Push Me, Pull Me

by Vanessa Garden

He held up the brown paper bag. “This?” He frowned. “It’s called wine.”

  “I know you said not to bring anything, but…” He gestured to Mira who was smiling as if this was all fine. “It’s Merlot, which happens to be Mira’s favourite. We ran into each other at the shops.”

  “Sorry.” I waved a hand in front of my face and forced a smile. I was being paranoid. “Here, let me take it.”

  Once inside, Byron handed me the bottle wine, cool and slippery in my hands, and I showed them both through the house and outside to the backyard where the fragrance of marinated lamb chops filled the air. Dad snapped his tongs by way of greeting, but Jay stood in the background, his blue eye fixed warily on Byron.

  “Jay sick,” he mumbled before burying his head into Dad’s legs, which were so hairy you’d think he was wearing woolly, orange socks.

  I mumbled some quick introductions before escaping to the kitchen with the wine. I paced back and forth, the bottle in my hands.

  Should I toss it in the bin? Accidentally drop it and let it smash like the spice jar?

  No. I hated cleaning at the best of times and I could only imagine what red wine would do to the grout in the tiles.

  Sighing, I unscrewed the cap and rested it, between my hands, on the sink, precariously close to the edge, while I wondered what to do.

  Dad wouldn’t be able to resist.

  What if…what if it slips from out of my grasp and accidentally spills down the sink…

  Suddenly the bottle had a killer left tilt to it.

  “Hey, where’s that vino?”

  I jumped and set the wine bottle straight. A small amount had spilled into the sink, leaving a dark blood-red swirl in the murky dishwater from earlier.

  Mira, followed by Byron, entered the kitchen, smiling. Didn’t they realise how important this was? Well, Byron could be forgiven because he didn’t know how bad Dad was. But what was Mira’s story? What had happened to her mission to whip Dad into shape? What about all the difficulty she’d had with her late husband who drank too much vino?

  I bit my bottom lip, to stem my anger, but couldn’t help myself.

  “Mrs. Simich…”

  “Call me Mira, dear, remember?”

  “Mira…um, Dad is trying to stay dry,” I said through gritted teeth. I snuck a glance at Byron who was staring at the floor with his hands in his pockets, looking as if he’d like to disappear right about now.

  Mira nodded. “I know, dear. But better that he is confronted with wine now, right here, in his own home, than at another’s house or in a bar without us around him for support.” She took the wine bottle and went outside with it.

  “Sorry, Ruby, I didn’t think.” Byron added, finally meeting my eyes.

  Heat flushed up my neck and into my face. I wanted to pull the plug in the sink and disappear down the drain along with the dirty dishwater.

  Why on earth did all this embarrassing stuff have to come out before I even got to know him better? Now he was going to leave town remembering me as the sad case with the dead suicidal mother and alcoholic father.

  I looked at Byron, at his neck scar, at the deep compassion and understanding in his eyes and realised that, in a roundabout way, we probably had a lot in common. But I wasn’t sure if that was such a good thing.

  “No, no, don’t be sorry,” I said, forcing a smile, a very brittle smile.

  He sighed and nodded.

  “Need any help in the kitchen?” He came around the bench to stand beside me. The forced cheeriness in his voice made my throat thicken.

  My ridiculous chin wobbled when I tried to explain that no help was necessary, that everything was ready.

  “Hey, are you okay?”

  Sucking in a deep breath, I tried to smile, but Byron slid his hand along the sink until his pinkie finger touched mine.

  It was such a sweet gesture that an embarrassingly loud and raspy sob escaped my lips and I ran from the kitchen, my red face hidden behind a tea towel.

  Chapter 11

  Somebody gently rapped at my bedroom door.

  I raised my head out of the pillow long enough to shout, in a ridiculously chirpy voice, “I’ll be out in a minute,” even though I planned on doing anything but that.

  But whoever was there persisted.

  “Ruby, don’t cry. My kitchen skills aren’t that bad, I promise.”

  I stifled a sob and a small gasp of a laugh.

  The knock came again.

  “Please, let me in.”

