Unspoken Words

by K. M. Golland

  “And you wanted to marry her when you were younger?” She patted my head, as if I was a child, and that’s when I did one of the most stupid and quite possibly bravest things of my life.

  I lied the truth.

  “I still do,” I blurted, stepping next to Danielle and pulling her to my side. “In fact, we are already engaged.”

  Chapter 2

  Private Message from Elliot Parker:

  Miss Danielle Cunningham

  RE: Contractual Obligation

  I am writing with respect to a binding contract made between you and I on 7 May 1995 behind the lemon tree at the premises of 23 Cassia Place, Coldstream, also known as your childhood home.

  It was on that date that you accepted my offer of marriage, which, according to your terms and conditions was to commence twenty-two years from said date.

  Under the Australian Competition and Consumer Law Act 2010, this offer, acceptance, and agreed upon terms constitutes a legally binding contract; therefore, I’d like to arrange a date and time to meet in person to discuss the details of our pending nuptials.

  Kind regards,

  Elliot Parker

  What. The. Actual. Fuck?

  That was the private message I’d received on Facebook two days ago from Elliot, aka ‘Lots’ (my nickname for him when we were kids) Parker. We hadn’t so much as spoken to each other in seventeen years when he moved houses and we went our separate ways, so his message had come out of nowhere.

  NOWHERE.

  Anyway, this was my reply:

  Danielle:

  Bahaha. LOTS! Hi! Wow! I think your memory is exemplary. How are you? Long time no hear. What have you been up to all these years?

  As any normal person would, I’d taken his little legal spiel as a joke, because who writes something like that in a Facebook message and expected anyone to think it was legit? Him, apparently.

  Elliot:

  In preparation for becoming your husband, I completed a Bachelor of Law and am now partner at a firm in the CBD. How are you? Ready to tie the knot?

  Danielle:

  You did all of that for me? I’m utterly speechless, lol.

  Jokes aside, Elliot, that’s wonderful. Really wonderful. Sounds like all your hard work has paid off. Good on you.

  Am I ready to tie the knot? NO! Living the happy single life. What about you? Married? Kids?

  Elliot:

  I promise you’ll live a happy married life, too. And, no, of course I’m not married. How can I marry you if I’m already betrothed to another?

  Kids? No. Although, we probably should’ve discussed whether we wanted any twenty-two years ago.

  By that stage, his quirkiness had started to morph into you-can-stop-with-the-whole-marriage-bullshit. It was overkill. Weird. Then again, Elliot had always been, flamboyant, eccentric and overly dramatic. As kids, that was kinda cool. As an adult, not so much.

  Danielle:

  You’re not going to hold me to this ‘oral contractual agreement’, right? I mean … I digested the engagement ring, lol, so the agreement must be void.

  At the very least, I expected an LOL back — my joke was funny — but I didn’t get one. Not even a laughing tears emoji.

  Elliot:

  The digestion of your engagement ring does not void our contract. The ring is merely decorative symbolism.

  Danielle:

  Oh. Really? Well, be warned; I can’t cook, and I have expensive taste.

  I’ll admit, even though I’d been playing along with him, I was a tad creeped out so left the conversation as it was. It was now forty-eight hours later, and there was a little red number two attached to his Messenger bubblehead picture on my inbox list — a bold, annoying, hard to ignore, red, figurative apple of sorts. But I didn’t click on it. Clicking on it meant that he would see I’d read it, and it was common courtesy to reply to a message if you’d read it. Then again, failing to reply was a clear indication that you were deliberately ignoring it or just far too busy. Maybe I should do that?

  Tucking my tiny stick figure legs to my side, I snuggled into my roommate Chris’ giant beanbag. It was Thursday night and he was out of town. He played football for the Essendon Bombers and this week’s game was being played in Sydney.

  We lived in Melbourne.

  I liked it when the team played their away games interstate. It meant I got uninterrupted me time on my favourite beanbag with my favourite blankey and non-human — my pug, Dudley.

