Shaking my death obsession away, I head over. Guy’s eyes zone in on my tattoo.
“Cute ink,” he says. “Let’s go.”
That’s it? No praise for my bravery and at starting my bucket list? Irritated, I pay Lola and follow him. Outside, Guy rests against his car with the engine running.
“Lunch?” he asks.
“I have things to do.”
“Things?”
“Things.” Like, not showing my fresh tattoo to the world just yet.
“You’re lying.”
“Wow, okay. I’m lying.” I climb into the refreshing cool of his car.
Guy hops in next to me. “Come back to mine, I’ll make lunch.”
His. I absentmindedly touch my freshly scarred skin. “Um.”
“Are you worried I’m a stalker? A bit weird?” He starts the car.
Yes. Maybe. “No. I don’t know.”
Guy tips his head and looks at me in the way that prickles the hairs along my neck because in his eyes rests a connection I deny. “Fair enough. But I did save your life, why would I want to hurt you?”
Uncomfortable with the conversation, I angle the air vents to blow at my stinging skin. “True.”
“Just lunch. Nothing else. I promise. I’d like to spend more time with you, that’s all.”
“Where do you live?”
“Mosman Park.”
One of Perth’s most expensive suburbs. “Oh. Very nice.”
“Yeah, it is. Come take a look.”
I scrutinise his face, his expression is friendly but hopeful, putting me in mind of an eager puppy. My life could do with some of his enthusiasm and admittedly, I’m curious about him. I shiver against the cooling temperature as we study each other properly for the first time. One thing’s for certain, my elevated heart rate isn’t anxiety about being alone with him, but the desire to find out what would happen if I were.
The attraction to Guy built through the texts and his gentle understanding that helped me through the dark times – not just away from the edge of the rocks, at the fact he took time to keep in touch. Now I’m subjected to his physical presence, the draw I have to him intensifies. Do Guy’s eyes reflect the same thoughts? Do I want him to?
“I have a few things to do this afternoon. How about I come over this evening?” I suggest.
“Good plan!”
We head away from the industrial estate and back to the suburbs, for the first time, there’s a weird tension between us, an awareness of boy meets girl and girl isn’t entirely sure of boy’s motives.
Chapter Six
I drive to Guy’s place, I expected him to live in one of the trendier suburbs, but the surroundings are at odds with his image. A large, ultra-modern house in Mosman Park, amongst the doctors and the self-made millionaires, tucked away on the brow of a hill. Guy wasn’t lying; he does have money.
I park halfway down the street, unsure where I’m going and as I stand on the marble porch of the two-storey house, I’m uneasy. Sure, I’ve met him twice and Guy has secrets, but so do I.
The doorbell echoes through the house and Guy opens one of the glazed double doors. He’s relaxed, wearing faded jeans, and a t-shirt covered in streaks of red and blue what looks like paint, feet bare. The dimpled smile gets me every time, as does the awareness of my body’s reaction to him. He’s beginning to match Ross in my desire for his touch. Not good.
He pads across the shiny, tiled floor and I hesitate before kicking my sandals off and leaving them by the door. A bicycle leans against the wall, dirtying the white paint.
I follow Guy along the hallway, across immaculate, polished marble tiles, paintwork I’m frightened to touch in case I mar with fingerprints. The room opens into a functional but designer kitchen, utensils arranged neatly, hanging from a rack on the wall and stainless steel appliances gleaming.
“Do you live in a show home?” I ask stunned by the lack of empty dishes normally found in the houses of other guys I’ve known.
“I have a cleaner.”
“But still... Do you live on your own?” I hand him the bottle of red wine I brought.
“Yep. How’s that tatt?”
I place my fingertips on the ink. He’s fielding my questions again. “Fine. Big place to have to yourself.”
“I like my own space,” he replies. “They look cute on you. You need to tell me who they are.”
“Pardon?”
