by Meg Maguire
Before long, he could barely make out the lanky shape of her body in front of him, though her proximity made his heart swell. If this had happened before the shit had hit the proverbial fan, the fact that his brother could have managed to lay claim to this woman—when he didn’t even seem to like her all that much—would have felt infuriatingly unfair. But it was six years on from that horrible, life-altering night, and Colin had long since given up on the logic and mercy of the universe.
A half hour passed with no confirmed kiwi sightings but a hell of a lot of tripping and cursing, yet it was the most rewarding time Colin had spent the entire week. It was, after all, the only fumbling around in the dark he’d likely ever get accomplished with Libby, and that would just have to suffice.
She seemed to sense that navigation was getting unreasonable at the exact moment Colin did. She stopped short and he bumped into her.
“Ow, sorry. Didn’t know how close you were,” she whispered.
“I think we need to give up and use the regular torch. I don’t want to wander off and get lost in here all night.” Actually, if it involved both of them getting lost all night together in the pitch-black woods, Colin wouldn’t mind one bit.
“Here.” Libby reached back and groped at his elbow and arm, feeling her way down to his hand. She took it in her own. “Is this too…cheesy?”
“No, it’s fine.” Christ, it was so much better than fine. It shouldn’t have been, but that couldn’t be helped. “Whatever keeps me from falling into a ditch and getting devoured by feral fantails.”
“I’m more concerned about spotting my kiwi, but you can imagine whatever altruistic motives you like.”
Colin had plenty of his own far-from-altruistic motives for wanting this. He’d been aching to acquaint himself with the nuances of Libby’s hands for weeks now…from her skinny, bony fingers to her stubby, neglected nails. He wanted to know these hands as well as he did his own. In less respectable moments, he’d imagined her hands in place of his. He’d imagined a thousand things about her—her skin, her mouth, her smell, her taste, the way she might sound as his tongue brought her to—
“Hear that?”
Her excited whisper cut short Colin’s prurient wish list. She swiveled the beam into the undergrowth and yanked his hand. He crouched beside her, peering into the darkness, the red light trained on a small body. A ridiculous little hairy-looking body, bulb-shaped, with that long, comical beak. Oblivious to them, the kiwi poked its sensitive probe into the leaves and dirt, searching for bugs. Colin heard Libby squeak out a noise of delight beside him. Her hand squeezed his, and he beamed a telepathic thank-you to the bird.
After a couple minutes, Libby was sated and they stood.
“Oh, so awesome,” she sighed with satisfaction.
Colin had to agree. He heard the backpack unzipping, and the white beam of the other flashlight came on. “Thank God,” he said, though he suddenly missed the surreal intimacy of the dark.
Mission accomplished, Libby led them through the trails, no hand-holding necessary, until they spotted the subject of the expedition—blue stars, a curtain of them, glowing in the woods like dangling strings of Christmas lights.
“Wow, that’s a big group,” Colin said.
“Yep, but it’s about to get a little bit smaller.” Libby flipped off the beam. Before she started her collection, they paused to admire the scene. The illuminated blue beads hung from tree branches, eerie. Seeing them through Libby’s eyes was like having the experience filtered through a child. She was right—Colin took these sorts of things for granted.
“Who knew worm shit could be so beautiful,” he murmured, earning himself another sharp elbow in the side.
“They’re not worms, and it’s not shit.”
He could tell from her voice that she was smiling. “I know. It’s gnat larva spit. Look how hungry that one is.” He pointed uselessly in the dark at an especially bright strand.
“Wow.” Libby was mesmerized enough to ignore his teasing. Her hand nudged his shoulder, inviting him to share her reverence. He did, though the glowworms had very little to do with it. He swallowed and attempted to pat her back as an admittance of his awe, finding her pack in his way. Instead he gave the nape of her neck a gentle squeeze. It felt intensely, irrationally intimate, with her mane of hair pulled away, the exposed skin insanely soft. She offered him no acknowledgment, just continued to stare ahead.
