by H. S. Valley
We make it halfway down the corridor before he drags me into an alcove and shoves me up against the wall, covering my mouth with his own and never once letting go of my hand. He’s unforgiving and constant and my breath is all but gone by the time he pulls away.
‘Your dad’s rooms,’ he says and I nod, because I haven’t remembered how to speak yet. And then he leans in and whispers in my ear, low and desperate, ‘I need to feel something else,’ and I have to close my eyes.
CHAPTER 32
TEEN HEAT
My hand is still in his, both our bags still slung over my shoulder, as we zigzag our way to the staff wing, trying not to draw too much attention. We reach Dad’s rooms, slip unseen through the door and I flick on the lights and set our bags on the couch. Elliott locks the door behind us.
‘Are you OK?’ he asks, and his voice is quiet and I don’t know what to tell him because I’m not OK, for so many reasons.
It seems pointless to lie, though, and even if I tried I don’t think he’d believe me. ‘Not really, no,’ I say. ‘No, I’m not.’
‘Me neither,’ he whispers, like he’s afraid talking about it will make it more real.
He’s looking at me like I’m the one who was taken from him, and there’s a ferocity in his gaze that pokes at all the feelings I’m hiding. I could so easily imagine he’s thinking about how much he needs me in his life forever. How he hopes I’ll stay even though our daughter, our only legitimate connection, is gone. How maybe it’s enough that she brought us together; that even though her time here was short, we’ll never forget her because she made us what we are. I imagine he’s thinking that what we are isn’t fragile, and temporary, and merely the cracked shell of a relationship that has nothing inside but sadness.
It makes my feelings for him feel even bigger, thick and spongy and expanding silently into the warm, citrus-and-wool-scented space between us. I imagine them as vapour hanging over us, billowing out of my chest until we’re standing in a cloud of my embarrassing lack of selfcontrol. My failure to compartmentalise, to stick to a simple agreement, to keep from falling, stupid and in love, into the arms of someone who has already made it quite clear that we’re destined to be parted, even if it’s not as soon as I expected.
‘Do you think everyone felt like this when their eggs died?’ he says.
‘How could they?’ I say, and hold out my arms to him. He says nothing, just steps in close, his own arms coming up around my shoulders and holding me tight. ‘It’s different for us,’ I whisper against his skin. ‘There was more than just Meggan. It was – us. We got all mixed up with it and I didn’t realise how much we’d become like –’ I pause, knowing it’s such a melodramatic thing to say. So typical of a child of divorce, feeling all abandoned and seeing things that aren’t there.
‘Like family?’ he says, and I nod.
‘Is that weird?’
He sighs and presses his lips against my temple. ‘No, Tim, it’s not.’
We stand there for a minute, arms around each other, desperate at first, clinging, then softer, more like it was before. Before the fight and the rings and the stupid. It feels dangerous – easily misinterpreted.
‘Are we OK?’ I ask, leaning back to look at him.
He nods, slowly, almost like he’s trying to save this image of me. Like all of what he’s said about it being our agreement and our choice is a lie, and he knows that this is it, the last time we’ll get to be together.
Puts the whole thing in a different light, really. Makes me feel sort of reckless.
‘I guess we don’t have to worry about accidentally making the bond stronger anymore,’ I say.
‘Interesting change of subject.’
I nod, and my ears go hot. Maybe he wasn’t thinking what I was thinking. ‘Sorry.’
‘Sorry for making me keep my hands to myself this whole time for nothing?’ His arms tighten around my back.
‘We had to. And technically we aren’t actually a hundred per cent sure, but –’ I don’t know how to explain that since I feel so bad already, making a bigger mess isn’t going to make much of a difference. I also know that I, personally, don’t mind being stuck with him – but I can’t make that decision for the both of us. I lean in so I don’t have to look at his expression, and speak to his shoulder. ‘I would be OK with risking it if you …’
There’s a pause.
‘If I needed you?’ he says softly against my temple.
‘Yeah.’