He points at the birds with the bottle. “The birds. There are four. Who are they?”
“Just birds.” The look he returns shows he knows I’m lying, this man reads me easily. Guy locates a corkscrew and opens a bottle of red wine. He takes goldfish bowl sized glasses from a glass-fronted cupboard, also finger mark free, and he pours us one each.
Amongst the clean, cool smell of the paint in the house, something is missing. I can’t smell food. “What are you cooking?”
“Me? Nothing.”
“Oh. You invited me for a meal.”
“Yeah.” Guy drags a handful of paper menus from the kitchen drawer and drops them on the counter. “What do you like?”
I pick up the first of the array of menus. Thai. Then the next, Chinese. Leafing through I come across Indian, Italian, Vietnamese. “What do you like?” I ask.
“Doesn’t matter, you choose.”
“I don’t care.” I push the pile to him.
“Choose.” He pushes them back without a glance.
“Honestly, I don’t mind.”
Guy rests against the counter, and crosses his arms. “Phe, make decisions.”
“I do! I just don’t care what I eat.”
“Then we don’t eat.” Guy gulps back his wine.
Uncomfortably, I shift, debating whether to leave. “Seriously, I don’t care.”
“If you were on your own, you’d choose what you want. Don’t worry about what I want.”
“I’m not!” I shake my head at him. “Normally, when I go around to someone’s place for dinner, they cook.”
“I can cook if you like.”
“I didn’t mean that.”
Guy pulls out three menus and lines them up. “These are my favourites. I’ll compromise. Choose one and I’ll decide what we eat.”
“You’re weird. Fine.”
Following the altercation over meals, Guy orders. When the Chinese food arrives, he tips the contents of the containers into large, white serving bowls. Beneath the bright spotlights in his kitchen, on stools at the counter, isn’t the most romantic of meals, but this could be why Guy chose the location. Am I misreading his interest?
“Why did you make such a big deal out of that?” I ask.
“I think you need to learn to be more assertive. I get the impression people make decisions for you a lot.” He mixes rice with the chicken and black bean sauce. “Am I right?”
“I’m not naturally pushy, but I can stand up for myself, thanks.”
“No, but you’re not as confident as you pretend.”
I poke at the meal. “You don’t know what I’m like.”
“I know that you probably do what people expect of you so you can avoid conflict.”
“Are you a psychologist or something?”
Guy shakes his head. “No.”
“What do you do?”
“I told you before. Nothing.” He tops up the wine glasses. “You?”
“I write for a magazine.” Funny how we’ve spoken about everything and nothing.
“That’s right! You never told me which one, though.”
“Belle de Jour.”
His mouth twitches as he fights a smile. “Serious?”
“What’s funny?”
“The kinds of articles in those kinds of magazines... I can’t picture you writing them. Surely, you don’t buy into all that bullshit. Perfect life, perfect body, perfect sex life?”
I switch my focus to the rice, discussing sex with Guy causes images to emerge that in turn cause aching I don’t need. “No.”
; “Not a very healthy environment for somebody like you.”
We remain in silence until I realise he’s skirted around my question. “What do you mean you don’t do anything?”
“I don’t work.”
“You have money though. This place is very nice.”
“I do have money, too much. Inheritance.”
“Right.”
“So, I’m living what’s left of my life until it catches up again.”
The vagueness of ‘it’ tempts me to ask what he means, but I’m unsure I should. Guy’s right, I need to work on my assertiveness.
“What do you do all day then?”
“Live my life. Some days I like being outdoors: surf, walk, whatever.” He points at the ceiling with his fork. “Other days I stay inside all day. Paint.”
“You’re an artist? That explains your t-shirt.” I indicate the smudges and now I’m closer I can see light blue smears on his arms.
“Am I? Not really. Nobody ever taught me, I just like to paint sometimes. Empties my head.”
“Can I see what you paint?”
“No.”
