Regret

by Max Henry

  Her dots dance immediately, and then stop. I frown, setting the phone down to turn the water on. The jet heats without any sound from Messenger to signal a response from Belle, still silent as I step under the flow. I damn near break my neck when the fucking thing rings, vibrating across the counter as I slam a hand against the wall to save from slipping over.

  Nowhere in my arsehole plan did I take into account the fact she might ring me. Well played, baby girl. Well played.

  The call ends, picked up by voicemail as I stare at the little plastic demon as though the fucking thing plots to kill me. I wash in record time, my hands a blur as I whip the body wash over myself, rinse, and step out, gaze still glued to the phone.

  Sure enough, I’ve barely got the towel wrapped around my waist when it lights up again. My skin buzzes with nerves as I reach out and tap the icon to answer and put the call on speaker.

  I’m goddamn tongue-tied. Thirty-eight years old and I can’t get the word “hello” out of my fucking mouth because of a girl. Hopeless.

  “You don’t play fair, Zeus.”

  My knees buckle, arse hitting the floor mat as I fold. God, I’ve missed that voice. It’s huskier, if that’s even possible.

  “Life’s not fair, remember?”

  I catch her sigh before she answers. “Is it a prank? Some sick joke?”

  I shake my head, and then slap a hand to my forehead when I remember she can’t see me. “No, dove. It’s legit.”

  My brow pinches. I swear her breath shuddered, but then again, I’ve imagined a lot of shit that wasn’t real when it comes to her.

  “What are you doing next weekend?”

  “Why?” She can’t meet me. It’s not supposed to work like that.

  “Why do you think? I have a need to ink, and you have a need for ink. It would probably take two to three hours with the shading.”

  How can she talk to me so coolly, so calm and collected as though I’m a goddamn client? How can she do that? Disassociate? Fuck—I’ve tried the whole time she’s been gone, and failed. What the fuck is the secret to switching off this desire for more, this burning ache?

  “It doesn’t matter what I’m doing,” I say, despite the fact my throat closes tighter with each word. “Because it won’t involve you.”

  She makes a frustrated grumble. “Stop sulking, for crying out loud.”

  “Sulking?” I laugh, scowling at the phone where it sits on the edge of the counter before me. “Belle, your fucking dad made it real clear where things stand when it comes to you and me. I’m simply trying to respect that.”

  “Bullshit. You’re taking the easy option out. Do you think it would be easy for me to see you?”

  “Easier for you than your boyfriend.” Yeah, I’m a cunt. But it had to be said. Why she even called me when she has some other guy to think about…. “How would he feel about it, Belle? Huh?”

  “Low. That’s low, even for you.”

  “Where is he?” Because there’s no way in hell he’s seated in the same room while she talks to me about this.

  “Not any of your concern.”

  Curious. “Tell me one thing, then. Why did you reply to my message?”

  She sighs, silence hanging thick and heavy as I run my fingertips over the mat beneath me. “You deserved that much at least.”

  “At least,” I echo. “But I don’t deserve any more, right?”

  “Good night, Zeus.”

  The room falls silent, save for the rattle of the shower door as I slam my head back into it. So close, and yet so far away. Nobody else can tie me up in knots like that woman. Nobody has the skill. My eyes slip closed as I let out a heavy breath. Her voice uprooted neglected sensations within me; the visceral connection that sound has to memories of the flesh causes my cock to stir.

  The nights I stole into her bed may have been few, but they were enough for me to miss the way she’d whisper in my ear as I drifted off to sleep. Belle would talk about anything—useless shit—and still I’d strain to hear each and every word until I succumbed to the night. Those things she said, they were important, because they were her. They were a part of her, and any parts that I could get I would take selfishly and without regret.

  I never got enough. My well runs dry, and I need more time with her, more moments like those to keep me sustained.

