“You’re into poetry?” I asked, trying to keep from staring at that brutal silvery scar of his and wondering if he’d filled out a bit or had finally bought some clothes that fit. I decided on the latter. The top he wore clung to his lean, wiry biceps, but the angles in his face appeared sharper and more chiselled, as though he’d gotten thinner.
He raised the book and gave it a little shake.
“He’s my namesake.”
My eyes skimmed the title.
“So, your name is…um…Lord?” As soon as the words escaped my lips, fresh heat prickled my cheeks. I hadn’t cracked a joke since forever and for some reason it made me feel vulnerable, like I was standing there without pants.
“Well, most people address me as Lord, but…” he drummed his fingers against the bookshelf and chewed on his full bottom lip as though he was thinking hard, “…I’ll let you call me Byron, because…” he shrugged his shoulders and looked at me from the corner of his eyes, the hint of a grin on his lips. “It’s not every day I get felt-up in a bookstore.”
I looked away, my pulse racing, my mouth twitching with a smile. He was flirting, with me. None of the guys in Donny Vale ever flirted with me—well, except for Martin, but that was in a brotherly way. Most guys who took an interest in me, and there had been several over the past couple of years, cooled off pretty quickly—like after a minute—before we could ever get to the flirting stage. I’d never really worked out why and it wasn’t like I was going to go up to them and ask.
The guy cleared his throat and danced his fingertips against the hardback.
To hide my way too desperate expression, I faced the books and started rearranging the askew ones back into alphabetical order.
“So, you work here?” He had a deep-yet-soft kind of voice, the kind you wanted to secretly record and listen to late at night. His question made me pause and rest my hands against the bookshelf.
“Yeah…I mean, I used to,” I said, my voice all croaky and my throat tightening like…like I was about to cry. Oh God. Why now? Maybe it was the softness in those deep blue eyes of his or the gentleness of his voice.
Byron leant an elbow against the bookshelf. The boyish scent of deodorant and, well, boy, and then vaguely, the hint of something medicinal—possibly antiseptic—enveloped me. The scent drew my eyes to his scar and I inwardly winced before meeting his eyes.
“So what happened?” he asked casually, pretending not have noticed my wandering eyes. “Did they fire you for sleep-walking on the job? Or was it because of your tendency to molest the customers?” He kept his face poker straight while he spoke but his eyes sparkled with humour.
I should have hit him with a comeback line, because it was nice to be getting attention from a boy, a funny, extremely attractive, and dangerous looking one.
But I couldn’t do any of that because I was gripped with the weird and sudden urge to begin blubbering up with tears right there in front of him.
“Hey, are you okay?” Byron bent his head to catch my gaze, his eyes filled with concern, the kind that makes you want to cry even more. “You know, I’m sorry about your mum. I met her once, the day before she…” his voice trailed off and he swallowed hard, “…my first day in town.”
“You did?” I was all ears and for a second, the stinging eyes and the lump in my throat forgotten.
He shrugged.
“I was playing my guitar in the park and she came and told me I was good.” He shrugged again and stared at the ground, as though he had just babbled out all of his secrets and felt ashamed. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be—”
“She loved music,” I blurted out suddenly, my chest tightening as I realised that she’d met him on the day of our argument.
I looked at Byron, really stared at him, thinking it was funny that a stranger had shared some of my mother’s last moments.
He nodded, his cheeks tinting. “She was nice.”
“Was it morning or afternoon?”
Byron frowned in thought before nodding. “Afternoon…late afternoon. It was nearly dark. After six, I think.”
After the argument.
“Did she look happy or sad?” My words came out a whisper, and then my ridiculous chin started to wobble.
Go. Run. Get out of there.
“She was…” Byron paused for a moment and rubbed the back of his neck before meeting my gaze. There was that concern again. “She seemed okay, but…her eyes were…I guess…I guess they were kind of sad.”
In what felt like slow motion, I nodded slowly, flattened my tongue against the roof of my mouth, and scooped up my bag. Behind me I heard the thud of a book as it hit the floor. The guy was always dropping books. Who does that more than once?