  I could hear Jay shouting, “Lamb chops!” with glee in the background.

  “Okay. You can come in.”

  Quickly, I wiped my face on my sheets before Byron entered, leaving two small streaks of black mascara against the white cotton. I’d only managed to squeeze out a couple of tears so I couldn’t exactly call it a good hearty cry or anything.

  Byron’s face was a little paler than usual but he still looked a whole lot better than what I must have looked like. I kept my eyes down and fiddled with one of Jay’s stuffed toys that he’d left behind from the night before. It was a squeaky toy duck.

  “I wouldn’t have brought the stupid bottle if I knew it was going to make you cry, Ruby.” He sighed and came to stand beside the edge of my bed. I could see the shape of his legs through his jeans. They were nice thighs, lean but muscular. I had to stop staring at them.

  “Why are you always wearing jeans when it’s so hot?” I asked, unable to divert my one-track brain.

  “I like jeans.” The bed creaked as he sat down next to me. He shifted around until he made himself comfortable—stretched out on his back—but the way he made soft groaning sounds a couple of times made me think about the wound on his chest.

  I shifted a little, crossed my legs then uncrossed them, uneasy and uncomfortable with the idea of Byron in pain. The bed made springing noises as we both moved across the mattress. It reminded me of the rhythmic sounds that used to travel through the walls of my parents’ bedroom when I was little. The thought made me blush.

  Byron finally settled on his back, his hands folded behind his head on my pillow.

  “The Greek Islands? Wish I could just go there now,” he said, staring up at my newly decorated ceiling.

  “The Croatian Islands, in fact. Mira gave them to me. That’s where she’s from.” I pointed to the poster of the island Korcula, which look like a jewel in the glittering Adriatic Sea.

  “Beautiful,” he said, but he was looking at me, not the poster. A tingling rush of warmth flooded my insides.

  He reached for my hand and pulled me down towards him and rolled over to his side so that we were both leaning on our elbows, facing each other, only inches apart.

  “Can I ask you something?” he said in that low, melodic voice of his, his eyes locked on mine, our fingers linked.

  “Anything,” I whispered. Maybe he was going to ask me to come travelling with him to Europe sometime in the near future. Even if I couldn’t, because of my responsibilities with Jay, it would still be nice to get an invite. I gave the stuffed duck, which was still in my other hand, a squeeze. Byron smiled when it squeaked, but the smile soon died.

  “Do you believe in reincarnation?” His face was deadly serious.

  I shifted back a little. The question was so left-of-centre and so not what I expected that it took me forever to answer.

  “No. I believe in the here and now. You live, you die, and then you end up in a box.” I didn’t like the vibe of this conversation. Maybe he’d been speaking to Mrs. Patfield. She was probably filling his head with all sorts of new age talk. Whatever it was, it was weirding me out.

  “Why?” I dropped his hand.

  “It’s just something random I was thinking about. Anyway, forget I asked.” He lowered his lashes and picked at a loose stitch on the bedcover then shrugged and rolled onto his back again, sighing out loud.

  “Are you in a lot of pain?” It was a stupid question. My eyes travelled to the front of his shirt.

  He pul
led back a little, as if to protect his wound from my intrusive gaze.

  “I’m fine, Ruby,” he said, but kept his eyes trained on the ceiling, his expression unreadable.

  “How long have you had this one for?” I reached out and gently traced my trembling finger along the thin silvery line on his face and neck, moving from his jaw down to his collarbone.

  Byron closed his eyes and exhaled raggedly. “A long time. Don’t look at it,” he rasped. “It’s ugly.”

  I swallowed thickly and gazed at the fine structure of his face, at the thick lashes resting against his cheekbones and the sensual swell of his lips. “Nothing about you could ever be ugly.”

  At my words, Byron opened his eyes and fixed them on me. He gently tugged my arm and waist, rolling me on top of him. He breathed hard from the exertion.

  I blushed from being so close to his face and sat up, straddling him, my thighs on either side of his waist.

  “You’re so beautiful, Ruby,” Byron whispered, his hands finding my hips.