  My mind drifts, pulling me from where I sit on the bathroom floor to the memory of her room. I visualize every fucking thing I can remember: the way the moonlight would creep in past her curtains, the outline of her dresser in the dark, the shadow of her things spread out on the floor. The smell of her beside me: the floral notes in her hair and the vanilla scent of her body wash. The heat of her leg pressed against mine, the petite curve of her shoulder tucked in beneath my arm. The weight of her head on my chest and the gentle caress of her fingertips across my chest.

  The cadence of her voice as she confessed things to me I had no business knowing. Belle should never have told me how she felt. I was her father’s best friend, for fuck’s sake. She should have buried those thoughts deep down inside and killed whatever love she felt for me with lies and blind justification.

  But my dove never was one to fit into anyone else’s mould.

  “I like how small I am next to you,” she’d whispered one night as she wrapped her lithe body around my side.

  My palm tingles with the memory of her arse in my hold as I hauled her on top of me. My hips burn with the memory of her weight as she sat there, as though she was my queen and my body was her throne. She was born to rule me, and even in her absence I’ve craved the satisfaction that I can only get from her happiness.

  I want her happy. And I want to be the one to make her that way. Is that so selfish?

  My fist wraps around my thickening length as I shamelessly pull myself back to better times: times when I was ignorant to the pain I’d eventually cause and selfish in my need for release.

  I’ve always loved her—my little free bird—and I can’t begin to imagine what it even feels like not to. How do I do that? How do I think of Belle without associating her existence with my own? I honestly don’t know how to do something that epic.

  Perhaps because I don’t want to?

  Why should I imagine an alternate world, when the one I want is still a possibility? My hand quickens, my chest heaving with my breaths as I picture that life, the one I know is yet to come: Belle in my house, comfortable, and content with being mine.

  Because she is mine. As I groan with my release, I know without a doubt that girl belongs to me, because how could she be anyone else’s when I’m still so wrapped up in her? Still such a part of her?

  ELEVEN

  Belle

  My sigh echoes around the room as I flop back on my bed, arms flung to the sides. He tore me apart with that picture. Flayed me alive and uncovered the hidden part of my soul that still yearns for him.

  The image cut off at the V of his hips, giving the barest hint of what lay below. His body was covered in a light sheen as though he’d been hard at work. His muscled frame, although smaller, is still as defined as I remember it to be. He might not work out the same, but he still puts in the hard yards to get that physique. Three years since I’ve seen him, and that’s how he chooses to update me.

  He doesn’t know how to play fair.

  Zeus drew a little arrow on the image, pointing to the untouched skin over his heart, and said that’s where he wants the tattoo. A serpent wrapped possessively around a dove. I googled the meaning of the image before I replied, unsure if he sees himself as evil over good, or what the picture inferred. And the passage from the bible that accompanied similar images surprised me. I know Zeus’s mother was religious, but I don’t once remember hearing that he’d gone to church. Maybe it was something that stuck, or perhaps he came across it by chance. Whatever the reason, the quote is what spoke to me most:

  Behold, I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves: be ye therefore wise as serpents, and harmless as doves.
—Matthew 10:16

  It’s everything: how our love is viewed and persecuted by those who don’t understand it, the struggles we face, the adversity. He is the serpent, and I am the dove.

  It’s everything we were, everything I miss, and everything we can’t ever have again. Why he’d want that over his heart, reminding him every damn time he caught sight of it what can’t be… he chooses to live in the past, and that’s never a healthy way to be.

  Look at my dad, for fuck’s sake.

  Miserable and trapped within his head for years before he finally woke up to the realisation that Cerise was no good for him, and never would be. He found true happiness when he let her go. Is that what Zeus has to do? Wake up?

  I roll to my side and retrieve my phone, navigating through to the image of the tattoo. I ignore the selfie as I scroll past, unable to deal with the feelings that invokes right now. My stomach tightens, the most intimate parts of me awake with anticipation as it buzzes by. My thumb slams down on the graphic, and I tap it to bring the design full screen.