I blink at his abruptness and Guy indicates my tattoo. “You were going to tell me who they are.”
I touch the black birds. “How do you know they represent people?”
“I don’t, just a guess.”
I inhale and hold the breath, which is a mistake because lack of oxygen spins me back to that night. “My parents and brother. And me.”
“What do you think your parents will say about the tattoo? Are they old fashioned?”
I clear my throat. “They’re dead.”
Guy blinks several times. “Sorry to hear that.”
“My brother too.”
“Shit, sorry. Accident?”
“Can I not talk about this, Guy?” I whisper. Too late, the dreams will return tonight. I know from the tightening head and shortening breath that the images will follow. At least the tears don’t come anymore.
“I lost my family, too,” he says.
“I’m sorry.”
Guy shrugs. “Life goes on.”
The connotations of his words hang heavily between us: apart from when life doesn’t.
We share the bottle of wine, chat about movies we like, books we’ve read, anything but each other. Guy steers the conversation to neutral territory, keeping us above the water and not looking at what lies beneath. I relax, he’s the kind of person who makes poor jokes, his sense of humour as odd as the rest of him, but I’m convinced he’s harmless.
“Should we discuss the next item on the list?” he asks.
“It’s your turn to choose.”
“You still need to catch up. Another one of yours.”
I picture the list attached to my fridge by a magnet. “I’m not sure.”
“How about ‘Ask a stranger on a date?’ That one’s easy and inexpensive,” he suggests.
I fiddle with the edge of my sleeve, why does he have to keep mentioning that one? I’m also annoyed I’m projecting a fantasy of a secret romance onto Guy when he’s clearly not interested. “Maybe.”
“There must be somebody you can ask. If you’re lucky you might end up doing your tenth.”
“Tenth?”
“‘Fall in love’. The item at the end of your list.”
I laugh. “I’m sure if the guy knew that, he’d run a mile. ‘Hello, do you want to go on a date and then we can fall in love?’”
“Meh. Just tell him about your list. Ice-breaker.”
“Smart.”
“I sure am.”
We share a relaxed smile, surprised by how easily our text message based relationship has translated into face to face. As he clears the plates away, I watch Guy’s lithe movements. The muscles move in Guy’s back against his t-shirt as he stacks plates in the dishwasher, and the thought of touching him creeps in again. This isn’t helped when he sits back down close to me, placing his arms on the kitchen counter. His hands are slender, blue paint stuck beneath his nails.
The awareness of Guy as a man, not the random stranger who hangs around cliff tops with bunches of flowers confuses me. This is a friendship. Travelling companions. Nothing more. He just proved that by talking to me about asking another person on a date.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I look into the eyes that remind me of the water that almost drowned me, at the concern set in his brow. His dimples are childish marks that are at odds with his very grown-up aura. “Do you have a girlfriend?” I ask.
He arches a brow. “Why? Are you volunteering?”
Something new passes between us, clarifying the situation. Guy feels this too, the pull between us. I swallow. “No. I’m not looking for a boyfriend. Not at the moment.”
“Falling in love is on my list, too, if I had a girlfriend that one would be ticked off. I guess I need to find somebody.”
“You can have a girlfriend and not be in love.”
“What would be the point in that?”
“Men often have girlfriends and aren’t in love.”
The amused curve appears on his lips again. “And girls don’t?”
“Not as much, I think they expect a great love.”
“Do you?”
“Not really.”
Guy swirls the wine remaining in his glass then drinks. “Don’t wait your whole life for a Prince Charming to bring you a happy ever after, find your own.”
“I intend to.”
“Good. The only person who can make you complete is yourself.”
I drain my glass. “You’re a strange person.”
“Better than being something I’m not. No pigeon holes for me.”
Does he hide his pain as well as I do? I’ve almost asked him several times this evening what’s wrong with him, but can’t. I refused to open up about the pain behind my illness. I can’t expect him to open up to me.
