Tim Te Maro and the Subterranean Heartsick Blues

by H. S. Valley

  There’s only snatches of memory after that: a platter of chicken nuggets, Elliott wearing a blanket on his head, someone telling us to be good to one another. There’s a guy wearing sunglasses inside and I’m so drunk I’m pretty sure I can see through people, and then, so late it’s almost early again, Elliott and his blanket settle over me on the couch and we fall asleep to the light of a lava lamp and the sound of someone snoring in the next room.

  I wake up on the same couch only a few hours later with a sore back and a full bladder. Only one of those things is easy to fix. I think I’m still drunk. I don’t feel hungover yet so I must be. I should drink some water.

  ‘Elliott.’ I sit back down on the couch after I’ve been to the loo and got a drink. ‘Wake up. I brought you water.’

  ‘No,’ he says, voice low and husky. ‘Come back to bed.’

  I’m tempted to point out that this isn’t really a bed – that we have one of those back at school, a brisk, two-hour walk away since, unsurprisingly, the shuttle doesn’t run at stupid o’clock in the morning. But then Elliott slips a hand around my waist and his touch is like warm water and the thought of having to trek through the dark and the cold is too much, so I crawl back under the blanket. I can’t help but curl into him and lose myself again in his kisses. I’ll take the five million detentions if we get caught – I don’t care.

  It’s different this time, kissing him, letting it escalate. It’s slow, gentle, and my chest is aching like I’m not remembering to breathe enough. The whole room seems to glow with a warm light as we move together, still in our clothes, his tongue sliding hot and wet on my neck and the soft scrape of teeth sending me over the edge in more ways than one. When I wake up again, hours later, I see the outline of him and smile without thinking, before I realise what I’ve done with a force so brutal it pushes tears from my eyes, and my heart flutters with panic.

  I’ve fallen for him. Right off the cliff’s edge we’ve been walking this whole time.

  And I’m alone.

  CHAPTER 20

  BETTER BE HOME SOON

  By the time we get moving, it’s almost six-thirty and we decide to wait the few minutes for the cafe to open so we can get a coffee and a pie and try to make ourselves human again. It’s weird, because everything between us looks fine on the surface but I’m slowly dying on the inside. At least the physical pain in my head aligns nicely with the internal crumbling of my heart.

  I message Sam and tell him we’re hungover and still technically in town but we’re not dead, in case anyone noticed we were gone, and he sends back a vomit emoji and a thumbs up. It’s a long walk back to the hidden door in the bush, but Sam has worked some sort of magic and his grandad is waiting for us in his van with a book in his hand, sipping from a thermos of tea. He lifts a disapproving eyebrow but doesn’t mention that we look like death warmed up or that we were obviously out all night. I don’t volunteer any information, either: not the underage drinking, the going home with strangers or the missing of our curfew. I definitely don’t mention getting off on said strangers’ couch the next morning, or the fact I’ve fallen for my roommate. Who I’m not meant to be rooming with.

  We manage to get back to our room without anyone asking any incriminating questions, then strip to our underwear and fall into bed, not even bothering with pyjamas. It’s all too soon that we’re woken up again. There are two very familiar voices whispering and the contented burbles of two egg-babies. Elliott is spooned up behind me, his face buried in the nape of my neck, his bare arm draped over my waist.

  ‘Oh, look. Tim’s awake.’ Silvia sounds smug, which is never good.

  ‘So can we leave Meggan and go now?’ Sam says.

  ‘Please do that,’ I murmur, hoping Elliott doesn’t wake up and I can get away with never telling him that we got caught cuddling.

  ‘Mate, you look wrecked,’ Sam says, and he sounds almost sympathetic.

  ‘I expect he is wrecked. Lord knows where the two of them ended up last night. I told you we’d need to bring them hangover remedies,’ Silvia says, and I hear a comforting rustle and a clink.

  Oh, she’s a goddess. I hold my hand out for the little bottle, and the cool, smooth press of glass is enough to make me whimper with relief. I crack an eye open, uncap the bottle, and carefully tip it into my mouth without sitting up too far.

