“Is that really how you feel?” Mum asks.
I feel the tears sting my eyes, and I stand as a tear runs down my cheek. Jade stands to come with me but I shake my head as I feel my lip trembling. I leave the table and stumble through the cafe to the toilets. I throw myself into a cubicle and sit on the closed lid. The weight of holding that for so long has left me breathless and I struggle for air as sobs spasm through my body. I’m shocked by my ability to bear most of my feelings to the women sitting outside who are bound to be sharing their opinion on what just went down. I hide behind my baking and my business and have always had the ability to shut things out when I lose control of them; but inside I’m just a lonely girl tiptoeing around the life-consuming love I feel for Deacon Reid. Because that’s what it is. I can dress it up with lust, and frustration, and a hatred for him only spurred by my need for him, but he makes me feel alive, sets me on fire and I would give anything to be the only girl he does that to.
I leave the cubicle and clean my face, preparing to go and answer the questions everyone’s bound to have; I can't blame them when I’ve compared my feelings for Deacon to those the literary greats created.
But I see him as I reach the exit, standing at our table, his hands shoved in his pockets and in deep conversation with my mother. Oh god, she wouldn’t tell him. I lift my hand to my throat, suppressing the urge to scream across the garden and either protect my feelings, or humiliate myself further.
“Wanna get out of here?” I turn to find Jonas leaned up against a pillar, his arms crossed. Jesus, my brother needs a shave.
“You know you're my favourite brother right?”
He smirks and I follow him back through the cafe, to the front of the club and out into the car park.
“I’m not gonna ask you about it. And I see that look on your face.” He flings his arm around my shoulders, “I don't wanna know. Hasn’t hanging out with us boys for years taught you to never cry over us?”
“Does he talk to you?” I ask, curling my arm around his waist. I didn’t realise there was so much muscle under my brothers excessive facial hair and scruffy clothes.
“Deacon doesn’t talk to anyone. He drinks and fu-”
“Yes. He fucks.” I smile the best I can.
“I’m sorry.”
We reach the Punto and Jonas climbs in, leaning over to unlock my door. I slump in, feeling more deflated than ever and attack the volume button on the radio as Jonas’ preference for heavy metal stabs my ears.
“Christ!” I shout, smacking at the radio to no avail.
Jonas flicks something on the steering wheel and the Sunday radio croons softly in the background, “I forgot you were hanging.”
“Understatement of the century.”
“Where do you want to go?”
“Anywhere.”
Jonas smiles as he turns out of the country club and drives along the country lane.
“Why did you come to my rescue?”
“Mum said you’d probably want to leave. What happened?”
I shrug, “Nothing. I’m an emotional, irrational girl. We freak out sometimes.”
“So I’ve noticed. Grace was a nightmare last night. I’m not one for ordering about but if she ever gets in that state again, there’ll be some ground rules laid down.”
I laugh, and lean my head back on the headrest.
“Ask me.” He says turning into the car park of a tiny pub I’ve never seen before. It’s nestled on a cliff top and looks quaint and archaic, perfect.
“Ask you what?”
“Let’s go get a drink while you figure it out.”
I follow him into the pub, and we grab our drinks and head out to the beer garden. The air is breezy and salty and I fill my lungs with it, abolishing some of my hangover.
“What happened?” I ask. I know what he was telling me to ask him, and I know he’ll understand this question.
“I don't know if it was Dom dying or you leaving; it all happened so fast and he was just gone.” We take a synchronised sip of our lemonades, “I didn’t see him between Christmas night and the funeral. I saw him the day after but he was gone, like, vacant. I put it down to Dom dying and it being such a shock. But he stopped coming out, Brad picked himself up and kept afloat. Deac just vanished. He obsessed over the yard, over work and...girls. Like he was trying to find something he’d lost. People get over death, Jen. It’s a part of life and wounds heal themselves leaving good memories in their path.”
“But...” I feel it coming.
“People don't get over love. I think what happened with you was what changed him.”