He moves – mouth hot on my skin and hands skimming down my back, under my jumper, my shirt, pulling them up and over my head, letting them drop to the floor. He leans in for another kiss, grappling with the front of my trousers, and nudges me towards the bedroom door. He shifts his attention to my neck, kissing and nibbling and sucking on my skin, everything just a little too hard, too sharp. I let him push at me until I realise that if this is truly the last time, I should be taking proper advantage of it, building another vault in my wank bank at least, making another memory for when I’m alone. I push his hands away and tug at his jumper, pulling it off and fluffing up his hair in the process. I want to slide my fingers into it but I want his shirt off more, so I yank it out of his trousers and start on his buttons, pulling him against me as my back hits the bedroom door.
‘How do you want to do it?’ he asks, his breath in my ear as he reaches down next to my hip and turns the handle.
We stumble through. Elliott looks up and freezes, his gaze fixed on a point over my shoulder, hands suddenly off me and eyes wide.
I turn around.
Oh … shit.
‘Dad.’
CHAPTER 33
HOME AGAIN
My father is here, in his pyjamas, and armed – there’s a taiaha in his hands and it’s pointed right at us.
‘Tim.’ He relaxes his stance, lowering the point of the spear to the floor. Mostly. ‘And Elliott Parker?’
‘Hello, Sir.’
‘You’re back,’ I say.
The softness of my voice annoys me. Like I’m so bloody happy to see him that I’ve forgotten the fact he left us. That I’ve been miserable for the months since. That I’ve needed him and he wasn’t here.
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Sorry I haven’t been in touch recently. We’ve been out of cell service areas for a few weeks.’
‘We?’ Who the hell has he been off with?
‘I’ve been with your uncle. We, um … spent some time in the bush.’
‘Right.’ I’m not sure if I believe him. That doesn’t sound like Uncle Eddie – Taika was the outdoorsy one, but he died on a mountaintop and I doubt Dad was off tramping with his ghost.
‘I probably don’t need to ask what you’re doing here.’ He looks pointedly at my bare chest, then at Elliott’s rumpled shirt with half the buttons undone.
‘Mum gave me the key.’
‘For this?’ He points at Elliott.
‘No. She –’ This isn’t what I want to talk about – it’s not important right now. ‘Why are you back?’
‘Your birthday’s soon. I had a few days off work. I wanted to see you.’
‘And you picked right now?’
‘No, Tim.’ He smirks, gestures to the fact that I’m standing in the doorway of his bedroom. ‘You picked right now.’
‘Should I go?’ Elliott says, and if he thinks he’s wriggling out of this, he’s wrong.
‘No,’ I say, and grab his wrist. ‘Stay. We still don’t know how to fix any of this and Dad might be able to help us.’
‘Are you two OK?’ Dad asks, and his posture shifts.
He’s a big guy: fit, strong. He can be menacing without trying, but he also has a softness to him when it comes to protecting things. He’s hand-raised orphaned birds, he used to carry our old cat around like a baby, and he sang me to sleep when I was sad. I’ve missed him like someone ripped out my actual heart and I don’t have it in me to be mad anymore. I need him. We need him.
‘We –’ I try to think of where to s
tart. ‘Something weird happened.’
‘OK,’ he says. ‘Shall we sit and have a cup of tea?’
We move into the living room, and Elliott and I put all our clothes back on while Dad’s in the kitchen.
‘Tell me the worst thing first,’ he says, slipping into pastoral mode as he pulls his desk chair over to the couch and sits down facing us. ‘That way it can only get better.’
I take a breath. ‘We kind of got married. A bit. Maybe. Accidentally.’
He stares at me for a long moment, flicks his eyes to Elliott, then comes back to me. ‘You got married?’
‘We –’ I hesitate, but this is what I imagined – joking with him about my own stupidity. ‘We got a bit drunk, and we don’t actually remember what happened. But we came home with rings on, and we can’t take them off.’
‘Why can’t you?’
‘Feels like wanting to die,’ Elliott says. I wasn’t expecting him to talk, and his voice is quiet, like he wasn’t either. He clears his throat. ‘We tried swapping back, but that didn’t work either.’