“Hey, don’t go. I’m sorry. Please…wait…”
I ignored his pleas and the café patrons’ stares and charged straight out the door and into the smouldering midday heat.
A huge truck loaded with pigs barrelled down the street, blasting a gust of hot hog air into my face—one of the many pitfalls of living in a country town built around a highway. I pinched my nose and shut my mouth just in time but the gush of heat blinded me for a moment and I walked straight into the front wheel of a maniac pram with a screaming kid in it.
A deranged looking red-faced mother was at its helm. Suzie, her name was. She was the daughter-in-law of my dad’s friend. I knew who she was because Dad had gone to her wedding last week and I’d gone to the ceremony bit at the church.
She’d looked beautiful in her wedding dress, all ethereal and princess-like, but today I wouldn’t have guessed it was the same person.
“Sorry,” I said, forcing a smile at the bellowing baby who threw its little grape coloured head back and howled even louder before bighting down hard on a teething ring.
Through all the chaos I heard the bell attached to the Tea ‘n’ Tale door tinker from behind.
“So you should be! I finally had her sleeping.” Suzie swung the pram away, her kid wailing again, and tore down the sidewalk.
Before I charged across the road, I saw Byron, his lean arm outstretched, the muscles in his forearm cording while he propped the café door open.
Great, so he’d witnessed it all.
“You okay?”
Slowly, I met his gaze. For a brief moment my heart stuttered. His eyes were so pensive while they held mine, as though he understood me on some profoundly deep level, which didn’t really make any sense seeing as I didn’t know the guy.
But then I recognised what his eyes were full of.
Urgh, they were full of pity.
This stranger didn’t get me. He pitied the sad case-ness of me. Just like everybody else in this town did.
The local gossips had probably filled him in on my family history already. He’d probably attended Mum’s funeral just for kicks. Maybe he’d made up that bit about the guitar playing in the park. Maybe he was some kind of wacko who got off on other people’s pain and suffering. He did seem to have a penchant for black.
“Are you all right?” Byron asked, walking slow, careful steps towards me like I was an escaped zoo creature. Some of the locals had stopped to stare.
“Ruby!” Mr. Brackinson, my high school principal and PE teacher, jogged towards me, the tennis ball he bounced everywhere he went going thwack-thwack-thwack against the pavement.
“I’m glad I caught you. Everyone has been missing you at school,” he said between puffs of breath, the ball still bouncing between the pavement and the palm of his hand. “How about you come in Monday morning, just half a day at least?”
Then I heard another voice. “Ruby! Wait!” Great. Now Graham had spotted me. Another person who wanted something from me.
The weird tears that had threatened earlier blurred my vision. I shook my head and then ran, willing them to wait until I reached the privacy of my bedroom where I could finally let it all gush out, once and for all.
I didn’t bother looking back at Byron. What was the point? There was no way he would unde
rstand. If I couldn’t understand myself or even stomach my own twisted emotions, then how could anybody else?
Chapter 4
By the time I slowed to a jog in my driveway, all urges to cry were gone, which was annoying, because I had hoped to get some relief, to throw myself down on my bed and uncoil the metal band that kept clamping around my chest, getting tighter by the day.
Inside, Dad was sitting at the table, munching on toast and dropping crumbs all over an open newspaper. He tore his eyes up from his beloved sports section long enough for me to see the red in them. This could mean one of two things, alcohol or crying. Or worse. Both. My heart dropped into my stomach.
“Hey, Rubes,” he said before taking a sip from an icy glass of juice. The ice cubes tinkled like music in the silence between us. “Jeez, it’s bloody hotter than the devil’s arsehole in this house,” he said with a cheerful flick of a page. Hmm. He seemed okay. Perhaps I was becoming paranoid.
“Try outside. I think I got a tan walking to and from town.” I threw my purse onto the counter. It slid off onto the floor. “By the way, earlier today Jay dropped the F-bomb at playgroup when another boy grabbed the last piece of banana from the fruit plate. All the mums kept giving me daggers like I’d taught him. Anyway, so I think you need to tone it down a bit.” I bent to pick up the purse and put it on the counter.
