Still watching him, I ambled up the driveway towards the veranda but froze when I noticed an old woman standing at the very end of the street. Her hair was a much too bright shade of auburn and she wore a long turquoise dress that flapped and fluttered in the gusty wind. Even from this distance, I swear I could see the paleness of her eyes.
The temperature of the air around me dropped to freezing point.
I started back down the driveway and ran out onto the road, wanting to call Byron back and warn him about Mrs. Patfield, but he was gone.
And when I looked again, so was she.
More rain drops splattered against the road, against my face, down my arms, and in my hair, but I remained rooted to the spot.
Mrs. Patfield lived on the other side of town, by the cemetery. This was the first time I’d ever seen her on my street. Did Byron know her? Had he asked her to meet him at the end of the road? Is that why he was talking about all that reincarnation stuff? Or was she spying on me again?
I shivered and ran back up the driveway. Mira’s Siamese cat was rubbing its head all over our front lawn like a lunatic. The dogs of the street were barking madly at their yard fences. Thunder cracked beneath my feet. A mother of a storm was coming our way. Everything was drawing to a head.
Tonight was potentially my last night with Byron before he left town, possibly forever, and I wasn’t going to let Mrs. Patfield or anybody else stand between us.
After checking on Jay, who was asleep in his cot, I fossicked around in my room for my phone until I found it under my bed. No messages. It was time to call Martin. Over a week had passed since the dreaded kiss, long enough time for the awkwardness between us to ease. I punched out a quick message and bounced impatiently on the edge of my bed, my eyes glued to the screen. But no response came.
I raced into the kitchen, picked up the land line and called his house, something I hadn’t done since I was about twelve. No answer. My stomach started to swirl with worry.
Madeline. She’d probably banned him from seeing me again. And yet, she was the one who’d gone back to Byron’s hotel—it more than irked me to know that she’d been in that room—where I was going tonight. And how dare she make Martin get so crazy upset that he became confused and accidentally kissed me, his best friend.
I stormed back to my room and paced the floor. I’d whipped myself into an anti-Madeline frenzy. Always knew she wasn’t right for Martin. Always knew.
Picking up my phone, I resent the same message.
Martin was always the first to make up in all our past fights, but this time I was going to be the adult and give in.
I sent another message, and another. But after ten depressingly unanswered text messages, I left my room and followed the low murmuring voices drifting in through the house from our back yard.
“Thought you were out on your fancy dinner date?” Dad asked as soon as he saw me.
Dad and Mira were out beneath the patio, sitting side by side on the loveseat, holding hands, their heads so close their foreheads almost touched. At first I stepped back in shock, surprised, and a little angry.
But then I recalled all the times Mira had stopped by in the past three months, to drop off warm dinners, or the occasional grocery item, or just to have a cuppa and a chat with Dad. I must have been so wrapped up in my own miserable existence to have been blind to their subtle courtship. The past week of alcoholics-anonymous boot camp had obviously intensified their friendship.
A citronella candle burned brightly on the jarrah coffee table Dad had carved himself when he and Mum had gotten married, its warm glow lighting up their smiling faces.
Dad looked normal, like pre-Mum-killing-herself normal. Was it possible for Mira to have had such an immediate effect on Dad? Was a little love all he’d needed?
No. I was thinking too soon. Dad wasn’t on recovery-road yet. Any day now he was probably going to mess up. It was a horribly pessimistic thought, but most likely true if using the past few months as a gauge.
“Byron couldn’t cancel his gig, so no dinner.” I shrugged. “The show must go on, right.”
“That’s the spirit,” said Mira.
“Make sure you wear a jacket out tonight. And take an umbrella,” Dad said in his best stern dad voice. “There’s more rain coming.”
I tugged my jacket from the hanger in my wardrobe and shrugged it on before doing a quick hair check in the mirror. My hair was frizz-city from all the rain and the humidity, but it was too late to do anything about it.
My stomach did a little flip. Byron was starting in twenty minutes.