  I was the Essendon Bomber’s merchandise store manager, which was how I met Chris. He was infamous for being the team’s manwhore — their player player. When some of his teammates felt compelled to conduct an intervention — aka Operation Chris Castration — he begged me to room with him because, in his words, it would stop his “whorish ways” if he lived with a chick he “couldn’t fuck”.

  Well, we did fuck.

  But only once.

  And we don’t talk about it because it had been wrong on so many levels. For starters, Chris is not my type. He’s far too cocky and slutty, and lazy, and annoying. But man, he can cook. And, strangely enough, our rooming together just worked. I kept things tidy and prevented him from bringing disposable women home, and he kept me fed.

  Win win.

  Tapping on Elliot’s Facebook profile pic followed by the photos section, I picked up my mug of chai and took a sip. It was freezing outside, being winter and all, and because Chris had conveniently forgotten to replenish our woodpile, it wasn’t a hell of a lot warmer inside either. I was going to hurt him when he returned on Saturday. Actually, I was going to hide his protein powder first, and then I was going to hurt him.

  I cradled my mug to my chest, the warmth providing a very small reprieve from the chill in the air, but what also defrosted the sting was the hot, older version of Elliot that I was currently studying on my phone, and, sadly, it was the only uploaded picture he had.

  To say he’d changed considerably since I’d last seen him was an understatement. Gone was his scraggly jet-black hair and typical sprinkling of teenage boy acne, instead, replaced with a short but sophistically styled cut that was still as dark as the ace of spades. And his skin was perfect, albeit lightly cast in a five o’clock shadow of beard and mo regrowth.

  I smiled and patted my lap for Dudley to jump upon. He’d just finished his dinner and was licking his chops like a happy little maniac.

  “Come and meet Lots, Dudley. Lots is all kinds of hots!” I laughed and hugged my four-legged child, too slow to dodge his wayward meaty-smelling tongue. “Ew! Dudley, stop.”

  He settled into his favourite spot, between my butt and my feet, and harrumphed a part snort, part growl.

  “What? Are you jealous? Don’t be. You’re still the love of my life. I promise … even if your breath is about as welcoming as an abattoir.” I gently pulled him into my arms. “Come here. Check out Lots for yourself.”

  Reaching around Dudley, I positioned the phone so that we could both see the screen.

  Ice-blue eyes stared back at us; ice-blue eyes that had always had the ability to mesmerize me for the smallest of seconds. They were definitely something that hadn’t changed since childhood. They were also the very first thing I’d noticed about Elliot Parker the day he moved in next door. I remember thinking to my five-year-old self that he was some kind of secret mystical being, like a giant elf sent to mingle with humankind for the purpose of reporting back to the Elf King.

  Those eyes had not been of this world, and they still weren’t.

  Unable to ignore the obtrusive Messenger red number two any longer, I tapped on Elliot’s bubblehead icon.

  The first message was in response to my expensive taste and expectation of an elaborate engagement ring, but it was the second message that had been sent a day later that piqued my curiosity.

  Elliot:

  I earn enough money to cater for that expensive taste, so don’t worry. ;)

  Elliot:

  Have I freaked you out? Sorry. Maybe I s
hould explain so that it doesn’t look as if I’ve been stalking you for the past seventeen years, because I haven’t. I just want to make that clear.

  Do you remember the community garden built by both our mothers in memory of Mr Hillier? Well, the local council have issued a demolition notice for the site on the grounds that it was not adequately maintained. I lodged an objection and was granted a temporary suspension notice provided the site meets regulations within 60 days of the issue date.

  When Mum mentioned that you and Mrs Cunningham were to be involved in the reconstruction of the new garden, I felt compelled to look you up. That’s when I noticed the date and remembered our pact.

  Again, what the actual fuck?