I nod. I suspected that’s what he was going to say and I’m filled with regret again. If I had just stayed and been the fireball everyone thought I was, I would have been there when Dom died and the memories of the beach night would have faded into the distant, drowned out by supporting Deacon and being there for him when he needed me.
“It wasn’t your fault. He’s focused now, driven to something. I’ve never seen someone press what he does, he’s like a machine, and I think it’s for you.”
I’m sorry. People change. It has everything to do with you.
“I could have stopped it.”
“No, you couldn't. Maybe it was Dom dying that put it in perspective. Don't take my word on what goes through Deacon’s head, I’ve never been as close to him as I am with Brad, it’s just a hunch and most of the time the male hunch sucks. But...”
He trails off and breaks eye contact.
“But what?”
Jonas contemplates his answer for long minutes before he finally speaks, still refusing to look at me.
“I don’t think the old Deacon is coming back.” My breath leaves in a rush and I sag in my seat, “I’m glad you’ve found each other, I just want you to be prepared that this Deacon isn’t the one you made the memories with.”
I nod again as I look over at the turbulent sea, waves crashing against the rocks. Jonas knows more than what he’s told me. What side of Deacon has he seen?
“You okay?” He asks after a while.
“Yeah. You need to shave.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?” He scratches his jaw.
“Because you look like a cave man.”
He laughs and I laugh with him, grateful that my bushy big brother can distract me from the driving need to go and find Deacon.
“You wanna go back?”
We’ve been sitting in comfortable silence, while I think about everything Jonas told me and everything I told the women of my family today. I’ve been the worst company but Jonas spent the most part of the few hours we’ve been sat here playing a war game on his phone, the sound of his guns the only sounds accompanying us, besides the raging sea.
“Yes and no.” I answer honestly, “Will they come round for dinner?”
“I hope not. There’s a film on TV I want to catch with Dad. Shall we go grab a pizza?”
“Yes. A stuffed crust meaty one with extra cheese.”
“There’s my baby sis!” He hoots, standing and swinging his keys around his finger.
I didn’t exaggerate when I told Jonas I could eat a horse while we were on our way to get a pizza. We decide to eat in, avoiding the family for a little longer, and I’m not sure how I fit so much food into my body. The mighty meaty pizza I order is nearly the size of me, and I devour that and a portion of dough balls in record time. I can't remember the last time I gorged on carbs, and it feels so good; I can afford to put on a bit of weight so at this present moment in time I don't care if it only lasts a moment on the lips. I’m sure Kip will have me running it off soon enough.
I’m beginning to analyse everything Kip and I have. I know I’m not into it as much as I should be, or as much as he’d like me to be, but I’ve never noticed the influence he has over me until now. Not eating meat while we’re together, only eating organic, running in the morning because he thinks it’s ‘good bonding time’... Why should a young couple need bonding
time? The simple answer is we shouldn’t.
It’s dark when we get home and I fall on the sofa next to my Dad, my usual spot, and rest my head on his shoulder.
“How’s la rodilla?” I ask, squeezing my arm around his belly. He puts his arm around my shoulder and kisses the top of my head. Jonas hands me a cup of tea, taps me on the knee and sits down next to me.
“It’s fine.” Dad says, laughing at the comedy film that’s just started before looking down at me, “Que pasa, mi rosa?”
I shake my head and snuggle into him, allowing myself to get lost in the light-hearted comedy that is Anchorman.
Chapter 15
Deacon
“Mate, there are to be no slip-ups on this scaffolding.” I address the site manager as the scaffs arrive, “I know you know what you’re doing. But the public will be walking nearby constantly.”
“I’ll oversee it all, Deac.”
I nod, convinced and pull on the visi-vest and hat he hands me. I’ve known Rick for years, Dad worked with him when he was starting out and I know he’s one of the best in the business. I can't risk a law suit because someone here gets hurt by the scaffolding. That’ll rinse a business, shut it down.