As I headed up my street, I hummed the tune of one of Byron’s songs, one that he’d practiced for a couple of hours yesterday. The one Jay had clapped the loudest for. It was my favourite too. I couldn’t wait to watch him play again.
For the last time…
I shook away that last thought and kept moving. Tonight I planned to change his mind.
The oncoming storm, now sounding as though it was hurtling down the road towards me, kept my pace brisk, and when a streak of lightening forked the sky, I started to run, my sneakered feet pounding pavement and gravel and the occasional lawn I crossed.
The night was so black now and the wind so furious I worried I’d be caught right in the middle of the storm. But just as several fat blobs began pelting my head and shoulders, I ducked beneath the awning of the pub, puffing and panting to catch my breath.
Smiling Billy was at the door tonight, Derek’s good friend, and he let me straight in. We had a little pact. He would let me in, but I wouldn’t make a fool out of him by getting plastered.
Tonight, however, I felt so nervy and weirded-out for many reasons—Martin’s silence, the intimate dinner in Byron’s room later, Dad and Mira at home getting really close—that for the first time in a long time I almost wished I could break my promise and have a drink, just one, though I hated my hypocritical self for even considering such a thing.
Once, when I was about fifteen, Martin and I had gotten ourselves rotten with rocket-fuel. We drank it out of an old milk carton until we were legless. I couldn’t remember much of the crazy dancing—apparently I danced like a male peacock. Or the weird stuff we talked about—Martin vaguely recalled a rambling conversation about the pros and cons of using a toilet’s half-flush button. But the one thing I did remember was the pleasant numbing feeling and the way that the alcohol had made me feel blasé about everything going on at the time—namely Mum spending way too much time at Derek’s.
I could do with some blasé right now, to pretend that Byron wasn’t leaving.
As I weaved my way through the boisterous crowd that seemed to be behaving according to the weather—with all the beer sprays and thunderous shouts and claps—I scanned for Martin, just in case.
But there was no sign of his blond head and flexing biceps. However, as I moved closer to the stage, I was surprised to spot Madeline, standing front-row centre.
My entire body tensed at the sight of her. Madeline without Martin was all I needed tonight. She was probably ready to sink her freakishly long nails into Byron.
She probably already has. Hotel room…remember?
I had no way of knowing the truth about the night of the first gig. If I believed Byron, nothing happened. And I truly wanted to believe him. If I trusted my own wild and cruel imaginations, they’d probably…urgh…slept together.
She had her back to me but there was no denying that long, wavy hair and those spray-on jeans and the snake skin heels she always wore. My heart sank. She was sex on legs. How could I compete? I glanced down at what I’d earlier considered my sexy jeans and suddenly wished I’d worn the dress Mira offered to loan me. Yes, it was a sixty-year-old lady’s dress, but it fit me like a second skin and made me feel a little like Marilyn Monroe, pre-platinum, and without the bust…
The lights dimmed, all except the stage. My heart fluttered when I saw Byron’s shiny, silver guitar leaning against the amp and the microphone stand.
> “Want a drink, Ruby?”
Huh?
It was a boy from school who had been plagued by pimples for at least four years. Now that they’d cleared up he was decidedly attractive.
“No thanks, Jordan.” I smiled as politely as I could and turned my attentions back to the empty stage.
“So how have you been?”
On a normal night, without meeting Byron, without having Martin kissed me a week ago, I might have even enjoyed his attentions. He was one of the nicer boys in Donny Vale.
But tonight, I was feeling on edge and my entire body felt rigid with anxiety. Perhaps it was the undercurrent from the storm. Or maybe I was impatient for mine and Byron’s alone time.
A quick glance around proved it wasn’t just me. A nearby couple hurled abuse at each other while a group of miners still in their fluorescent uniforms were pushing and shoving anyone who dared brush past them. A glass smashed against the bar. The whole place was on edge.
The gig was meant to start at 8 p.m. and according to my phone, it was already 8:20.