Dad touched his mouth as if it was an uncontrollable body part, swearing of its own accord, and sighed. “Sorry, love.” He shrugged and tapped the paper with his burnt toast crust.
“It says in here that Sam from the garage fried an egg on his car bonnet yesterday.” He clucked his tongue. “I did that once, when I was a kid. Tasted like rubber.” He shook his head at the memory and smiled at me, his bloodshot green eyes twinkling. “Want some lunch, love? I’ve just made some toast.”
I stared at him, not liking what I was going to do next, but I had to ask. I just had to.
“Um, Dad, have you been…” I started, but he scraped his chair back and made a move for the kitchen. I watched him while he pottered around; opening and shutting cupboard doors, tossing bread into the toaster slots, and then pouring a long glass of apple juice before adding four cubes of ice to it. He seemed sober. And he’d never before gotten drunk while alone with Jay. Only when I was home or when both Jay and I were out. Perhaps he’d just been crying—not that crying was any better.
I bent towards the table and seized the newspaper to fan my sweaty head, wishing time would fast-forward to evening so that we could open the windows and let a cool breeze in.
“What are you all hot and bothered about, Ruby? Have you been out meeting boys?” He winked, his eyes crinkling up at the corners with amusement while he placed the long glass of apple juice at my place on the table.
“Dad.” My face burned at the memory of what had happened at the Tea ‘n’ Tale. “I don’t have time for boys, and even if there were any decent ones in this town—which there aren’t—there wouldn’t be any point.”
Even as I said this I couldn’t help but picture Byron and remember the way my heart had fluttered beneath his gaze, and the way my hand and arm had tingled when I touched his hand. Absentmindedly, I rolled the newspaper into a baton and tapped it against the table, deep in thought.
Dad’s big, hairy hand waved across my face and broke my embarrassing trance.
“So there is a boy?” He was laughing now. I couldn’t help smiling. Dad’s laughter was a beautiful, full bodied, belly-shaking thing that had to be seen to be appreciated, and it was such a rarity these days.
“No! Definitely not.” I fanned my now red-hot face again with the paper. “And please, we are not having this conversation, okay? It’s too…weird.” I shook my head and tossed the paper onto the table. “Is Jay awake yet?” I was already halfway down the carpeted hallway when Dad called out, “Don’t you dare wake him!” in a whisper that was so loud it almost qualified as a shout.
“Get back here and have something to eat. You’ll run yourself ragged waiting on the little guy hand and foot.”
Sighing, I tiptoed back into the kitchen and flopped into my usual chair. Dad was making a fuss but I didn’t mind. I knew it made him feel useful. And I wanted more than ever for him to get back to the way he used to be before Mum died, working and being a proper busy Dad like everybody else’s. Then maybe he wouldn’t have time to whine at me for not returning to school. It was enough that the school principal visited nearly every week to try and coax me back.
The scent of fresh toast wafted from the toaster. My stomach rumbled.
I found it strange that nobody understood my reasons behind staying home. To me it was cut and dried. Jay needed a mother and I was the closest thing to it. And as for education, there was the internet—a plethora of answers at the touch of a button. Google was now my teacher. I was a student of the world.
Urgh.
A shudder rippled through me at that last thought. Derek used to say those words all the time when I used to hang out at his place. I’m a student of the world, Ruby. Travel is the best university life can offer.
I must have had a funny look on my face, because Dad stopped scraping butter across the toast for a moment and tutted his tongue.
“Poor Rubes, you should be out with your friends doing crazy, young people stuff, not looking after an old fart and a baby.” He diagonally cut and then slid my toast onto a yellow plastic plate, one of Jay’s, and with shaking fingers dropped it in front of me against the wooden table-top. It made a dull clunking noise in the oppressive silence of my non-answer.