  I shifted slightly, conscious of the growing hardness I could feel beneath me.

  Outside, the sky was darkening, but there was just enough light coming in through the window for me to see the look on Byron’s face. I’d never been looked at like this before.

  “Come here,” he whispered, sliding his hands from my hips up my lower back, gently pressing me down.

  I bent and hovered over him, careful not to apply any pressure to his chest, but Byron wrapped an arm around my waist and slid a hand behind my neck and gently pressed me down so that I could feel every inch of his firm body beneath me. The sensation made my pulse quicken and my heart stutter. A flush, hotter than the recent weather, burned through my veins and heated my body.

  Against my neck, Byron’s breath came faster.

  Our lips came together, soft and chaste at first, but as soon as our tongues touched the kiss grew deeper and harder. Byron’s hands slid up my back to tangle in my hair while I ran my hand through his.

  He moaned softly and suddenly the kiss kicked up a gear. Our hands crossed paths and we entwined our fingers together, briefly, before moving on to touch each other’s bodies, wherever our hands could reach. Every inch of Byron felt hard, whereas, beneath his careful touch, he made me feel soft like I was something delicate and precious. It was exquisite.

  I couldn’t get enough of him. I wanted to somehow meld us into one person.

  I drew him tight against me and he groaned against my mouth, the sound sending a jolt of excitement to my lower belly, that is, until he stiffened beneath me and pushed me off.

  I hadn’t pleasured him, I’d hurt him.

  “Are you okay?” I knelt beside him, horrified at what I’d done, my hands hovering over his chest.

  Byron remained on his back, his chest rising and falling in short, sharp rasps, his jaw tense, his hands twisting at my bed cover.

  “I’m so sorry. Is it bad? What should I do?”

  “It’s okay. Don’t be sorry,” he whispered hoarsely, looking away. “It’s not your fault, Ruby. It’s me.”

  “I’m the one who crushed you,” I said softly.

  He sighed and steadied his breath.

  “No. I mean, I shouldn’t be here, doing this…starting something with you…” he met my eyes, “…something that can never really go anywhere.” He exhaled, it sounded harsh and angry. “Remember, I’m leaving soon, Ruby.”

  I tied my hair up with the band I kept around my wrist and tried to keep my face neutral so that he couldn’t see how I really felt about him leaving. We’d only just gotten to know each other. I liked the guy. I didn’t want him to leave.

  “Is this to do with your music? Because you want to tour? Or because of this…this thing with your parents?”

  Byron smiled down at the bedcover, but it was a bittersweet smile. “I wish this was about something as simple as music.”

  He eased himself into sitting, swinging his legs over the other side of my bed then stared out my window. The curtains were half drawn, revealing the dusky, purplish sky.

  “If somebody takes their own life, like your mum, Ruby, do you think they are at peace after they die? Some people think they get stuck in this sort of nothingness in-between world, which is meant to be worse than heaven or hell.”

  My blood ran cold.

  Why was he asking me these sorts of questions?

  As I came around and stared down at Byron’s closed eyes, the dark lashes against his pale skin, a panic erupted inside my chest. Was he talking about my mum or…himself?

  “Byron, you’re not thinking of killing yourself, are you? Tell me you’re talking about somebody else.”

  He didn’t answer me. He didn’t move an inch. I couldn’t even see his chest rise with breath.

  The bed groaned as I sat down beside him. A cold shiver shook through me as I remembered that night at the pub when he’d stared off into space, looking sad and reminding me of Mum when she thought nobody was looking.

  He sighed. “I was just wondering, that’s all,” he said, his voice cracked and dry. “A friend of mine…he’s in a situation.”

  I sighed with relief, but felt terribly guilty for doing so.

  “So what’s going on with this friend?” That is, if there really was a ‘friend.’

  Byron rubbed the back of his neck and sighed before getting to his feet and moving to my dressing table. “I’m being insensitive again. I shouldn’t have asked you about reincarnation and the other stuff, considering what you’ve been through, Ruby.”

  “No. It’s okay. Don’t worry about me. I mean, I’m sort of numb to what Mum did. I feel kind of bad that I gave you such a horrible answer though. I’m really sorry about your friend.”

