by Bronwyn Sell
He broke off the kiss, but the pressure of his hold didn’t relent a single pascal. ‘We probably shouldn’t be doing this,’ he said, panting, his lips moving against her temple.
‘It’s a really bad idea.’
And then he nudged his lips down and she met him halfway. It wasn’t the almost-kiss of a few days ago that had promised to be sweet and hesitant. This one was more evolved, more mature, like during all the time she’d avoided being alone with him, they’d somehow reached a new level of understanding without even trying.
After an indeterminate amount of time, but long enough that she needed another swim, they broke off again, then kissed again, for longer this time, then broke off again, then kissed again, then broke off.
‘Just one more?’ he breathed.
She gave the faintest nod. She was seriously lightheaded. It was so much more than she’d imagined it would be, and oh boy had she imagined it. This time they each pressed in even closer, zipping up together.
‘Last time,’ he said at their next micro-break.
‘Last time,’ she echoed, incapable of forming original words.
When they reluctantly eased up again, he rested his forehead on hers, his hands on each side of her waist, hers on his shoulders. Heaven.
‘I’m glad we got that out of our systems,’ he said.
‘Me too. Totally out of our systems.’
‘Because I know me and, hand on heart, this stuff always ends badly, longer term, without exception.’
‘Because of your commitment phobia.’
‘It’s not a phobia but yeah, whatever. I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt our dads and our family and I—’
‘You don’t want to ruin your chance to have a family.’
‘To steal your family,’ he corrected.
‘And I don’t want to ruin anything for anyone either, especially not you or me. And you know what? I know me, too. I know this crush will pass, and I don’t want things to be awkward between us.’ Somehow it was easier to say all this while looking down at her sand-coated feet parked between his rather than into his eyes.
‘You have a crush on me?’ he said, back to deep and teasing.
She lurched back. Her head spun and she doubled over, propping her hands on her thighs. ‘Shut up,’ she said, which was always such an intelligent comeback. How had the C-word snuck out?
‘Hey, so do I. I mean on you, obviously. We’re crushing on each other because why wouldn’t we? We get along really well, right? Like, really well. And we’re both single, and obviously you’re hot.’ She loved that he said it so blithely, as if it were an accepted fact. He started pacing, like he was trying to get ahead of the problem. Because it was now definitely a problem. ‘So, it’s natural there should be an attraction there. But we’re probably just getting confused because I’ve never had a sister and you’ve never had a brother, and we haven’t known each other since birth so our brains don’t understand what this is supposed to be.’
‘Exactly. That’s exactly it. So we just need to wait this out and give our brains time to catch up. Though it’s really not my brain that’s getting ahead of itself.’
He stilled and she felt his gaze on her. ‘Shit, don’t tell me that,’ he said, sounding a touch needy. ‘That doesn’t help. That really doesn’t help.’
She straightened. His hair was all messed up from where she’d run her fingers through it. Bedroom hair. ‘Let’s try the lift again,’ she said, breathlessly. ‘We’re suddenly running out of time. If we have nothing to show Carmen once she gets here g to show Carmen once she gets here …’
‘She’ll suspect the worst?’
Worst? Or best? And which scenario was which? ‘Yes. So let’s do this.’ The sweat on her skin was mixing with the sea water, stinging the pores of the legs she’d shaved that morning before yoga. ‘The lift, I mean.’
This time when she lined up, she felt less shaky. Was it possible she had just got it all out of her system? In one sense, it was a relief they’d acknowledged the hitherto unacknowledged, that she knew it wasn’t a one-sided infatuation like her usual non-relationships. In another sense, they’d levelled up to a whole new classification of tension.
She stood there syncing her breathing with the waves for way too long, but he said nothing, the calmness in his eyes and his body position giving her permission to take the time she needed.
Finally, she filled her lungs, emptied them, settled her breath and ran. Even before she leaped, before he touched her, she knew it would work. He was steady, she was steady, she launched, she felt his hands on her hips, guiding her to just the right height, just the right angle, and there they stayed. She arched back, her arms extended like an aeroplane. Her muscles shook but she felt long, taut and strong. She was flying. She might be squealing.