I step back and watch as the boys bring the tubes and base plates over. I’m not planning on sitting here all day, but I’ll catch straight away if anyone’s head isn’t in it, and then I can be on my way.
“Deacon.” I turn to find Mr. Crane approaching, his hand outstretched towards me, “I see you made good time.”
“We’re eager to get started.”
“Come.” He continues the walk up the access-only road and I follow, glancing back, but satisfied that everyone has got straight to work under the beady eyes of Rick and Mike, “We can grab a coffee. This part of the hospital will probably quieten down while you're here, so feel free to use the staff room if you need tea or coffee... Within reason.”
In other words, he doesn’t want gangs of burly builders bustling through the department full of pregnant women. We’ve been assigned to expand the maternity ward of Foster University Hospital; a job likely to take a good few months. We’re only extending up by one story, and it’s a relatively small hospital, but financially satisfying none the less. The scaffolders will take a few days to get the frames up and then we’ll bring in the cranes to demolish and tarp the roof. Then the building begins and I can get stuck into extending the foundations. If I want to.
“The boys bring flasks and normally wait until their lunch break.” I reassure him.
We step through the revolving doors of the department and the hot hospital stench smacks me in the face, burning my nose.
I follow Mr. Crane to the staffroom, nodding to the two receptionists on the way. I don't miss their surprised faces as I nod at them, and smile to myself. Jenna might have every part of me wrapped up in her, unfortunately not at this precise moment, but I’ve still got it.
“The machine is pretty simple,” Crane says pointing out a tin of ground coffee and a tea earn, “Put the tea bag or coffee in and fill with hot water. It’s not the best coffee but it shoots the caffeine in, you know?”
I nod, and look back out of the room to see the receptionists leaning over the desk to check me out. One cocky smile and they’re swooning all over the place.
“They’re harmless.” He laughs, noticing my satisfied grin, and hands me a cup of coffee. “I’ve got to get over to radiology. Talks of some work needed there too. You’re good here? Yes, you’re good here. Take it easy on them eh? I’ve got the signs in the trailer, I’ll get them put up so people are diverted around the work.”
He slaps my back and disappears through the waiting room and out of the doors. I can hear the girls giggling as I make my way out and the old, arrogant Deacon wouldn’t have wasted any time talking to these girls. But all I can see is Jenna. No, literally Jenna. She’s in the waiting room with her nose stuck in a gossip magazine with a story on the front about an actress’ drastic weight loss. I swallow down a lump that forms in my throat, hand my coffee to one of the desk girls who attempts to introduce herself, but it’s white noise. Why is Jenna sitting in the waiting room of the maternity department of Foster Hospital? Fuck.
I leave as quickly as I can, taking care not to make a sound on the tiled floor with my steel toe caps. Who am I kidding? I’m wearing a fluorescent vest and hat, if she doesn’t notice the burst of bright yellow walk past, just metres from her, it’ll be a miracle. But I get outside unnoticed and gasp for air. I can't breathe, someone is squeezing my lungs. I stumble up the road towards my car; fuck monitoring the scaffolding, I need to get out of here and I need whiskey.
“Deac, you alright?” Mike calls, carrying a tube to the collection of others ready to be put up, “You look like you’re about to spew.”
“Fine.” I say, pulling off my hat and unbuttoning some buttons on my shirt, “I’ll be back later. Keep an eye.”
I’m too hot, as panic rushes through me, a mix of fear, and rage. I reach the 4x4 and throw myself in, pounding punches on the steering wheel until my fists hurt. Everything hurts. I thrust the car into drive and speed off, needing to be as far away from this place as possible.
Is Jenna pregnant? She can't be. But then I remember our night together and through my eagerness to lose myself inside her, I know I didn’t use anything. For the first time in my life I didn’t use protection, and it may have just fucked everything up. She’s going to kill me; no wonder she avoided me and left the country club yesterday. She’ll think this is my fault; she was by no means flagged, but I’d had one glass of wine and forgot the number one rule of fucking someone you're not married to.