  The picture is good, the concept strong, yet the execution needs work. I slide off the bed, plucking my sketchbook and pencils from the desk, and return to spread out over the mattress. With one last look at the reference picture, I set to work.

  Hours pass, my hand tired and cramping, and yet I only stop to get a drink and use the bathroom. By the time the sun teases the night sky my insomnia is no longer a concern and I have a progression of eight pictures spread across my bed. Each image is a variant of the one before, the slightest changes, the smallest adjustments to make the design perfect.

  At least, what I think would be perfect for Zeus.

  Dad’s voice drifts through the wall in a low rumble, the hiss of the electric jug coming soon after as he starts his day. My jaw aches with the depth of my yawn, my eyes burning with the need to close. I stash the seven practice images, and then lay the last out on the black backdrop of my suitcase. I snap a quick pic and send it through to Zeus before switching my phone to silent and stripping down to my tank and panties.

  The day begins outside, and in a way, I feel as though that echoes the shift that took place within me as my pencils flew over the parchment. I’ve felt as though a piece of me was missing these last three years and of course I attributed that to the loss of Zeus. The ache of giving up something I wasn’t ready to part with.

  But as I reflect, eyes closed as I search for sleep, it comes to me in my last conscious moments: the thing I lacked, was me.

  Thousands of kilometres around the world, and it took coming home to see what it is that I have yet to let go of: my capacity to care too much about what others think.

  ***

  “Hey,” Dad greets. “You feel better?”

  I drag my feet across the floor as I enter the kitchen and then poke my head around the wall to glance over at where he sits in his armchair.

  “Where’s Sharon?”

  “Doing some shopping.” He mutes the TV. “If you need anything, I can give you her number to let her know. She’ll pick it up while she’s out.”

  “No, it’s all good. I might head out later anyway.” I retreat back to the cupboards and grab a bowl, granola, and then get yoghurt from the fridge.

  Breakfast mid-afternoon: sure sign of a lazy weekend.

  “What had you up so late?” Dad reclines his seat, tucking both hands behind his head. “I got up during the night and saw your light on.”

  “I was sketching.” He remains silent as I stir the mix in my bowl. No fucks to give, remember? “I had an idea about the studio,” I call, testing the waters.

  “Yeah?” Dad appears at the junction of the wall. “What’s that?”

  I pass by and settle at the table. “I know somebody who has space I can use while I get started. I thought perhaps if I work alone for a year or two, I can get the business off the ground, and work towards expanding into a shop with more staff like I originally wanted.”

  “I’m listening.” He leans a shoulder against the wall; the afternoon sun highlights his greys. He’s too young for the salt-and-pepper look; it has to be stress induced.

  “There’s a studio that would be enough for a single table and station—”

  “Out the back of Zeus’s,” Dad finishes with a sigh. “Shit, Belle. Are we going there again?”

  I set my spoon down and raise both palms as I finish my mouthful. “I’m looking at this objectively. He offered when he bought the house.”

  “And you think that still stands now?” Dad narrows his gaze.

  “I don’t know,” I whisper.

  He has a valid point. Zeus said last night that he doesn’t want to see me because of Dad. Would it change his mind if I said I’d discussed this with him? Would it make Zeus consider it if Dad himself gave the okay for us to be that close again?

  Could I handle it?

  I frown as my thoughts drift to Damien. Where is he right now? Who is he with? And most of all, what are they doing?

  Why do I care?

  “I don’t think it would be a good idea,” Dad says softly as he pulls the seat opposite mine out. “There’s a lot of history, and while you’ve done okay, he….” His words drift off as he stares out the window with a stern brow.

  “He what, Dad?” My pulse races while I wait.

  “He reoffended about four months after you flew out. Got picked up for a brawl outside the tavern on the corner of Vincent and Andrews. He managed to avoid returning to prison for the rest of his sentence by a small miracle.”