The next few minutes passed quickly, and any conversation that took place evaporated like steam from Colin’s overheated brain. He was too busy processing the tiny moment of contact they’d shared to leave room in his head for anything else.
Libby had him hold the flashlight and hand her the bottles. She uncapped them one at a time, catching the lowest glob of glowing material from a strand and raising it until she had the entire string captured, along with the unassuming little larva it hung from. She did this twelve times, zipped the bag, took the flashlight from Colin and announced—
“Good work. You’re officially in my research paper’s acknowledgements list.”
“I’d prefer a name-drop in your Nobel acceptance speech.”
“All right,” she said. “I’ll say you were ‘indispensible in my nocturnal specimen collection’.”
“Wow, sounds seedy. Ta.”
Libby’s voice went breathy, an overwrought Oscar winner at the podium. “And a very special thanks to Colin Nolan, who taught me that there’s nothing more exciting than coming upon a hungry Kiwi in the dark.”
“That was a capital K, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, wouldn’t you like to know. Come on, Tiger. Let’s go catch our ride.”
Colin glanced to his left across the backseat of the taxi, watching the passing streetlights wash over Libby’s face, propped against the window, placid with sleep. It was odd to see her so serene. Odd and intimate.
Staring out his own window, he recalled the strange incident from earlier that day. The incident itself hadn’t been strange, but his reaction had been.
During one of his deliveries downtown, Colin had run into a woman he hadn’t seen in a few months—Jessie. Someone he’d known quite well, if briefly. Someone he liked.
“Colin! It’s great to see you. You look good.” Eyes he’d shared any number of conspiratorial glances with had scanned him with a certain breed of approval.
He’d returned her smile. “You’re one to talk.”
“Where have you been hiding yourself?”
“No place. I’m where I always am. I assumed you just hadn’t been looking to find me.” He’d flirted, yes, but his heart hadn’t been in it. For a couple of minutes they’d chatted, but Colin’s efforts to match the expectant tone of Jessie’s rapport were failures.
“I still think about you sometimes,” she’d said eventually, nervously, and Colin had remembered how, up until recently, he’d thought of her too. How until recently he’d hoped he might run into her again, just as he had that morning, and maybe arrange something. Another night like the handful they’d shared six months ago, before his inevitable refusal to make things serious had erected a sad but predictable wall between them. Yes, he’d have liked another night with this woman, if she’d been okay with that one caveat. He would have, if this had been three weeks ago.
“Are you seeing anyone special?” she’d asked.
He’d shaken his head with a sad smile. “Nah. You know me.”
She’d looked around them for a moment before asking, boldly, “Do you ever think about me?”
“I have. A lot,” he’d admitted. In that moment he’d almost been able to feel her hands on his body again, taste her skin.
“Would you like to hang out sometime?” The way she’d bitten her lip made her meaning plain.
“That’s a tempting offer, but I’m sort of keeping things uncomplicated at the moment.”
“I know, Col. I’m not asking for anything complicated.”
“Thanks…but no.” Who was this man, the one suddenly inh
abiting his body? Colin didn’t do relationships—didn’t do exclusivity or attachment. He had nothing against the concept, he simply couldn’t go there. And he’d tried to.
When he’d started dating again after his dark period, each time he met someone he fancied he’d tried to muster that spirit. Tried to entertain the possibility until eventually it just became cruel. He’d had to admit it wasn’t an option, both to himself and to any woman of the moment who seemed keen for it. And for the last few years that was how it was. He could give someone his body and his heart for one night or a series of them, but not for keeps, and he was very up front about that little policy.
Now he couldn’t even seem to give that. It all belonged to the woman presently seated three feet to his left, and it served him right that she couldn’t care less. After all, wasn’t that just so bloody poetic?
Chapter Twelve
“Maybe we should be documenting this.” Libby studied Reece’s naked body, stretched out beside her own. They’d spent the afternoon on another photographic excursion, Reece capturing images of Libby at her most passably docile, and now it was her turn to get Reece’s cooperation.