Dad nods and blows across his tea. ‘Was there a ceremony? A priest? Did you sign anything?’
‘We don’t remember,’ I say. ‘It’s all a bit blurry.’
‘I remember a little,’ Elliott says, shooting me a quick look before focusing on Dad. ‘But I don’t know what relevance it has. There was an old guy there wearing all black, and there was lots of singing.’
‘I don’t remember those things,’ I say, a kernel of something turning over in my gut.
Elliott turns back to me. ‘You were utterly bladdered, I’m not surprised.’
‘But weren’t you?’ I flick an awkward glance over at my dad. ‘Drunk, I mean? I thought we were both –’
‘Tim, you made me drink moonshine out of a bucket. I was very definitely drunk.’
‘But you remember?’ I don’t know how we’ve got this far without him telling me any of this yet.
‘Some things, sure.’
‘Do you remember us getting married?’
‘No. I –’ His eyes go wide, worried. ‘I remember standing in the garden, and I remember wearing a blanket over my head, and you lifting it up and kissing me. That’s all.’
‘I remember the blanket.’ I hold his gaze and he doesn’t look away, as if he’s willing me to believe him. I can’t think of any reason he’d have to lie.
‘OK,’ Dad says. ‘Where did the rings come from?’
Shit.
‘Um. This was Elliott’s,’ I say, holding up my left hand. ‘And, um, you left your wedding ring lying on the vanity and I found it, so I was wearing it that night … and, yeah.’
The corner of his mouth quirks up and I notice how long his stubble is. He hasn’t shaved for days. ‘I wondered where that had got to.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I’m sure Elliott will look after it.’
The two most important men in my life right now are staring at each other, and it’s weird. The situation is obviously horribly uncomfortable – my dad caught me halfnaked with a boy – but it’s also a relief to be here, telling an actual adult who might be able to help us.
‘I can assure you I won’t be taking it off,’ Elliott says, and my father gives him a grim smile.
‘But you do want to, I hope?’ he asks. ‘Seventeen is young to be married. I can imagine this is putting quite a bit of pressure on you two.’ He looks at me then, and I know he’s thinking of all the times I was sullen and grumpy and swamped with school assessments. He usually ended up helping me out with them as well. I’m no good under pressure.
‘We don’t know how to reverse it,’ I say. ‘We were hoping you would.’
He nods and takes a sip of his tea. ‘Depends on if it’s actually a marriage or something else.’
‘We couldn’t think of anyone who would want to curse both of us, or who’d actually be capable, so some sort of bonding was the only answer we could come up with,’ I say. ‘The research we did into marital bonds fits the best.’
‘OK, well, if it is just a simple marital bond, I can help you, but you’re going to have to be sure of a few things.’
I’ve never been more thankful to have parents.
‘Like what?’
‘Where this happened. When. And you’ll have to be sure you both want it to end; the magic knows your intent, and if you both, evidently, wanted to be married when you did it …’ He leaves the implication hanging and I’m too embarrassed to look at Elliott until the words sink in.
Both wanted to be married.
Both.
Could Elliott have the same intentions as I do? Are we both sitting here, stupidly in love and afraid to say anything? I can believe he likes me, but … My hope lasts about three seconds.
‘I want this ring off my finger,’ Elliott says. ‘No offense.’
‘None taken,’ my dad says. ‘I wouldn’t mind having it back.’
We talk logistics, then. All the elements of a successful divorce (which are similar to all the elements we must’ve had for a successful marriage). Whens, wheres, links to our magical lineage and how we’re going to sneak out of the school in the middle of the night. Even what we’ll eat in place of the traditional feast. Dad doesn’t seem too worried about the school rules, or taking someone else’s son off school grounds after curfew, but I guess he’s not a teacher anymore, he’s just my dad, and I suppose taking your teenage son and his husband to get a magical divorce isn’t so weird.
I hug him before we leave, and he holds me for a long time before standing me out in front of him, his giant hands grasping my shoulders. ‘You look good, son,’ he says.
