“How did you know I encountered Stanley?” I asked.
“He called me,” she replied. “Said you looked a wee bit pale, maybe weren’t expecting to see him on the beach. I thought I’d come over to make sure you’re okay.” She moved to the fridge, getting milk then commenced making tea, an almost sacred tradition to New Zealanders, I was coming to learn.
It was almost meditative, watching her make the tea, listening to the clang of the spoons against the mugs. I watched in a trance, begging my mind to wander. Not from the events of this evening, but from him. Even a man with a gun—granted, a gun designed for rabbits, not humans—could not sway my mind from its rumination over the past, over us, over what I might’ve been able to do differently.
“The surest remedy for anything from a headache to heartbreak is a strong cup of tea with three sugars,” Janet announced with a grin, handing me a steaming mug.
I took it thankfully, placing my palms around the porcelain, letting it warm them. If only it could warm my insides, the places that were dead and cold since he walked away from me.
“Stanley is harmless,” she told me, sipping her own tea.
I raised my brow at her.
“Unusual,” she added at my brow raise. “But harmless. He’s actually a very wealthy man with a Ferrari in his garage and properties all over the world. He was a private contractor, did a lot of work in Central Africa.”
I gave her a look. “Is this meant to make me feel better about him roaming about the beach with a gun?”
She grinned. “I’ve lived next door to him for twenty years, and he hasn’t killed me. That make you feel better?”
I rolled my eyes. “Sure, why not?”
We fell into a companionable silence, sipping our tea and listening to the swish of the waves through the open sliding door.
“So you going to go out with Brent?” Janet asked, not one to be content with silence.
I turned to gape at her. “How do you know Brent asked me out?”
She shrugged, eyes alight with mischief. “Small town. Everyone knows everything. I’m also nosy. And have coffee with his mother.”
My eyes bugged out. “He told his mother about me?”
She laughed. “Of course not. He was talking about you down at the pub where John Aitkens overheard then mentioned it to his wife Selma who just so happens to go power walking with Jenny, Brent’s mother.”
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered. “Small town New Zealand would give TMZ a run for its money.”
“It sure would,” Janet agreed. “Are you going to say yes? Jenny would absolutely love it. She’s not the biggest fan of Brent’s on again off again, Nikita—in other words, she fucking hates her. Plus, it’d give me more reasons to convince you to stay here.”
“Stay here?” I repeated, swallowing my tea. “I can’t stay here. I have a business, friends, family, an apartment and a...” I almost said, ‘boyfriend’, but that wasn’t right. I didn’t have anyone. And even if we were still together, he was never my boyfriend. “And a life in L.A. I couldn’t move here, that would be crazy,” I continued.
Janet gave me a knowing look. “Love makes you do some fuckin’ crazy things, darlin.’”
Her words hit true as I gulped my tea, trying to hide my reaction while hoping that she had been right, that the sweet tea would help salve my wounds.
“Yes, but there’s just one problem,” I said, leaning forward to place my mug on the coffee table. “I’m not in love with Brent.”
Janet dunked her cookie, otherwise known as a ‘biscuit’ here in NZ—a Gingernut, apparently the only cookie one could dunk in a cup of tea—in her tea before taking a bite. “Not yet,” she said while chewing. “You’re not in love with him yet. But you could get there. Brent is very loveable. And fuckable, for that matter.”
I grinned, used to such statements from Janet. One thing I loved about the women here, they loved to swear. It sounded amazing in their accent, and something about it made me happy. Society made it ‘unladylike’ to swear because they wanted women to speak in soft tones, to not make waves or even ripples. I liked to surround myself with women who made tsunamis.
“Yes, he is fuckable and loveable,” I agreed. “But not for me.”
Her eyes narrowed as she chewed the other half of her biscuit. “And the man that is for you?”
It shouldn’t have surprised me, how much she saw. I’d spent enough time with the woman—she’d had a front row seat to my heartbreak—even if I didn’t speak of it.
“He’s not for me. Not anymore,” I said, staring out the window.
“Hmmm. I wouldn’t be so sure. One thing about love … it’s fucking crazy. Learn to expect anything and everything.”