spine, guiding me down a path I’ve walked a zillion times. Neither of us speaks. We settle under the Mother Tree, our arms pressed together. The river skips and coils around the rocks.
Jacob’s feet tap a drumbeat only he can hear. He gnaws on each cuticle in turn. ‘Heard about your tournaments and the Australian Open and stuff. You’re flying now.’
‘Thanks. I can’t believe it’s happening.’ But we both know this isn’t what we need to talk about. We slip back into an envelope of silence.
Circling my knees with my arms, I breathe in deeply. ‘I heard about the Con. I’m sorry.’ I rest the side of my head on my bent knees to watch him. ‘What will you do now?’
‘Dunno.’ He stares into the branches above us. ‘Leave home to give Aria some space? She took the news worse than I did. I’m guessing that’s because now she knows she gave up the audition for nothing.’ As he speaks his gaze climbs straight into mine. ‘Am I right?’
‘No. I don’t think that’s true. I think she feels bad for you – she threw her audition away as if it was nothing and then you didn’t get in when it means so much to you.’ The lie makes my ears redden.
‘You’re sure?’
I nod a little too quickly. ‘And you don’t need to leave. She’s going to Europe in January.’
He inspects the river, adjusting his jaw back and forth. ‘When your dad busted us – you and me – when he warned me off.’ Jacob hangs his head. ‘Jeez, I’ll never forget it. He’s disappointed in me. But how am I supposed to stay away from you when – when I can’t live without you?’ He swings to me, face paved with hurt. There’s a powerful need in his eyes, not just for me, but for comfort, for reassurance.
When you’ve known someone almost all your life, there’s a deeper bond. It’s not like a normal break-up. The bond jerks now, and I play a game of tug-of-war with it. Jacob scratches the scar on his hand, left from the knife he used to carve our names into the bark of the Mother Tree. I guess our memories are etched into our souls like carvings or scars and always will be – but they mustn’t stop us growing up, or moving on, any more than the carvings can stop the tree from blossoming.
‘But Dad’s right.’ I roll forward onto my haunches, facing away from Jacob, expecting cajoling words, words of love. When there are none I glance over my shoulder.
Jacob sags against the trunk, staring into the canopy, so sad and so beautiful and so fragile; if the wind gusted now it would blow pieces of him away like torn bits of paper.
Two days later, on the first morning back to training, Colt is a no-show.
‘That boy’s father is going to blow two tennis careers,’ mutters Milo.
He misses the next day’s session too, and isn’t answering texts.
I drive to his home. He doesn’t answer the door, even though I’m sure I hear someone inside. There’s no chance of peeking through the porch windows because every inch of glass is covered in ‘Darling Madeline’ letters. They mostly don’t make sense or are illegible, though some parts could be described as love notes. Each one is signed, Yours forever, JJ.
The next morning I meet Milo for training and spy Colt slumped against the café wall. Relief swirls through me, but then I spot the split lip and swollen, bruised eye. My arms melt down to my sides so that I drop the bag I’m carrying.
Colt’s glance turns limp when he sees us. He hunches over his knees, dipping his chin. Tennis racquets and bags are littered around him, almost certainly thrown there.
When we reach him, Milo taps my arm. ‘Be right back.’
There’s a long silence. I think of Colt’s rough neighbourhood. ‘Did you get mugged?’
Colt snorts. ‘I wish.’
Milo returns with ice. Colt winces when Milo pushes the pack onto his face. After a few minutes, Colt holds the ice himself and Milo settles down next to him. I kneel in front of them.
‘Your dad’s out of the hospital then,’ says Milo. His voice is cold and seething. I’ve never heard him sound so angry. Colt nods. Milo slaps his own leg. ‘Son of a –’
Colt’s dad hit him.
‘Said it’s my fault he can’t stay clean and wants to kill himself.’ Colt adjusts the ice. ‘Wants me to give up tennis – won’t be reminded of the people who turned on him and will turn on me.’ Colt’s words are hard and monotone. ‘Said how could I prefer to play tennis than stay and help him? And why do I want to mix with the people who did this to him?’
‘He’s not thinking straight. I’m assuming he’d been drinking?’ asks Milo.
‘What else? He saw the news about me breaking into the top 100 – and all the footage of him blitzed at the Open.’
‘Everyone has tried to help him. Your aunt and uncle, you, me, Natalie, the rehab centres. He won’t accept help. You cannot throw away your life on someone like him, whether he’s your father or not.’
‘He nearly died this time, Milo.’ Colt pulls the ice away and glares at Milo. ‘How can I not stop the tennis? Except now I’m letting you down and Harper and her family. It’s not just me. I don’t know what to do.’
‘What you do is keep moving forward. If you don’t, he’ll bring you down with him.’
Colt chucks the ice-pack far into the g
rass. ‘I lost my mom! I can’t lose him too.’
Milo slaps his own leg, clearly needing to throw something as well. He’s menacing, punk-biker mad. ‘I’m going to talk to him. Is he home?’
‘Take your boxing gloves.’ Colt glares into the clouds.
‘Are you up to training with Harper?’
After a beat, one side of Colt’s mouth lifts. ‘Yeah.’ He seems relieved. ‘I need to train. Might break a racquet or something, though.’
Milo and I stand. ‘You’re a winner, Colt. A winner never quits and a quitter never wins. Start with a run. You good with that, Harper?’
‘Of course.’ I gather Colt’s scattered racquets and Milo gives me the thumbs-up.
We set an easy pace as Milo screeches out of the car park. ‘Has this happened before?’ I ask.
‘Yeah.’
‘I hope you hit him back.’
‘He didn’t understand what he was doing.’
‘If that’s true, he didn’t understand what he was saying either.’
Colt raises an eyebrow and sifts through every feature on my face, but then picks up the pace until we can’t talk.
When we return to the courts after a quick five-kilometre run, Colt executes a few 1000 kph serves, the equivalent of a punching bag. We practise our lobs, smashes, drop shots, but Colt isn’t really there; his eyes are a dark void and his body does what it knows how to do automatically.
It’s only once we stop for water that he returns. ‘Thanks for putting up with me,’ he says. ‘Not the best session for you.’
‘Don’t be stupid. It’s fine.’ A loose strand of hair slips over my cheek and he hooks it behind my ear, mirroring. Then he steps behind me, tugs out the elastic band, and rakes my hair into a ponytail. Unlike that first day of training, his actions are careful, more of a caress than the hurried slaps he used before. The skin on my neck tingles.
‘Thanks,’ I say, spinning around.
The Harper Effect Page 16