  ‘The pub,’ I say when the bottle is empty. ‘Then some guy’s house.’ I lower my head back onto the pillow, wincing.

  ‘Shh,’ comes a sound from behind me, and a slim, pale hand reaches up to pat my mouth.

  ‘Right,’ Sam says. ‘So, Meggan’s here, in her cot. We’ll see you at five when we drop off Leda.’

  ‘No, Sam, we’ll see them at morning tea in fifteen minutes. They have a responsibility as parents to be awake to look after their child.’

  ‘Whatever. I’m not enjoying seeing them now, so I’m leaving, and I’m taking our daughter with me.’

  Silvia tsks and says her goodbyes, and there’s shuffling and the sound of the door. I hear them start to bicker as they walk off down the hall, along with the soft grizzly gurgles of our egg-daughter sharing our feelings. I open one eye to check we’re definitely alone before saying anything to Elliott.

  ‘We should get out of bed.’

  ‘We should not. You are, as usual, wrong.’

  I am, but not about this. I’m wrong to have feelings for him when we said we wouldn’t, or to be pathetically happy that he’s still clinging to me despite the interruption, or to be secretly glad that my friends didn’t seem to mind too much that they’ve just got confirmation something’s going on.

  And yeah, it’s wrong, and I’m an idiot, but it’s also not my fault. Not when he made me feel this way with his relentless affection and attention, and every single kiss he poured himself into like there was nothing else in the world but me. Not with the enthusiasm he has for our egg-baby, and his faith in us that we’ll win, and the fact he hasn’t, not once, reminded me we have an expiration date. Maybe he thinks I shouldn’t need reminding.

  I need to be away from him for a bit, so if he wants to stay in bed, then fine. That works for me too. Maybe I’ll feel normal when I’m alone.

  ‘I’m going to go have a shower. Silvia’s right, we should eat something.’ My stomach rumbles slightly in agreement. That pie barely touched the sides, and it was hours ago. ‘Any chance you could unclamp yourself from me so I can get up?’ I try to push his arm away.

  ‘You flatter yourself,’ he says, retracting his limbs. ‘I was merely holding on to the nearest solid object to keep the room from spinning.’

  He’s trying to be funny but it stings, and I can’t think of anything else to say that won’t come out shitty or give away too much of what I’m feeling, so I just throw back the covers and look around for something to wear. I settle for my dressing gown and his slippers, since that means he’ll be without and I want to be petty right now. I throw him the second bottle of hangover remedy that Silvia left, though. He’ll be impossible without it, and I still have a tiny bit of self-preservation instinct.

  ‘Are you going right now?’ he asks, before he knocks it back.

  ‘Yes.’ I grab my towel off the back of the door.

  ‘Wait,’ he whines, and I ignore him and leave anyway.

  CHAPTER 21

  SILVER & GOLD

  He’s dressed when I get back from the shower, looking tired and rumpled and sort of helpless. I feel guilty for being mad at him. I suppose it’s not his fault that I think he’s good-looking or nicer than I expected. I retreat under my towel, drying my hair more thoroughly than usual. When I pull the towel off my head he’s standing there, stock still, looking at the pounamu around my neck like he’s surprised to see it. My hand drifts automatically to the gap in my robe, seeking out the carved stone. He looks up then, and our eyes meet, and I see my own confusion mirrored there.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. I thought I remembered something, but it’s gone.’ He goes b
ack to fussing with Meggan, but I’m left with a weird feeling of unease.

  It’s as I’m getting dressed that I notice Dad’s ring isn’t on my finger anymore. My right hand is completely bare; there’s not even a dent to say it was there. I panic, hard, because normally I might’ve been able to find it, to retrace my steps through the corridors and classrooms. But the last eighteen hours have been well out of the ordinary – a trip to town, to the pub, to some random dude’s house, to the cafe, and all the way back through the woods again. It could be anywhere. It could’ve come off in the shower and be gone forever down the drain. I check my other hand, just in case.

