That One Summer (The Summer Series)

by Duggan, C. J

  “Can you excuse me for a minute? I just have to make a call.” I smiled weakly, sliding off the stool and making my way outside, pulling my mobile out of my pocket. Looking at the blank screen was a painful reminder that there were no messages from Amy, not a one.

  I phoned my parents number, hoping that Mum had made it back in time to pick up. I mentally calculated her speed and the distance – yep, Barry Manilow would have sung her home well and truly by now. On the fourth ring, Mum’s voice answered.

  “What did you forget?” she asked.

  “Can you come pick me up, please?”

  “Pick you up? Why?”

  Hot tears burned under my lids; I didn’t want to have to tell her. I felt like a complete idiot standing here next to my things on my own. No doubt Claire was relaying to Eric and Max what had happened; it was just so embarrassing. The sooner I could get away from here, the better.

  “They left without me.” I bit my lip, trying not to get emotional.

  So when Mum laughed hysterically down the phone, it snapped me momentarily out of my misery and into confused anger.

  “You think that’s funny?” I scoffed.

  “Oh, honey, I think it’s hilarious.”

  Wow! I knew my parents often lacked a sensitivity chip, but this was downright mean. What a way to kick a person when they were down.

  Mum contained herself as best she could before speaking. “I suppose it’s time to come clean,” she said. “Promise you won’t get mad?”

  “What are you talking about?” I exclaimed.

  “Well, call me a traitor, but I may or may not have called Amy after you left last night.”

  “What?”

  “Okay, so I did. I gave her the heads up that you were going to call her to tell her you weren’t coming.”

  “WHAT?”

  “Oh, Tam, I saw it all over your face; I knew you didn’t mean it. I just wanted to tell Amy not to be too harsh on you, that you would most likely change your mind by morning. I know my daughter, honey.”

  My mouth gaped in horror, at the utter betrayal by my own mother, by my own friend. It all made sense now; Amy was so light and easy-going on the phone at my news, I should have known.

  “And I was right, you did change your mind,” Mum said.

  “So what?!” I scowled at the phone, furious. “What difference does it make? They’ve still gone. You could have given Amy all the heads up you like; I left her enough messages but she still left without me. Your little theory is seriously flawed, Mother.”

  “Yes, I know they left this morning,” Mum said.

  I threw my arms up in despair. “Yeah, well, seems like everyone is in the know except me.”

  “Relax, Tammy, Amy didn’t want me to stress you out by the early departure, she didn’t want you to change your mind again, which, knowing you, you probably would have.”

  I scoffed. She was probably right but I would NEVER admit that.

  “Yeah, well, that’s brilliant because you may not have realised this, Mother, but I am actually stranded here with no ride now,” I ranted. “So can you please come and pick me up?”

  She sighed. “Tammy, you have a ride.”

  “Oh, do I? Really?” I asked sarcastically, staring out at the near-empty car park. “How interesting. And who, supposedly, am I riding off into the sunset with, huh?”

  “That would be me,” a voice said from behind.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I squealed, spinning around so fast, startled by the unexpected voice.

  Chris?

  “What are you doing here?” I clutched a hand to my heart.

  “You ready?” he asked unenthusiastically, eyeing my pile of goods before frowning back at me. “We’re only going for a few days, you know. You’ve packed enough for an Amazonian jungle expedition.”

  “I … I like to be prepared,” I stammered. And this, well, this I was definitely not prepared for.

  Chris sighed. “I’ll get the car.” He made his way toward the steps before pausing. My heart still pounded fiercely when he turned to look back up at me, a small twitch curving his lips. “You might want to finish your phone call.”

  Oh shit, the phone!

  “H-hello, Mum, are you there?”

  “As I was saying … You have a ride and by the sounds of it you just found that out for yourself.”

  “Chris Henderson,” I whispered into the phone.

  “Apparently he wasn’t leaving till later anyway, so it worked out all right. Besides, Amy said it would give you two a chance to sort out your stories, whatever that means?”

  I knew exactly what it meant. It was Amy’s way of punishing me, of punishing Chris. I had read it all over his glowering expression. For someone who didn’t want girls on the trip in the first place, being stuck in a car the whole trip with me would be his worst nightmare.

  Well, join the club.

  “I’m not going,” I said.

  “Tammy, don’t be like that,” Mum chastised.

  “Like what? This is like unravelling a Miss Marple murder mystery, there are so many twists and turns.”

  “Just go catch up with your friends and relax.”

  “I am so over this.” I shook my head, tears of frustration threatening to spill over.

  “Tammy, you are going to have to learn to just relax. Your friends are expecting you and I think it was nice of Chris to agree to take you.”

  The thought of the awkward hours stranded in a car with him made me want to leave my things behind and hide. Under a bed. Though that would be the first place he would look.

  The sound of a thundering V8 engine neared and suddenly all thoughts of escape seemed hopeless.

  “I better go, my ride is here,” I said, my words dripping with sarcasm. “Say hi to Amy for me next time you chat to her,”

  “Try to remember to have fun, love. Remember your mantra: positive, positive, positive.”