  He hung his head and picked up a small picture of Jay as a newborn in a heart-shaped frame.

  “I’m running away from some pretty epic things in my life, Ruby. I’m not sure you’d want to know me if you knew what those things were.”

  I frowned at his shadowy reflection in the mirror and got up to stand beside him.

  “Could they be any worse than the things you now know about me?”

  “There’s nothing bad in knowing you,” he said in a low voice before setting the picture back down. Then I thought he muttered, “I only wish I had time to know you more,” but it was so low I couldn’t be certain.

  There was a knock at the door.

  I sprung away from Byron, clearing over a metre of floor. It was a reflex action at being caught in my room with a boy that wasn’t Martin.

  “Dad! You forgot to knock.”

  “Sorry, Rubes.” He waved his tongs in the air and clicked them like casinetts while wiggling like a belly-dancer. “Get ’em before the blowies do.”

  “Ruby, lamb chops!” Jay ran towards me with a chop in his hand and olive oil shiny on his lips before planting a big greasy kiss on my bare leg. “Boy like lamb chops?” he said, peeking up at Byron.

  Byron smiled. “Yes, I like lamb chops, Jay.” After that, some of the tension from our morbid conversation melted away. I stood up, boldly taking Byron’s hand into mine, in front of my Dad. “Let’s go eat.”

  He squeezed my hand gently and I squeezed it back.

  If Byron had only days left here, for whatever mysterious reason, then I was going to make sure I knew him for each and every one of those days, and maybe then he’d change his mind and stay.

  Chapter 12

  Byron stood out on the veranda, leaning against the door frame.

  “I’m sorry, they won’t let me cancel.” His eyes were clouded with disappointment, but he smiled softly as he appraised me from head to toe and back up. Finally the weather had cooled enough for me to don my favourite jeans.

  I forced a smile, to show Byron that I was fine with having to share him on our potentially last night together instead of the planned intimate dinner at our local Thai restaurant.

  “It’s okay. I wasn’t really hungry.” I wanted to watch him one more time a
nyway, and planned to record him singing, on my phone, so I had something of Byron after he was gone.

  My stomach rumbled. Byron grinned.

  “What if we get something to eat after the gig? We can take it back to my hotel room…” He paused to swallow and gave me a pointed look. “That’s if you want to.”

  Blush crept into my cheeks. For the past week Byron had spent a lot of time with Jay and me, together, which was awesome and the best fun I’d had in a long time.

  But it had left little time for physical contact, apart from some chaste hand holding that always managed to drive my pulse right up. So, basically, we hadn’t kissed since the barbeque night, since our first kiss. And all that pent up tension was getting to me.

  “Sounds good.” I playfully smacked his arm with my purse, hiding the sadness creeping up inside of me. Byron was leaving. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day—he was still cryptic about the exact date. But he was going.

  He smiled and said, “Great,” before turning to face the street.

  The sky outside, though it was only 5 p.m., was already dark with the promise of the summer storm which had failed to materialise the past seven days.

  “I’d better go before I get soaked,” he said, reluctance in his voice.

  I walked him out past the mailbox. We both stood on the curb, wind nearly bowling us over, while we glanced up at the bruised sky. The air smelt metallic and buzzed with electricity.

  “So, I’ll see you later on tonight,” I said aloud over the whirring wind.

  Byron’s hair blew against his face so that his eyes were partially hidden.

  “You sure you’re not mad we can’t do dinner?”

  I shook my head and waved his words away. “No, definitely not.” A drop of rain landed on his cheek, then mine, like twin tears. “Hey, you’d better go before you get caught in the rain.”

  He hesitated, his eyes looking me over as though committing me to memory, his mouth half open. It was as if he wanted to tell me something, but then sighed as though deciding against it.

  “Okay,” he threw a quick smile over his shoulder before breaking into an unco, limping sort of jog up the street that made me want to chase him down, wrap my arms around him tight, and never let go. What on earth kind of parents did he have? What kind of people could inflict such pain onto their beautiful son?