Young people stuff? Maybe in his grief Dad had forgotten what sort of teenager I was. The wildest thing I’d ever done the past few years was to drink rocket-fuel with Martin and have a movie marathon that lasted twenty-four hours. That particular bender had given me weirdly puffy eyes for a week, providing Martin seven days of hilarity and bad joke material.
Did Dad seriously expect me to just suddenly start acting out? To go and get stoned and go car-surfing with the bogans, or go to parties with the popular kids and have unsafe sex with random guys while Jay cried himself to sleep every night alone in his cot? Even though it all sounded oddly freeing and slightly appealing in a strange, escapist kind of way.
I bit into the toast. It was burnt around the edges, and dry, which made it hard to swallow. Dad was never one to spread the butter right to the edges. But the apple juice I chased it with was a relief and so cold that I shivered.
“This is great. Thanks, Dad.”
“You heard what I said, Rubes. You need to get out more and do things with your friends,” said Dad, falling into his chair with a sharp groan before rubbing his back.
I gulped down more juice, draining the glass, and then sighed. The wall clock ticked extra loudly, as though it had a volume control and somebody had turned it up.
“I don’t have friends anymore. Toilet training and tantrums kind of scared them all away.” As soon as the words left my mouth my stomach felt as though it had been punched, like I’d betrayed Jay. It felt so wrong to be complaining about looking after him. I loved him like I’ve never loved another human being in my life, even if it did hurt to look at him sometimes and see the face of my mother beneath his soft, blond curls.
“What about Martin? You two had that Ryan Goosey-what’s-his-face movie night.”
“It’s Ryan Gosling.” I shook my head. “Martin’s great, but he’s got a new girlfriend. She gets jealous so I can only see him at the video store, which lately is never.” I looked at him, at the way he kept grimacing and shifting around in his seat. “You’ll ruin your back if you keep sleeping on the fold-out couch, you know.”
He ignored my comment and I let him. It wasn’t like I could blame him for not wanting to return to his and Mum’s bed.
“So go see Martin now, Rubes. Get out of the house while Jay’s still asleep. You know he’ll be up again tonight with those nightmares of his.” He glanced at the noisy wall clock. “You’ve only been gone half an
hour. Get back out there.”
I tapped the remainder of my toast against the side of the plate and considered Dad’s suggestion. Seeing Martin always cheered me up and it would be a good opportunity to share the weirdness of what had happened with old Mrs. Patfield at the Tea ‘n’ Tale.
For now I’d keep Byron and those magnificent eyes and that brutal scar just for me.
“Go on, get out of here,” Dad repeated, breaking me out of my thoughts.
“What kind of father sends his daughter out to the devil’s asshole?” I grinned before pushing my chair back.
We stood at the same time. Dad leaned forward so that I could give him a peck. But when I pressed my lips against his prickly cheek, my nose caught a whiff of something stronger than sweat, something that made my entire body stiffen.
Rum. I could smell rum. No wonder he wanted me out of there quick. I’d interrupted his date with Captain Morgan.
When I jerked back, Dad’s eyes widened with innocence.
“Where is it?” I asked in a quiet, resigned voice.
After a few seconds Dad sighed and fished out one of those miniature bottles of Bundaberg Rum from his pocket. It had white ribbons and a small sack of sugared almonds tied around its neck.
“I got it from the wedding last week. It was a gift.” He shrugged. “I’ve only had one sip, see? And I waited nearly a week. That’s good…for me.” He held it up in front of my eyes so that I could see that it was indeed three quarters full of golden liquid, but I shut them tight. Part of me was angry at Dad for taking that sip, but mostly I was angry at myself for being so mean to him and for judging him, even if I was turning all fun-police for his own good.
“Ruby, love…I’m sorry. I’ll tip it out. Look.” He rushed over to the sink and emptied the bottle down the drain. “See. I’m stronger than before. A month ago I wouldn’t have tipped it.” His eyes were wide and a long vein running down the centre of his forehead pulsed, making him look like a desperate man. But he was right.
He was stronger. And yet, I was still mad. Not at him, but at Mum. It seemed all the bad in our lives now could be traced back to that one terrible choice she’d made.
Push Me, Pull Me Page 4