  The air in the room seems too hot; the afternoon sun not as relaxing as it was a mere moment ago. I close my eyes and count to five before re-opening them with a deep breath. I feel… I guess hopeless. My departure almost put him back in prison. No matter which way you slice it, that’s the bare bones of the situation.

  No wonder he doesn’t want to see me.

  “And now?” I ask once the acid in my stomach has settled.

  “He keeps busy restoring his car.”

  “He bought another one?” I still can’t believe he sold the damn GTO.

  Dad grins, cocking an eyebrow as he finally drags his focus back to me. “A 1971 Plymouth Barracuda.”

  Lord, have mercy. As if my infatuation with Zeus wasn’t hopeless enough, now he drives my favourite car. “How much did he pay for it?” Those things aren’t cheap, or common at our end of the world.

  “A fair price. It’s not a runner. He’s most of the way through an engine build for it. He only bought the shell. Most of the interior was trashed, and it was riddled with rust.”

  “He’ll be enjoying that, then.” He did always like doing things with his hands. Clean those thoughts up, Belle.

  “I think so.” Dad heaves a deep breath as I return to my breakfast/lunch. “All I’m saying is that he might not be as strong as you when it comes to being able to keep an amicable distance. I don’t doubt that his studio is a good answer for your predicament, but sweetheart, he’s not the man you remember him to be.”

  Guess it’s time I found out exactly who he is, then.

  TWELVE

  Zeus

  “What’s that?” Mike looks over my shoulder as we wait on the tipper to drop our next load of base course for spreading.

  I angle the image Belle sent me toward him. “My next tattoo.”

  He narrows his eyes, taking in the detail of the picture, the colours. “That’s some good work, man. Who drew it? They local?”

  “She’s not working right now, but she will be.”

  “She?” A grin spreads across his weather-chapped lips as he elbows me in the side. “True, bro.”

  “Knock it off, man.” I kill the screen and pocket my phone, thankful for the deafening roar of the stones as they slide out of the bed of the truck.

  Mike jerks his chin at me, the shit-eating grin still on his face as he walks away. I take a last swig of my water before capping the bottle and tossing it under the shade of the gazebo.

  Ed sigh
s, arms stretched over his head as he rises from his spot on the grass. “Back to it, I guess.”

  “Yep.” No rest for the wicked, that’s for sure.

  I climb into the cab of the grader and switch the radio on above my head. Music fills the small space, amplified when I shut the door. The following hours pass quickly, the music helping me to zone out from everything that’s been on my mind of late—especially Belle.

  She took the image I sent her and made it her own. I spent a solid ten minutes on the edge of my bed this morning with my phone in hand, staring at the message. What does that mean, her redesigning the picture? What’s the hidden message in that?

  My phone vibrates in my pocket while I work, but given it’s against company policy for me to have it in hand while I drive—and being caught can mean instant dismissal—it’s easy to push the thought that it might be Belle to the back of my mind. I focus on the job at hand, starved by the time lunch rolls around, and park the grader behind the roller to go join the other guys.

  Mike lifts his arm in greeting as I approach. “Hey, bro. I was just telling Clint here about that tatt you’re getting. What’s the name of the chick who drew it so we can look her up when she’s back at work?”

  My skin prickles. It’s a harmless question, but the thought of sharing any part of her with another guy leaves my fist balled up at my side. “I’ll get you a card for her shop once she’s open.” Fuck knows how I’d cope with her hands on jackasses like this bunch.

  Fuck knows how I’m still functioning knowing how many people she’s already touched. It’s just a job, Z.

  “Show us the picture, man.” Clint pops his head up, fingers curling for my phone.

  I slide it out of my pocket and note the new messages were in fact from her. Ignoring what they say for now, I tap on the image and pass my phone over. Clint wraps his hand around the device, letting out a low whistle as he takes the artwork in.

  “That’s some serious talent, man. She freehand that?”

  “Yep.” The picture shows the image in pencil on card—no fancy design programs for my girl. A swell of pride runs through me at his clear appreciation of Belle’s skills.