‘Woohoohoo!’ he shouted.
His right biceps trembled. She wobbled, and adrenaline shot through her limbs, but he lowered her with smooth control, like they’d practised dozens of times in the standing lift. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders (strictly for balance) and he slid his around her waist and she touched down and it was only natural to stand there like that as they caught their breath. His laughter vibrated through her palms. She closed her eyes and lowered her forehead to his shoulder.
‘That was a long way up,’ she said. He had to be six-three, and having his arms straight above his head added a couple of feet. Dizzying in so many ways.
‘That was awesome,’ he said.
She threw her head back. ‘I flew. I really flew.’
His eyes fixed on her lips, and a cool liquid seemed to shoot through her belly, followed by a warm one. His mouth sought hers and she happily let hers be found. Just a long press of their lips this time, like a goodbye kiss.
‘This can’t happen,’ he said, releasing her lips without loosening his hold on her waist.
‘Didn’t happen,’ she told his glossy eyes. Definitely hazel today.
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing happened.’
They leaned in again and her eyes fluttered closed, but … No. Way past time to stop doing this to herself.
‘Not happening,’ she said, stepping back, just as he said, ‘Can’t happen,’ but his eyes were searching hers like he wanted to find a contradiction in them.
‘Let’s try that lift a few more times,’ she said. ‘Until it’s just muscle memory.’
The lift worked every time. Something had definitely clicked. A matter of trust? Of bursting the tension? As she ran in for the fifth repeat, the hum of a car rose above the noise of the waves. ‘Carmen,’ she murmured, as he glided her into the lift. They stayed in position, shamelessly showing off, as the turquoise four-wheel drive bumped down the track from the main road, horn blaring.
He brought her down, and they released each other immediately.
‘Didn’t happen,’ he said, picking up his towel.
She slipped on her sandals. ‘What didn’t happen?’
‘Nothing didn’t happen.’
‘Double negative.’
‘Nothing definitely didn’t happen.’
‘Still a double negative.’
‘Shut up.’
‘You shut up.’
She crouched to pack the rest of her things. Ah, but it had happened. And now she knew he had feelings for her. And he knew she had feelings for him. And she knew he knew she had feelings for him.
They could try to deny it to Carmen and everyone else, but they could no longer deny it to themselves.
Trip Review: Curlew Bay
Rating:
Review: We asked for single beds in our villa and they gave us a double bed and now I’m pregnant.
25
Sophia
The morning was halfway to the afternoon by the time Sophia returned from the resort with a bottle of chardonnay and several bottles of craft lager, along with an ice bucket, the contents already turning to slush.
‘Hi,’ Harry called from somewhere under the house
. ‘I’m afraid this is all going pear-shaped.’
‘As a pear-shaped person, I’m going to assume you mean it’s all precisely as the universe intended it should be,’ she shouted, lowering the bucket into a shady spot under a tree.
He laughed. ‘I sent a message to Carmen to tell you not to bother coming back. I’ll be another hour.’
Perfect. ‘That’s weird.’ Sophia pushed the bottles deep into the ice, wincing as they clinked. ‘I saw her, and she didn’t mention anything.’
He made a noise that could have been a snort. ‘Feel free to head back.’
‘No, I’m happy.’
She covered the bucket with a towel, not that it was much of a disguise. Would she even go through with this? It suddenly seemed silly. But it was a plan, and plans were made to be executed. She returned to the ute for the broom, mop, plastic bucket, scrubbing brush and rags she’d borrowed from the baffled housekeeping staff—and no, it wasn’t how she’d expected to spend her honeymoon, either—hoping Harry couldn’t see her in the gaps between the vertical planks fencing off the stumps.