  It’s a different ring I find there. A silver one. Still familiar, but not the one I was wearing when we left yesterday. Elliott’s ring. The one he once casually mentioned was worth almost a grand. The one with the black stone set in it – the very distinctive, very much his, silver ring. On my left hand. Fourth finger. Ring finger.

  I look over at him and see a flash of gold as he bends to push his feet into his shoes. My panic subsides. Something else blossoms in its place.

  I want to ask Elliott what he knows, but I don’t want to hear his answer. Don’t want to be teased for thinking we might have made some sort of commitment to each other last night – or, worse, to have him share my suspicions and see him openly regret whatever led to us wearing each other’s rings. I don’t want to be mocked for wishful thinking. You wish you were sleeping with me, he’d said. You wish.

  And what if I wish for more than that now? I don’t want him to see my feelings written across my face like it was a billboard for badly kept secrets. So I shut my mouth and look away from my dad’s ring on his finger, and pretend I don’t know anything at all about the silver one on mine. I have time.

  It’s easy for a while. I don’t need my hands for walking. I keep them buried in my pockets, out of sight. I insist on sitting at an empty table, far from Sam and Silvia’s laser-guided eyesight, and I eat food that doesn’t need buttering. I use only my right hand; the left is jammed between my knees. Elliott is distracted with Meggan, grizzling in his lap. We make it through almost all of morning tea. Then we don’t.

  ‘What do you want?’ Elliott snaps at someone over my left shoulder. I turn and find Blake. Here. Near me and my hand and the world’s most visible scandal.

  ‘Just wanted to say hello,’ he purrs.

  ‘I’m no longer interested in saying hello to you.’

  ‘What?’ Blake puts on an air of mock offense. ‘You only say hello to Te Maro now? Is he your new special friend?’

  ‘Don’t see why you care,’ Elliott says. ‘You broke up with me.’

  ‘Now, now, we had an arrangement, Elliott, and it had stopped being mutually beneficial.’

  ‘If you’d kindly go away and let us eat in peace, I think that would definitely be mutually beneficial.’ Elliott takes a casual sip of tea. ‘Mostly to you, because I won’t be forced to curse you.’

  ‘You’re very cranky, sweetheart. Did we finally come across something Te Maro isn’t good at? Other than weather charms and keeping a hold of his girlfriend?’

  ‘Bugger off, Blake,’ I say, giving him the finger, and it should be because he’s giving me shit, but I fear it might be because he’s calling Elliott ‘sweetheart’ and I hate that and might have to kill him … But also myself, because Blake grabs my left wrist, the one I just brandished at him, and –

  ‘Oh. What’s this, Elliott? He’s wearing your ring? Don’t you think it’s a bit soon?’ Blake smirks, and I don’t really see what happens but his laugh cuts off in an instant, and Elliott has his left hand clutched around something and a glare on his face that reminds me too much of our past. It’s the first time he’s come to my defence, though, and I don’t know what to make of it.

  Blake drops my wrist and stomps off back to my ex-girlfriend, and Elliott puts whatever it is back in his pocket. ‘Sorry about him,’ he says, staring at my ring finger like he hasn’t seen it before.

  ‘All good,’ I say. ‘Not sure it won’t backfire on you, but thanks.’

  Elliott doesn’t say anything; his gaze is fixed on his own ring finger now.

  ‘Tim,’ he says, his right arm wrapped around our eggdaughter and his left splayed out on the table.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, because I want just another second where I don’t have to face this.

  ‘It’s …’ He looks between the rings. ‘You don’t think …’

  ‘You’d certainly hope not.’ I try to laugh, but it comes out rough, like a lie.

  ‘And yet.’ He rubs at the gold ring with his thumb, turning it. His voice goes quiet, worried. ‘Swap back?’

  I feel a tiny, ominous twist in my gut at the thought of removing his ring, oddly worried I might lose it, but I hold the silver band tight and slide it free. The second it leaves my finger, it’s like handling a tiny razorblade, and I drop it on the table.

  It gets a thousand times worse.

  ‘Ow.’ I barely even hear my own voice.