  “Goodbye, Mother.” I ended the phone call.

  Pfft … Positive, positive, positive.

  I would have to desperately dig deep to find any trace of positive energy in me, and just as I thought I might grasp onto some small fibre of it, my eyes landed on my ride.

  What. The. Hell.

  ***

  “So what do you think?” Chris stood with his elbow leaning casually on the open door of his jet black panel van. He looked up at me expectantly. “Pretty sweet ride, huh?”

  “If you’re a serial killer,” I said, cautiously descending the steps.

  Chris’s head snapped around with surprise, his eyes almost as dark as the van itself. He slammed the car door and folded his arms, glowering at me as I approached.

  “I’ll have you know, Toby and I have spent the better part of six months fixing this old girl up.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Really?”

  “It’s got a 308 and a four barrel carby.”

  “Why, it could be grease lightning,” I smirked.

  I didn’t think a death stare could vary in so many ways, but Chris had mastered a variety of pissed-off stares like no other. The one he was now casting me was a whole new level of anger.

  Oops.

  I cleared my throat and looked away, suddenly super aware that the last thing I should do was alienate my ride, but then the thought did occur to me: did I want to be trapped in a car with Chris Henderson for three days? Three long, insufferable days – could I subject myself to any more death stares, sneers, scoffs and deep sighs? Maybe I would be doing myself a favour if I gave him good reason to leave me behind. Before I fully acclimated to the idea, my attention was snapped back to the present and the duffle bag that landed at my feet.

  I frowned toward the verandah where Chris had moved and was readying himself to turf my other bag down.

  “Hey! Watch it,” I snapped. “You might break something.” It was a possibility, though I didn’t know exactly what. Maybe Mum had slipped in a crockery set? Who could honestly guess?

  “Let me gue
ss,” Chris said with a smirk as he slung my beach bag over his shoulder and trotted down the steps. “Hairdryer?” He threw a cocky smile and grazed my shoulder as he passed, heading for the van. My eyes burned into his back as he opened the double doors to chuck in my bag. He turned to me expectantly, his hand out for me to pass him the duffle. I snatched it up, trying not to let the strain of its weight show as I lugged it over and carefully placed it into the back. I attempted to, anyway. With a rather inelegant lack of grace, I hitched it up onto my knee, trying to be all cool and casual, as if I was totally in control …

  I so wasn’t.

  Chris plucked it from me as if the bag weighed nothing and turfed it into the back.

  “Careful!”

  “Relax, it landed on the mattress.”

  Mattress?

  I peered into the back. Sure enough, a mattress lined the whole floor up to the front bucket seats. The windows were blacked out and the inside walls were lined with black carpet. Oh, ick. All it needed was some leopard-print cushions and a disco ball.

  It would seem that black was a common theme throughout Chris’s van, and the colour matched his mood.

  Chris slammed the back shut. Viewing time was over.

  I half expected him to say, “Let’s get this show on the road,” or “We’re burning daylight,” but instead I got a rather lacklustre, “Get in.”

  Yep! Three long days.

  Chapter Fifteen.

  Claire and Eric waved us goodbye in a pearly white-smiled send-off.

  Claire looked utterly relieved that Chris was giving me a lift. He’d saved the day.

  “See! All’s well that ends well.” She smiled as she hugged me goodbye.

  Disappointment must have been etched in every crease of my face when I thought I had been left behind; I wondered what expression Claire and Eric read in my face now? I could only imagine my attempt at a good-humoured smile was coming across as nothing more than a pained grimace at best.

  I opened Chris’s car door and slid into the passenger seat, the leather sticking to my skin in the heat. I dipped my sun visor to shield my eyes from the bright sun glare. The sun’s rays reflected off the newly polished dashboard that still smelled like Armor All spray. It was sickly sweet and smelt brand new.

  Chris slid behind the steering wheel beside me, flicked down his visor and a pair of sunnies fell into his lap. He scooped them up and quickly put them on. That was a bonus, I thought. I wouldn’t be able to see his guaranteed eye-rolls and those death stares. The engine roared to life as Chris fired up the black beast and my senses were assaulted with the growl of the engine and Bruce Springsteen mid-chorus, singing ‘Brilliant Disguise’ through the speakers.

  Normal people would apologise and turn down the volume. Normal people would say something, anything at all, before shifting the steering column into gear. But not Chris. Instead, he placed his arm on the back of my headrest as he craned backward, reversing out, before shifting gear and pulling us away from the Onslow drive.

  Most people would offer a cheery double honk to Claire and Eric as they waved from the verandah, but not Chris. He lifted one finger from the wheel in a half-hearted wave as we sped away.

  It was so like him; everything was understated. I guess I was amazed that he had managed to string together a handful of sentences at all in order to communicate anything. We sat in silence. I couldn’t believe I was going to spend three whole days cooped up in this car with him. It was going to be the longest three days of my life.

  Surprisingly, after a little while he did start talking. It was about his car, but it could have been worse. And he did seem rather animated about it. I tucked that knowledge away for emergency conversation material in the hours of awkward silences that were sure to come.