As she was pulling the last of her stash from the tray, a muffled, tinny tune started up inside the cab. Her phone. She’d left it on after taking photos earlier. She looked at the cleaning stuff at her feet, at the house, at the ice bucket. It could be anyone. Trying to breathe away the sudden queasiness, she inched along the side of the ute, wrenched the door open, jumped in and closed it behind her. Swallowing, she dug the phone out of her tote, the ringtone turning shrill.
Jeremy, the screen read.
Real life was on the line.
She stared at his name, anxiety crawling up from her stomach like some creature from the deep. A couple of weeks ago she’d have answered without thinking. Her life partner and best friend calling to ask where the dog lead was, where they should meet for lunch, whether she could grab dishwasher tablets on the way home. Even after more than five years together, she would get a thrill at seeing his name, flood with warmth at hearing his voice. Talking to him was like exhaling. He was her guy and he made her life something more than it would otherwise be. The Jeremy who was calling her now was that same guy, but everything had changed.
The ringing stopped and the creature from the deep receded, leaving cool relief in its wake. She let her head drop back on the seat, the roof of the cab blurring. So she might be more of an emotional mess than she’d thought. How was it that she’d spent so much of the last two weeks obsessing about logistics and her future but it hadn’t hit her—really hit her—that this was the man she’d thought would love her forever and now he didn’t love her, or at least she didn’t know if he loved her or not, but the indications weren’t good.
It seemed she might have a broken heart.
Well, shit.
The phone started ringing again and she dropped it like it was a huntsman.
No. Screw this. She was an adult, damn it. This was Jeremy. She chased it onto the floor, grabbed it, and answered.
‘Hi,’ she said. Her throat caved in. What was with this reaction? It was Jeremy.
‘Soph! There you are! I’ve been trying to …’ His voice disintegrated into a staccato gurgle.
‘J?’
‘Yes, hello! This is a bad line. I …’ More gurgling, the odd intelligible word.
She removed the phone from her ear and ended the call. With an unsteady hand—hell, she was actually shaking—she powered it off, and held it against her chest. Her lungs were working overtime. If it weren’t for Harry being in earshot, she might well scream—in frustration, in confusion, in she-didn’t-know-what.
So the worst might not be over.
With the windows closed, the cab was heating up. Or maybe that was just her. She opened the door. Rasping and clinking noises rolled out from under the house. Perhaps Harry hadn’t heard. Numbly, she pulled herself out.
Go-bloody-anna. The call changed nothing, except perhaps her perspective, but she wasn’t sure what this new perspective was. She looked at the cleaning equipment. She had a plan and she would execute it because that’s what Sophia Wicks did.
‘Do you have any water here?’ she yelled, sounding remarkably like she hadn’t just hung up from her first conversation with her ex-fiancé since he’d called off their wedding. See? One foot in front of the other.
‘There’s drinking water in the back seat of the cab.’
‘I mean water that I can put in a bucket.’ She should have thought of that earlier.
‘That’s what I’m working on—fixing the tank supply. You can borrow some from the goats’ trough if you’re not fussy. Reg would have filled it yesterday. They’ll come up and check you out but don’t let them bother you. Their smell is worse than their bite. What do you want it for?’
‘You’ll see,’ she called.
One good thing to come out of the phone call—she suddenly had massive reserves of energy for clearing, sweeping and scrubbing. In fact, after maybe an hour, she realised she was enjoying it. When was the last time she’d done proper physical labour like this? She’d inherited her parents’ ethos that you worked your arse off at the job you were best at and paid people to do the things they specialised in, like housework, renovations, maintenance, landscaping. DIY should have gone out with the dawn of the industrial age. But there was satisfaction in a transformative task like cleaning. It had to be good for the brain to see the immediate results of the body’s labour. In her job, results were generally long-delayed and measured in words and digits. Also satisfying, but not as visceral.
She was mopping the last floorboards on the veranda when a dull thud sounded underneath the house, followed by an ‘Ow!’
‘Harry? You all right?’
‘Yeah. I’m done, in fact. I hope. Am I allowed to know what you’re up to now?’