“I’ve had an idea,” says Guy, topping up our glasses. “I honestly think we should do the lists together. All of them.”
“I already said I was fine with that.”
“I know, but plan things. One every week or so for the items on the lists we can do nearby. Meet up, have fun for a few hours, and then back to reality. No strings. No expectations.” I sip my wine and study him over the rim. No expectations. Can I spend time with Guy and not want more? Is that what he’s hinting at? Casual hook-ups to accompany our weird dates? Dates?
“How long for?” I ask. “I mean, how long do you have?”
He remains looking at me then rubs his head. “A few months.”
“Can I ask what’s wrong with you?”
He sighs and puts down his glass. “No. I will tell you, but not yet. I don’t want to spoil our evening.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry I didn’t mean to cause you issues.”
“All good, Phe.”
We haven’t moved from the kitchen and my back aches from sitting too long in the low backed stool. “I should go. I’m tired.”
Guy slides his phone across the bench and checks the time. “Eleven. You okay to drive home?”
“I’m fine. I’ve only had a couple of glasses. Thanks for the meal.”
“Thanks for choosing.” I pout at him and he laughs. “Catch up soon?”
“When I find something on the list?”
“If you like.” Guy stands too. “Can I ask one more question?”
“Okay...” I’d hoped to leave before the awkward goodbye joined us. I can’t help feel the conversations around ‘fun’ had deeper connotations, or that Guy notices my attraction to him. He hasn’t stood this close to me since the night we met. When we sat together, there was a distance, now almost face to face that’s closed again. He rubs a finger along his lips as he studies me and I’m increasingly convinced the attraction is mutual.
“What’s Phe short for if your name isn’t Fiona?”
I take a shaky breath, caught off guard. “Ophelia, but nobody calls me that. Ever.”
He shrugs
. “No problem, I was curious because I’ve never met a Phe before.”
“I’ve never met a Guy before.”
“Not one like me, that’s for sure.” The conversation remains light but the tension weighs heavy between us. Oh, yeah, definitely not one like you. I’ve never met a man who jump-starts my heart every time his dark blue eyes meet mine.
I keep my cool and hope he doesn’t notice my reaction. “Undoubtedly.”
He shifts closer and I will him not to touch me, and wish he would. “Bye, Ophelia. Keep your head above the water.”
The name washes over, pulling me back to the past and wiping away the present. This breaks the tension and makes leaving easier, and following a muttered goodbye, I head outside into the fresh air.
Guy doesn’t understand what his words have done and what I’m facing tonight.
Chapter Seven
Water fills the car. I managed to crank open the door a small amount as we plunged beneath the river, panic prompting me to choose the wrong choice of action. The car was afloat after it hit the river but when I opened the door, the flooding water hastened the submersion.
My parents don’t move, and I scream for them as the pressure slams the door closed again. My little brother, Robin, doesn’t wake, strapped in his car seat and sleeping. I fumble with the buckle, gasping for air in the waterlogged space. My head dips beneath the water, muffling my cries for help as I struggle to unstrap him.
Darkness engulfs, the water stealing my family one by one. I unclip my brother and desperately hold Robin in the small air space above the water. I can’t get us out of the car and hold him up at the same time. The door won’t open against the pressure of the water; I kick at the window but my bare feet do nothing.
My screams are swallowed by the water, stealing my world and my life. Eleven years old is too young to die.
I slam my hands on the window, the air bubbling from my nose to the glass as the water consumes the last of the air.
Heaving a breath, I sit, heart skipping in my chest and I close my eyes again. I’m not dying. I’m not having a heart attack. I can breathe. The light at the side of my bed illuminates my room, and I ground myself by counting the photo frames on the top of my chest of drawers. For a few moments, I sit with my arms wrapped around my legs before I’m calm enough to lie down again. The lamp casts a shadow across the wall. I never sleep in the dark anymore.
The Same Deep Water Page 4