  Firstly, this was the first I’d heard about my participation in what sounded like a huge project. Thanks, Mum. Secondly, I couldn’t believe the council wanted to demolish our garden. That news hurt my heart. They couldn’t tear it down. It was special. And, thirdly, his winky face emoji was the first sign that he hadn’t lost his ability to joke around.

  At least I hoped he hadn’t.

  As I was about to type a reply to that effect, my phone started dancing within my hand, my mother’s picture staring me in the face.

  I tapped speakerphone. “Your ears burning?”

  “Why hello, dear. Saying hello is the correct way to answer your phone. I could’ve been anybody, you know.”

  I shook my head and smiled. “No, you couldn’t have, Mum. I knew it was you.”

  She laughed. “Oh, so you’re a Psychic now?”

  “Nooooo…” I narrowed my eyes and shook my head again. “Never mind. So, what’s this I hear about Mr Hillier’s garden needing to be rebuilt or it will be demolished, and that we are rebuilding it? When were you planning on telling me this?”

  “Now, as a matter of fact, but your new psychic abilities have allowed you to beat me to it.”

  “I’m not psychic, Mum. I found out from Elliot Parker.”

  “Ahh yes, Helen’s boy. Such a wonderful young man he is. Did you know he’s a famous lawyer? He stopped the demolition so that we could fix the garden.” She sighed, sadly, kinda fake-like. “I always thought the two of you would end up getting married and giving me grandbabies, so did Helen.” Mum’s part witch, part sing-song cackle, momentarily broke her words. “I think she still does.”

  I snorted. Loudly. “Mum! The garden. What’s going on?”

  “Okay, okay. Gee whiz. As of this weekend, we are going to be working around the clock to rebuild the community garden. Seeing as Helen and I are listed as the garden’s founders, it’s up to us to make sure we succeed or it will be demolished.”

  “What happened to the garden? The last time I saw it, it was fine.”

  “When was the last time you visited the garden, Danielle?” Her all-knowing tone was critical of my answer because it was warranted; it had been a while.

  “I don’t know … maybe a year or so?”

  “Try at least five.”

  “No way!”

  “Yes way. It’s been at least two years for me, and I live here.”

  Hunching with guilt, I hugged Dudley a little tighter for reassurance. The garden was special to Elliot’s family and mine, and we’d neglected it. I felt awful.

  “How bad is it?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

  “Well, the garden beds are no longer visible, swallowed by weeds. The shed is rotten, the windows smashed, and the panels have been kicked in and graffitied,” Mum paused. “And of course some disrespectful little so and so’s with nothing better to do have defiled Mr Hillier’s plaque. There’s also a good chance the gum tree is dead or at the very least partially dead.”

  “Shit! So there’s a lot of work to do?”

  “Yes, sweetheart, there is. And we owe it to Mr Hillier to fix this. We also owe it to Elliot for working his magic and allowing us this second chance.”

  I nodded; she was right. What Elliot had done for our families, the Coldstream community, and Mr Hillier’s memory was pretty cool. He’d fought for all of us knowing how important the garden was.

  All of a sudden, he wasn’t so creepy.

  “Okay, Mum. So what time do we start on Saturday?”

  “Be there at 7:00 am on the dot. And bring a shovel. Love you.”

  “I don’t have a shov—” Before I could finish my sentence, she hung up. 7:00 am on Saturday morning? Are you kidding me? Ugh! There goes TGIF drinks after work.

  Acknowledgments

  As with every book I’ve ever written, I’d like to thank, first and foremost, my husband and children. I wouldn’t be able to do this day in and day out if it weren’t for them. Living with a writer isn’t easy. Just ask anyone who lives with a writer and they’ll say the same thing. We work long hours. We talk to ourselves. We daydream. Our bodies might be present but our minds are constantly in our fictional realms. We also spoil movie and TV plots, like all the time, and we think microwave meals are the pinnacle of home cooking. We the writer are a unique bunch, and it takes a special kind of person to put up with us. Andrew, Blake, and Brianna, you three are very fucking special indeed, and I love you endlessly for loving me endlessly despite the craziness that is my life.