She can't be pregnant, someone would have told me, surely. But Jenna’s been so good at being this mysterious woman, hidden behind a wall of ice that if she wanted it to remain a secret it would. Fuck.
I get back to the house, not remembering the route I took to get here, and head straight out to the garden, ripping my shirt off on the way and heading straight for the punch bag. If I don't take this rage out on something now, I’ll take it out on something with a pulse. The bag swings with each punch but the anger won't go away; I can't believe I was so fucking stupid. Everything would have worked out, if not for this...situation. How will she ever look me in the face again knowing I’ve done this to her?
And then as dirty brown hair and a gangly form fills my vision, becoming the punch bag, I realise what I’m angry about. I’m angry in case this pregnancy has nothing to do with me. If Kip has knocked her up, I stand no chance. He’d have no reason to be threatened by me, and I’d have nothing to win her over with; there’s nothing I could offer her to bring her to me, when a part of him is growing inside her. I should have put my foot down, demanded she stopped screwing him while we pussyfooted around whatever we really wanted to say, physical contact the only way to show what we feel for each other.
Maybe she was already pregnant when we slept together. I throw my hands to my knees and choke as I struggle for air. If this shit with Jenna didn’t fuck with my head before, it will now.
When I’ve managed to avoid passing out, I stand up and look at the watch on my wrist, my knuckles bruised from my assault on the punch bag. Kip’s face. The punch bag. Whatever I imagined I was hitting, my knuckles smart and the pain is a welcome distraction. But it doesn’t last for long, when I realise it’s lunch time and I’ve just spent the last two hours in a haze of rage and confusion. I want this baby to mine; I would protect it and Jenna with everything I have and everything I am. I drop to my knees when I reach the patio, desperate for my dad to be here to tell me what the fuck I should do in this situation. Who am I supposed to talk to about this? It’s gonna eat me alive, I know it. I can feel it cursing through my veins, demolishing me from the inside out. I want this baby.
When I can finally stand up, I pull my phone out of my jeans pocket.
“Hello?” Jenna answers and I can hear she’s in the shop by the whirring of the mixer.
; “Jen, are you okay?”
“Yes?” She asks in question, confused by my random phone call.
“Are you busy?”
“Not really, I’m just trying out a new recipe for the fete.”
The fete! She’s staying in town. I figured she’d run back to London.
“Will you come somewhere with me?”
There's silence on the other side and the sound of the mixer switching off. I’m hoping she heard what I said; if I have to repeat it, I’ll back out but I need to do something I haven’t done in five and a half years, and I want more than anything for her to be there the first time I do this.
“Sure. I’m a mess, though. Do I need to change?”
“No. I’m getting in the car now.” I unlock the truck and climb in, “Wait on the harbour path.”
She’s waiting for me outside The Duck and climbs in as soon as I stop.
“Here.” She hands me a little cake box.
“What’s this?”
“The last chocolate cherry brownie.”
On any other day I would devour that cake, but my palms are sweating, my heart is racing and sending the blood racing through my veins, and I’m scared as hell.
“Are you okay?” She asks, eyeing me warily. No, I’m not okay, but if this situation has anything to do with me she’ll tell me without me asking, “Where are we going?”
“To my dad’s grave.”
She gasps, clearly as aware as everyone else that I haven’t been back to his grave since he was buried. I couldn't bring myself to; I felt like I failed him because the last night of his life, the last Christmas he would ever see, I was sitting on a wall breaking my best friend’s heart. I don't know if I’ve really made a success of his company or I’m simply holding it afloat until something takes that away from me too. I just couldn't bring myself to go there, and talk to a lump of stone, like it was my father. There would be no response, no advice from the stone, and I couldn't bear to talk to him knowing I’d never hear his voice again. But something changed today, and it hit me that I can talk to my old man, and know he won't speculate and discuss it with whoever asks him how he is.
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