“Where is that skinny bastard?” the man beside me, who’d stopped arguing with his wife, shouted across the room to nobody in particular.
Then a horrible thought came. Perhaps Byron had already left Donny Vale.
No. My lack of contact with Martin was making me melodramatic. Byron’s guitar was right there in front of me. And surely he wouldn’t leave without it.
Or without saying goodbye to me.
“Ruby, you look…sorta pale. Here have a sip.” Jordan pressed the icy glass into my hand. The smell hit my nostrils—rum and Coke—Dad’s second favourite drink, next to wine.
I brought cool glass to my lips. Martin would call me a phoney right now. He’d seize the drink from my fingers and smash it to the ground and drag me out of the pub like I was his to protect. But Martin wasn’t here. Dad was busy with Mira. Mum certainly wasn’t here, and Byron was leaving soon, any day now, so, technically I had no one to give a toss about me. It was sort of liberating, really.
The drink tasted bitter and sweet at the same time, and when it hit my belly it burned like fire. But that fire soon spread through my entire body and numbed me a little.
“Thanks.” I wiped my chin where I’d spilled it and sheepishly caught Jordan’s wide eyed stare from out the corner of my eyes. I glanced at the empty glass. “Sorry. I don’t normally go around skolling other people’s drinks.”
He smiled and frowned at the same time. “Err, no problem. Do you want another?”
I exhaled and thought about it. The drink had taken the edge of my nerves. No wonder Dad had wallowed in it after Mum had died.
“Sure.” I smiled and turned my attentions back to the stage where Byron had materialised. A few cheers and wolf-whistles erupted from the crowd before a flash of lightening illuminated the arched windows of the pub, casting an eerie glow on Byron, making him seem pale and ghostly. I didn’t like the way his eyes appeared so dark and hollow beneath the lights.
The crowd grew silent. Thunder rapped against the doors and walls of the pub and rumbled beneath our feet. It was sort of cosy, being in here with all these people, Byron especially, with my body buzzing the way it was. Right here, right now, with a killer storm raging outside, everything felt right and safe.
But then I watched, stunned, as Byron reached for the mic…and collapsed onto the stage.
Chapter 13
By the time I’d managed to wrestle my way through the crowd to the stage, Madeline was kneeling on the floor, cradling Byron’s head in her lap, her golden hair acting like a cocoon, a veil across his face. I knelt down and swept it aside.
“Byron? Are you okay?” I gently brushed my fingers against his scarily pale cheek.
Without looking at me, he swiped my hand away. “I’m fine,” he said through gritted teeth before hoisting himself to his feet with a shuddering groan.
I flinched just to watch him.
With trembling hands he picked up his guitar and looped the strap over his shoulder. Madeline was speaking to him in in hushed tones, her mouth brushing his ear.
“You can’t play like this,” I said, placing a hand on his shoulder, but he threw me a quick looked and shrugged my hand away. His eyes had never been so dark and hostile.
“Just get off the stage, Ruby, and let me do this.”
Jordan, who’d been waiting patiently at the foot of the stage all the while, helped me down.
“I’m okay,” Byron said, low and soft into the mic. He was addressing the audience, not me. He whispered a thank you to Madeline and gave her a wink before launching into something hard and fast, his head down, his hands thrashing the strings.
The crowd cheered while I felt like throwing myself into the foetal position on the stinking, stale-beer soaked carpet.
What did I do to make him so mad? Did Mrs. Patfield tell him something? Something bad enough to make him look at me like that, with hate in his eyes?
When the song finished, Jordan returned from the bar and offered me that other rum and Coke. I waved it away. “Sorry, I’ll pass. But thanks anyway.” I was so numb right now I didn’t need a drink anymore.
“We can leave and go get a coffee if you feel like it?” he suggested before gulping down half of his drink in one go, as if he was in a rush to leave.
I bit my lip, to sober myself, and shook my head.