‘Give me five minutes?’
‘I’ll wash off. Promise not to look.’
Did he mean she should promise not to look at him, or was he promising not to peek at her secret project? She looked at her tank top. It’d been a good call to stay in her yoga gear but now she was sticky with sweat and sprinkled with dirt and dust, and she didn’t want to think what else. At least he was used to seeing her at her worst.
After returning the cleaning equipment to the ute, she arranged three wooden chairs at the front of the veranda—old dining chairs she’d found in the house and cleaned. On the middle one, she set up the ice bucket and a couple of glasses she’d borrowed from the bar. She stood back. Not bad. The space no longer smelled of dead cockatoo and bird crap, and it looked almost shabby chic, with emphasis on the shabby. Put it in an interiors mag and call it an outdoor room. Her social media would go off if she posted a photo. And questions would be asked. Perhaps not a good idea.
She found Harry in the last remaining slice of shade on the southern side of the house, bent over a tap poking through the planks. The goats were lined up at the fence, gawking, and well they might—he’d taken his shirt off.
‘Moment of truth,’ he said, heaving the squealing tap open. A gurgling began under the house, and seconds later rusty water spat out of the tap. ‘For the win! Now I won’t have to haul water all the way up here for these old buggers.’ He let it run clear, joined up a hose, let that run clear, and poured water over his head, his closed eyes giving her a chance to examine his body at leisure. She could swear time went into slow motion.
‘Hit me with some of that,’ she said when he was done.
She opened out her arms, sacrificially. He held his thumb over half the nozzle, making it spray. Her turn to close her eyes, as the water pinpricked over her. She laughed, he laughed, the goats laughed. See? Happy!
‘Now do I get to see what you’ve been up to?’ he asked as he turned the tap off.
‘Come into my parlour.’ She indicated the steps up to the veranda, which mirrored those on the northern side of the house, minus a few planks. He obeyed, eyeing her with a curious smile. As he followed her around to the front, she swept an arm out t
o reveal the results of her labours.
He whistled. ‘Is this you demonstrating your usefulness?’
‘That had not occurred to me. I did this out of pure selfishness—we are going to spend the next however-long-we-like living solely in the moment.’ And indulging her personal fantasy, but he didn’t need to know that. A fantasy wasn’t breaking a goanna because it wasn’t about the future. It was just an alternative present. ‘Beer or wine?’
He strolled to the ice bucket, picked up a lager and examined the label. ‘Good choice.’
‘I asked the bartender what you like.’
His expression darkened for a second. Had she overstepped? Whatever his thought, he apparently brushed it away. ‘And for the lady?’ he said, indicating she should sit.
‘Do you happen to have a Hunter Valley chardonnay?’
He pulled the wine from the ice bucket. ‘Why, madam, you’re in luck.’
She took a chair as he played bartender. She had a vague, uncomfortable recollection of the night they’d met, but it shifted around too much to pin it down. She’d be hopeless if she were ever asked about the first time she’d laid eyes on him.
He handed her a filled glass and sat. ‘To the moment,’ he said, holding up his beer.
She clinked. ‘The moment.’
They settled mostly into silence, admiring the view, because if you weren’t talking about the past or the future there wasn’t much to discuss, which was all good. He named the islands and reefs and other landmarks, including the tail of Stingray Island, just visible to the southwest. With the worst of the stenches washed away, the air smelled of the ocean. She could definitely smell Harry, but less beeswaxy and more musky.
When she’d sunk the last sip in her glass, she walked up to the railing and closed her eyes, welcoming the breeze on her face. Behind her, the floorboards creaked. She held her breath, willing Harry’s arms to thread around her waist and pull her to him. They didn’t, of course, but at least this time he was physically there.
‘That was just what I needed,’ he said, from beside her.
She opened her eyes, flinching. He was closer than she’d thought, his gaze locked on hers, his expression intense. Good grief. Had her fantasy taken over her conscious mind?