  My insides feel like they’re melting, my vision is dark and cloudy, and behind it is a feeling of dread – visceral horror at an unknown thing that sends my heart into double time and makes me want to curl into a ball and hide under the table. My subconscious automatically undoes its last action, grabbing the ring again; the horror eases back to the tiny razorblades. I look at my hand and I’m not bleeding, and I can’t decide if that’s good or if it’s even more ominous than what just happened in my head.

  ‘What?’ Elliott says, reaching across the table.

  ‘It’s bad,’ I say. An understatement. ‘When I drop it.’

  Unease is flooding my gut and I have to test it again – have to know for sure. I place the ring on the table and lift my fingers, and the unearthly nausea and wrongness come back. I’m ready for it this time, but it’s still unfathomably horrible. I lay a single finger back on the ring and the feeling goes away. It’s pretty clear. It’s not a good outcome, but it’s clear.

  ‘It’s bad how?’

  ‘Everything feels horrible. Like someone’s put bad magic on it.’

  ‘Is there any sign of that? A mark? A carving?’

  I pick it up and turn it, tiny razorblades be damned.

  ‘It –’ Shit. It’s a hundred times worse than I thought. ‘It has today’s date engraved in it, and our initials and the words – shit.’

  ‘It says shit?’

  ‘No. It says, “mō āke tonu atu”.’ I grin, but it’s a weak attempt at convincing myself I’m not having a mental breakdown. I slide the ring back on and feel mostly normal again. Or, at least, only as crap as I already felt this morning.

  ‘I’d hope it goes without saying, but that wasn’t on it before. I don’t even know what those words mean.’

  ‘I do.’ I reach into my shirt and pull out my pounamu, easing the plaited cord over my head. ‘Here,’ I say, turning the carved mere over and holding it out so he can see the same words etched into it. ‘It means “forever”. The pounamu was my grandfather’s originally – his best friend gave it to him when they went to war together. My grandfather gave it to my dad when he came back alone.’

  ‘Oh,’ Elliott says, and his brow furrows, his expression understandably strained. ‘Check mine,’ he says. He wiggles his left fingers at me, right arm still wrapped around Meggan. Apparently academic curiosity wins over whatever else he might be thinking.

  ‘It’s going to feel bad if I take it off.’

  ‘We’re not going to know anything more if you don’t.’

  I take his hand. With nervous fingers, I ease the gold ring loose and watch his reaction, waiting to see if he feels it too. He’s not exactly calm, but he looks unbothered. Maybe touching someone who’s touching the ring is enough of a connection for it not to hurt, like an electrical current. I keep a hold of him just in case. It won’t look good in a crowded dining hall, but what choice do I have? I look at the inside of Dad’s ring. I sigh. ‘Same thing. Date, initials, “forever”.
Written in English this time.’ I slide the ring back on his finger and there’s something undeniably not unfamiliar about that action. Something I’m hoping he has an alternative explanation for, because my own is a little bit crazy. ‘What are you thinking?’ I say.

  ‘That potentially getting done for underage drinking and staying out all night might be the least of our worries, considering.’

  ‘Considering what?’ I ask, drawing out my wilful ignorance for one more moment. Enjoying the feel of it as I prepare for its loss. Wondering if there’s any sense in hiding my feelings anymore.

  He sighs and his fingers flex under mine. ‘Considering that it appears we’re married.’

  CHAPTER 22

  ONWARD

  Elliott and I try taking the rings off a few more times throughout the day to see if anything’s changed, and it hasn’t. It aches to lose contact with them – it even hurts a bit when it’s on a different finger. Feels wrong. The attempt to put Elliott’s on a chain around my neck is vastly uncomfortable, like tiny razorblades swinging past my heart. On the upside, when we retreat to opposite corners of the school there are no weird twinges or pains or urges to get back to each other. It’s a relief to be away from him, actually, and all the looming questions.

  We don’t talk about the implications of having got into this situation at all, just the physical issue of the rings and the pain and how much trouble we’ll be in if we have to explain what happened to a teacher so they can fix it. We do talk about the similarity it bears to some of the stuff we’ve been studying in class lately, and the seemingly brutal way that ancient magical cultures around the world used to forge alliances.