‘I don’t feel it right now.’
He lets me go and pats me on the shoulder. ‘You’ll be fine.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Though,’ his voice drops lower, ‘what happened to Lizzie?’
‘Dumped me for Blake Hutton.’
‘That’s a bit of a downgrade. Seems to have worked out for you, though,’ he says, and nods over towards the door where Elliott is waiting.
It occurs to me that my dad probably taught Elliott before he left, and might actually know him just as well as I do – though in less intimate detail, obviously. I wonder if he likes the idea of having him for a son-in-law. Elliott’s smart enough for him; they’d probably get on fine. Shame it’s not going to happen.
‘It’s not like that,’ I say.
He tilts his head to the side and gives me a look. ‘It looked a lot like that.’ He wiggles his eyebrows.
‘Dad.’
‘You can tell me about it later,’ he says, and I absolutely won’t. Not ever.
‘Goodbye,’ I say.
‘See you in ten hours. I’ll message you.’
Once we’re in the corridor, I ask Elliott what he wants to do next, and we end up sitting in the empty dining hall. We eat as soon as the servery opens, then go for a walk outside while we wait for dessert. We don’t say much. We return just in time to score the remains of a huge dish of apple crumble, which is way more than the normal serving, so I feel fat and strangely content as we make our way to the senior lounge.
A group’s sitting around the fireplace there, talking about having drinks tonight after Lorraine has done her check-in and left us alone. Elliott and I have what’s left from a couple of weeks ago, but we aren’t meant to have alcohol on school grounds, so when he shoots me a questioning look I shrug. I don’t want to get in trouble, but I also don’t mind him giving away the port.
The collective enthusiasm for alcohol sets the tone and it doesn’t take long for someone to suggest spin the bottle, or for Nikau to quirk a wholesome eyebrow and wonder aloud what the point is if half of us are coupled up already.
I have to counter his point with my own – it’s probably time I stopped thinking of myself as part of a couple, since I have plans to get divorced later tonight. ‘Maybe that’s the fun? Doesn’t have to mean anything.’ I don’t know what it says about me that I w
ant to kiss all my friends to avoid having feelings about never kissing Elliott again.
‘If we’re all going to be making out, I’m going to need a proper drink.’ Elliott sighs and stretches. ‘Anyone else got anything stashed away, or are we stuck with Tim’s shitty rum and a meagre splash of port?’
‘I have peach schnapps,’ Manaia announces, and everyone turns to her. ‘What?’ she says. ‘I’m allowed to like girly shit, you know. There aren’t rules.’
‘I have quite a lot of vodka?’ Hana says, and Nikau’s jaw drops.
‘You do?’ he asks, and it’s clear her angelic exterior might be hiding far more than Nikau was expecting.
‘It’s in my room, come help me find it,’ she says with a grin, and Ana rolls her eyes.
‘Manaia’s schnapps is in my desk drawer, can you grab it?’ she calls after them as they disappear down the girls’ corridor. They don’t reply. ‘They’re never going to come back, are they?’ She sighs. ‘I should’ve got it myself.’
‘We can tide you over,’ I say, and ask Elliott if he wants me to get his fancy whiskey as well, which, of course, he does. So I do.
As I walk down the boys’ corridor I hear a comment I probably wasn’t meant to, about our domesticity and how cute it is. Contrary to what it would’ve done a few days ago, it leaves me feeling shitty, and the solace of drinking takes on a different sort of promise.
CHAPTER 34
MIDNIGHT MARAUDERS
The game is put off until after Lorraine has been and gone, and once the door clicks behind her people pull out their stashes from under cushions and jumpers. We start with some standard binge-drinking warm-ups to soften the mood and dispel any awkwardness. Elliott and I share a look that says ‘let’s take it easy this time’, since we should probably be relatively sober when we meet up with my dad so he can undo the thing we did last time we drank.
We start with an impressively large collection of chocolate, chips and drinks. Cups are scavenged, beverages are poured and we’re all comfortably capable of both consent and spontaneous fits of giggles when Ana declares it ‘time to play’.