  I was actually relieved that Bruce Springsteen filled what would have been an otherwise unbearable silence. I peered at him out of the corner of my eye. He’d propped his arm on the ledge of the open window and his black hair fluttered in the breeze. He was usually so staunch and straight, unmoving, but now he seemed … well … kind of relaxed.

  He turned his head every now and then to view the passing lake scenery; he tapped on the steering wheel and whistled lightly to the chorus of a song; he pulled at his safety belt as he straightened in his seat a bit. Was this an insight into a whole other, chilled-out side to Chris, I wondered?

  He slouched down and seemed to melt into the leather of his seat a bit. It was the first time I had seen his shoulders relax, as if the more distance we put between us and the Onslow the more comfortable and clear-headed he became.

  Interesting.

  Chris leaned forward to lower the music, but it was too late now; there was a ringing in my ears.

  He had nice hands, tanned by the sun, tidy fingernails; he could totally be a hand model with hands like those. If you were going to notice Chris and like him, his hands would probably be the first thing that would draw you to him, seeing as his face was always an intimidating scowl. It wasn’t the first time I had noticed his hands – there had been countless times he had served me a drink at the bar, or handed me change and I had noticed how nice they were. The second thing I noticed about Chris (if I was noticing things) was his shoulders. They were so square, so symmetrical; he looked like he was a swimmer. He had great posture, even when he stood behind the bar between customers, with his arms folded – his stance was straight, proud, expectant. Yep! Your eyes would trail from those hands to those shoulders and usually be met with a piercing flick of the deep brown eyes that would cause you to quickly look away, or caused me to, anyway.

  He had been pretty intimidating in the beginning, but as time wore on I just found him downright rude, no matter how lovely his hands and shoulders may be.

  “What are you staring at?” Chris’s voice pulled me out of my thoughts.

  Oh crap! Was I staring?

  I snapped my head away to look out of the window. “Nothing.”

  “They’re not that white, are they?” he said.

  My attention moved from the window to Chris again with a confused frown.

  “Sorry?”

  His head tilted downward as he shifted his leg a little to expose … a kneecap.

  I smiled. “You’re wearing shorts?”

  “You don’t have to sound so surprised.” He lowered his leg.

  “I don’t think I’ve seen you in shorts before.” My eyes trailed over his tan cargos; it seemed that in line with nice hands and shoulders, Chris had nice legs. Okay, best not to stare, I thought. But then something grabbed my attention.

  “You have impressively tanned legs for someone who lives in Levi’s,” I mused. “You don’t sun-bake in a pair of budgie smugglers on the weekends, do you?” That would just be too much.

  Chris burst out laughing, so loud and abruptly it caused me to flinch at the unexpectedness of it. Laughter from Chris was as rare as seeing him in shorts.

  “Budgie smugglers?” he asked.

  “Yeah, you know, Speedos, Y-fronts,”

  “I know what they are, Tammy, and the answer is no, no I don’t do that.” He grinned, concentrating on the road.

  I took a moment to study Chris, not out of the corner of my eye this time but to unapologetically study him. I wanted to fully absorb the rarity of his smile, of his good humour, because let’s face it, it would probably be the first and last time I saw it.

  I curved my brow. “So exceptionally tanned legs but no weekends spent in budgie smugglers, eh? Curiouser and curiouser,” I smirked.

  Chris coughed. His face flexed back into those familiar stern lines as he straightened in his seat. “Tamara?”

  I cocked my head. “Yes, Christopher?”

  His lips twitched as he fought not to smile. “Stop staring at me.”

  And as quickly as the moment had come it was gone again. He controlled his smile and settled back into his regular serious, no-nonsense Chris.

  “I can’t help it,” I said, reluctantly shifting my gaze back
out to the road. “It’s so very fascinating.”

  “What, my legs?” He shifted, as if checking them out.

  I didn’t answer; I relaxed in my seat, resting my head on the seatbelt strap.

  Nope, it wasn’t his legs that were fascinating. It was his smile.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It had been a rather animated start.

  One I’d hoped would be a bit of an ice-breaker, but it did little to fully thaw his icy exterior. An hour and a half into the journey we were cruising through the winding terrain of the Perry Ranges in stone-cold silence – well, aside from Bruce Springsteen on repeat who now felt like a close and personal friend of mine. He was the buffer that saved me from feeling completely uncomfortable. If I had been travelling with any other Onslow Boy, there would have been free-flowing conversation, constant chatter and incessant flirting, not that I revelled in such things. Flirting to me was so very alien I didn’t quite know how to do it. And with the Onslow Boys there was always a shameful amount of flirting.

  Maybe this was the best outcome. I didn’t wholly feel a part of the Onslow gang; I struggled at witticisms or keeping up with the banter of in-jokes and shared memories I knew nothing about. I was usually just a bystander, smiling in good humour or laughing politely at things I didn’t really understand. Amy was so comfortable and boisterous with these guys, nothing worried or fazed her. Mum’s words echoed through my consciousness. ‘Just try to relax, Tammy.’