He looked up from where his fingers were dutifully exploring her. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to use your memory. Now try and relax.”
She was—she’d been trying to relax for the past twenty minutes. Relaxation, in Libby’s mind, was not the problem. Reece was. He was too calm. She understood his insistence, but what she needed for this to succeed was excitement—Reece’s to be precise. Without the illusion of him wanting this, it was just clinical.
“I need you to be dirtier,” she said. “Like last time.”
He complied. Reece was nothing if not accommodating, and his performances as Libby’s seemingly eager lover were highly convincing. A perfect imitation of genuine intimacy, and as close as she could get to the real thing without risking her safety. Exactly what she was after.
Yet it still felt…off, somehow. She couldn’t help but remember the last time they’d screwed around, and how mortifyingly easy it’d been for Reece to snap back into platonic mode afterward. In her rational mind that’s what she wanted, though certain other bits of her begged to differ.
Suddenly, what was happening between them stopped feeling good. All the hardness of Reece’s body, it was just that. Hard. Impersonal. Impossible to truly get close to. Reece didn’t give himself. What he gave were body parts—talented and attractive and graciously donated body parts—but that’s all they were. She didn’t get him. Reece himself was not on offer. And Libby was happily giving everything of herself, but it was as wasted as wine poured onto a tablecloth, no glass there to catch it. The pointlessness of this endeavor slapped Libby across the face.
She sat up. “You know what?”
“What?” Reece asked, sounding poised to ponder yet another of her strange requests.
“I’m not feeling very well.”
“Physically?”
“Yeah, I think I better stop.”
“All right. Do you need anything? We’ve got bitters downstairs if it’s your stomach.”
It’s not my fucking stomach. “Maybe…can we call it a night, here?”
Reece was already up and getting dressed. “No worries. It’s your show.”
“Great.”
“Libby?” Colin set his newspaper on the bar, watching with worry as she emerged from the stairs to charge toward the pub’s front door.
Her duffel bag was clutched in one white fist, boom box in the other. Neither of those items had left the living room floor in weeks, and it couldn’t be a good sign. Her eyes met his before she dropped her head in some gesture of horror or shame and rushed out into the night.
Colin felt his heart hammering in his chest. His fingers drummed uncertainly on the bar for a moment and then—
“Graham,” he entreated their most regular patron, seated in front of him. “Don’t let anyone steal anything for the next two minutes, and your drinks are on the house.”
Colin accepted the elderly man’s somber nod as a pact and abandoned his post to run up the stairs, through the flat to Reece’s bedroom. He knocked and pushed the door open without waiting for an invitation.
His brother was untangling hangers at his bedside, unpacking clothes from one of his moving boxes.
“What in the hell happened?” Colin demanded.
Reece frowned. “What are you on about?”
“Libby. She came running through the pub and out the front door, with her bag and her stereo. What did you do to her?”
Reece’s eyes widened. “I didn’t do anything. We were hanging out and she just excused herself.”
“Did you say something to her? She looked pretty bloody upset.”
“Whoa, calm down. We were hanging out and she said she didn’t feel well. Aside from that, she didn’t seem upset to me.”
Colin could tell there were some major details being left out of this recounting…probably for his own supposed benefit, which irked him further. “Well she’s run off now. You have to go after her.”
Reece smiled dryly. “I’m not going after her. She’s a grown woman.” He turned back to his unpacking.
Colin’s brow bunched. “Don’t you care that she’s upset?”
“No, not really. Let her be upset. People get upset all the time.”
Colin shot his brother a glare and repeated, “What did you do to her?”
He caught Reece’s eyes rolling almost imperceptibly. “Nothing she said she was bothered by.”
“You are so useless with women.”
“Hey, now—I can’t waste my time trying to translate everything that girl says to me. She’s never straight with anybody, ever. And this whole thing is more complicated than you know. Let her work through it on her own. If she wanted people knowing she was upset, she wouldn’t have snuck off.”