“Maybe we can do coffee another time. I’m not planning on staying out long tonight. I was actually looking for Martin. I haven’t seen him around in a while.”
Jordan drained the rest of his drink in one long drag and nodded his head. Byron’s guitar twanged in the background.
“Last time I saw Martie he was stuffing things into his car.”
“What?” Suddenly I felt more alert. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah. I drove past his house just this morning,” Jordan said, nodding. He seemed happy to be the bearer of such useful information. “Martie was definitely going for longer than a few days.” His expression changed to sympathy when he saw my face. “But I’m sure he’ll be back soon. You two are pretty tight, aye?”
“Yeah, well, we were.” I offered a weak smile. “Thanks for the info, and for the drink.” I shrugged, swayed on my feet a little and laughed. “I guess I’m a one-can screamer.”
He smiled and was about to say something but stopped when Byron’s smooth, deep voice filled the room.
My favourite song.
Even I, completely burnt from his brush-off on stage, couldn’t ignore that mesmerising voice and those lyrics. Without missing a beat I reached for my phone and pressed record. I ended up recording more than one song by the end of the whole set. Everyone was so entranced that, in between songs, the silence allowed the fierce rain rattling against the old tin roof of the pub to be heard quite clearly.
Later, while I watched Byron unplug his amp and wind the lead into a coil, I hesitated to approach him. The way his shoulders were set seemed to shout ‘Back off!’ But I desperately wanted to know if he was really okay, if he was still mad at me for whatever mysterious reason, and, most importantly…if he still wanted to be alone with me tonight.
A tiny pounding behind my forehead that had started before the gig, but had disappeared after the rum, returned with a sudden vengeance. My stomach churned. I needed to splash some water on my face.
I made my way to the loos and waited in the scarily huge line that snaked out into the hallway. When I finally got my turn, I leaned over the basin and splashed cold water onto my face before taking a seat on the toilet lid. The rain outside was still drumming against the roof. The noise out in the bar was back to its happy cacophony of glasses clinking, belly laughs, and juke-box music. I wondered if Byron was still there. And I wondered about what Jordan had said, how he had seen Martin packing his things into the car. Had my best friend truly moved away from Donny Vale without letting me know?
After a few minutes of quiet, deep breaths, the headache and nausea lessened.
<
br /> Somebody banged on the door so hard it rattled on its hinges.
“Hurry up!”
I slipped out the door, past the heavily perfumed and sweaty line, and headed straight to the bar for a glass of water, and then another, while I waited for Byron, who thankfully was still up on the stage, to finish packing up. Seductive eyed girls hung around in groups a metre or so away, but Byron seemed oblivious to them while he spoke to only Madeline.
My heart crashed around in my belly to see him so engaged and laughing at whatever it was that she was saying, when he’d been so cold with me. Had I missed something? He’d spent a whole week with me and my little brother.
He’d stood on my front veranda two nights ago and told me that he’d never felt ‘this way’ about anybody until he’d met me. He’d invited me, only hours earlier, with sexy eyes, to get some dinner later and take it back to share in his hotel room.
Well, it was ‘later’ now, and the only person he seemed to want to be alone with was Madeline.
Leaving behind a half full glass of water, I spun around and headed for the exit, hot blood pulsing in my ears as I brushed past a bewildered looking Smiling Billy who was chatting to Jordan at the door.
The lashing rain nearly drowned out the sound of whoever it was that followed me outside.
“Ruby!”
I ran onto the road, not really looking where I was going.
“Ruby, stop!”
Rain soaked through my clothes. I shouldn’t have come. I’d been stupid to waste so much time on somebody I hardly knew. Jay was waiting for me at home. To think I’d traded my little brother in for a stranger made me feel ill. A stranger who was going to leave me just like Mum did.
Somebody grabbed my arm and spun me around in the middle of the highway.
Two cars sped by, honking their horns at us.
His hair was glued to his face and wet clothes clung to his body.
Push Me, Pull Me Page 13