  Sali Benbow-Powers, you are legend. But before I shout this woman’s name from the rooftop, I want to give you a little backstory, so here goes. When I finished writing this book, I had every intention to traditionally publish it. I felt it suited that market and had commercial potential. I submitted it to my publisher who disagreed, but that’s okay because that happens in this industry all the time. So I submitted it to another traditional publisher who loved it but wanted me to change the structure of part one so that it intermittently appeared through parts two and three. I really wanted to work with this publisher. They saw the book’s commercial potential, but I just couldn’t bring myself to chop up the story like they’d suggested. I’d written Ellie and Connor’s journey the way I had on purpose and changing that felt wrong. So I shelved the book for a year while I stumbled around like Sandra Bullock in Bird Box, blindfolded and terrified because I didn’t know which way to go, until Sali. Sali gladly put on the blindfold, too, and Sandra’d with me to try and restructure this book without ruining it. And, in the end, it was Sali who said, “No more Sandra! Leave it as is and self-publish it. We’ll tweak it here and there, but that’s it.” She then tore our blindfolds off and dramatically threw them in the bin. (Note: there were no ‘real’ blindfolds, but you get my drift). So that’s what we did. We worked through it together and strengthened what I’d already laid down.

  So, Sali (Sandra) Benbow-Powers, THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart. Had you not invested your time, expertise, and friendship, this book would still be on my shelf—simple as that. You’re not only unique in this industry, you’re also incredibly invaluable. And I’m keeping you forever.

  Ellie McLove, I can’t thank you enough for proofreading this book at the very last minute. Honestly, I reckon you’re the most accommodating editor around. Do you ever say no? Don’t answer that. Oh, and if your eyes aren’t insured, insure them. Insure them now even though they’re priceless. You seriously don’t miss a thing.

  Mum, not only are you my biggest (and LOUDEST) supporter, you’re also my final set of eyes to go over the book before it’s sent to the printer. It makes me laugh, actually, because you’re kinda blind as a bat and, yet, not much sneaks past your proofreading eyes. You encourage my author journey, but you also listen and console me when I’m ready to give up. This industry can be brutal at the best of times. It strips you bare and often has you questioning your worth and ability, but, Mum, you never let me question for long. You listen, but then you slap me silly and yank me out of my self-doubt, and I thank you for that more than you’ll ever realise.

  David, thank you so much for writing the lyrics to ‘Ever After’, ‘A Song for Aaron’, and ‘Whispering to You’. Your vision for bringing Connor’s music to life was perfect.

  And l
ast but never the least, to my readers and Book Bubble’O members. If it weren’t for your continued support and enthusiasm, my stories would only sit on my shelves. Your messages, emails, and posts fill my little writer heart with so much love and encouragement that I wish there were more hours in the day to write you stories a lot faster than I do. Sadly, there isn’t. But what I can do, for you and for me, is promise to always strive to write a better book than the last. Thank you for reading xo

  About the Author

  Writer of sexy comedy and relationship flaws.

  Born and raised in Melbourne, Australia, K.M. Golland is a best selling author with HarperCollins, and a ranty, married mother of two who is quite happy to support a very healthy high heel obsession. A lover of rabbits, doughnuts, bridges, and cars, she traded her legal work for her love of writing and found her dream career.Connect with K.M. Golland

  http://www.kmgolland.com/

  kmgolland43@gmail.com

  Mailing List — http://bit.ly/KMGollandNewsletter

  Also by K. Golland

  The Temptation series:

  Temptation (#1)

  Satisfaction (#2)

  Fulfilment (#3)

  Attainment (#3.5)

  Attraction (#4)

  Commitment (#5)

  Wild Nights Series:

  Revue

  Reveal

  Resist

  Plight

  Discovering Stella