Colin’s fingers clenched and unclenched at his sides as he willed himself to be calm. “Watch the pub.”
“It’s my night off.” Icy.
“You’ve had seven years’ worth of nights off,” Colin snapped, stepping over a dangerous line. “I’m going after her, so unless you want us to get robbed blind or supremely piss off the few customers we’ve got left, you’ll get your arse down there.” He gave Reece no chance to protest, just left him alone with his hangers and cold self-possession. Then he turned back, gripping the doorframe. “What does Libby’s boat look like?”
Christ, was karaoke night always this freaking cheerful?
Libby sipped her wine and scanned the crowd. The din of the chatter and the amateur singing and the clinking of glasses was oppressive, but not nearly as much as the silence of her little boat had been. It wasn’t a refuge anymore. Wasn’t home. Never really had been. It didn’t have the welcoming feeling of the apartment above the pub. Didn’t have the lull of the bar or the comfort of Marjorie, the warm hilarity of Colin or the thrill of seeing… Well, anyway.
Libby’s pride was bruised, and it was too painful to go back now. Not tonight, maybe not ever. She couldn’t look at that man, not when she knew there wasn’t really anything substantive looking back. His kindness was nothing unique to her, and neither were his actions. She got more devoted exclusivity just sitting across the bar from—
As she stared across the club, Libby felt a chill run down her spine, precisely like the cliché.
Colin.
Patrons turned to watch as an orange bicycle cut through the crowd, held aloft on Colin’s shoulder by one tattooed arm. He made a beeline for the DJ’s table. Libby looked around for signs of Reece, but this reconnaissance appeared to be a one-man mission.
On stage, beyond the small sea of bodies, a drunken trio of girls were wrapping up a hair-raising rendition of a Destiny’s Child track. As they descended the steps, Colin and his bicycle took their place. He leaned his ride against the wall and jogged to center stage, raising the mic stand. Libby’s heart quickened, knowing this was going to be about her.
&nb
sp; Colin squinted into the crowd though the blinding lights. The opening synthesizer of his song began. He put the mic to his lips and beamed his unfailing charisma around the room. “Sorry about jumping the queue, everybody. And my apologies if Libby isn’t here, but don’t pretend that you don’t love Phil Collins. Everybody loves Phil Collins.”
After this mysterious preamble, he launched into a remarkably spirited performance of “Don’t Lose My Number”, embodying all the early-eighties dire melodrama of the song.
Libby cracked a tight smile. There was something perfect about it, in a backward way—the tall, intimidating, tattooed man with the shaved head, belting out soft-rock. Libby couldn’t figure out what a song about a fugitive had to do with her, but she didn’t think she’d ever seen such an electric karaoke offering. Colin’s hammy performance was made acceptable by the fact that the boy could work a crowd like no one else. When he got to the chorus, he swapped Libby’s name in place of Billy.
Despite her best efforts to stay embarrassed and gloomy, Libby laughed. A nearby acquaintance nudged her in the ribs.
At the interlude, Colin spoke over the guitar solo. “Libby! I’m sorry my brother’s an idiot, but our family’s totally boring without you. Please come home. DJ?” He looked to the DJ’s table and tugged his thumb toward the screen displaying the lyrics and occasional drink specials. Tim did something with the karaoke software, and the projection flipped to a blank screen with just the pub’s phone number typed in.
“Cheers, mate. Libby, do what the song says.” Here the vocals kicked back in and Colin abandoned his entreaty, finishing the track off in exemplary karaoke style. When it wrapped he didn’t leave the stage. He spoke over his enthusiastic applause. “If that didn’t move you, Libby, I have something no woman can resist.” He raised his eyebrows at the DJ again, and the twinkly first notes of the famous duet from Dirty Dancing came on.
He sang Bill Medley’s opening lyrics and then, still partnerless, he sang Jennifer Warnes’s in falsetto. The audience laughed.