Rielle gave him a watery smile. “It’s okay. You didn’t know it would go like that.” She put her hand on Bodge’s arm and gripped, trying to find an anchor in the swell of emotions that swamped her.
The depth and heat of Jake’s anger had left her wrung out. She knew she’d hurt him, but he was meant to forget her and move on, not marinate in the bitterness she’d caused. He was too smart for that, too rational and stable. He was meant to look back and see her for the disaster she was and be relieved it was over. He was meant to live without regret and compromise. He wasn’t meant to love her so much. The change in him shocked her. He’d looked lost, without his compass, without the steady centre that defined him. Somehow she hadn’t forced him to let go, she’d taught him to hold on and to hate because of it.
She couldn’t process that. Couldn’t take it in.
“It was wrong, we screwed up.” Bodge’s big hand came down over hers, calloused and warm. “Should’ve let you make your own decision. Shit, we’re both divorced, Glen and me. Neither of us know how to keep a woman. Me, you don’t wanna know about how badly my love life turned out. We’re a couple of drunk old monkeys, thinking we could fix things. We wanted you and Jake to have a chance and now look what we’ve done.” Bodge thumped his elbows down on the bar top and wedged his forehead down on his palms. “Shit!” But when Rielle stayed silent, he lifted his face. “Why aren’t you carving me up?”
Her head was a mess of frayed emotions. She’d been so sure she knew what she was doing when she came here. But she was still faking it. Now all she wanted was to run from this new fatal accident she’d caused, this new death of someone she loved.
“Not your fault, Bodge. I did this. I screwed up with Jake. It’s my fault he’s so hurt.” She sighed. “Why did you think this would work?”
Bodge shrugged a meaty shoulder. “We thought he’d forgive you. He needs to forgive you.”
She shook her head. “I made it so he couldn’t ever do that.”
“That boy loved you, Rie. I reckon he could love you again.”
She choked back a sob. Bodge put his arm around her. He smelled like magic marker; it made her eyes water more. “I’d feel a lot less shitty if you’d tear strips off me.”
She gave him another wobbly smile and leant her head on his shoulder. “I wish Rand was here.” She missed him something fierce. She should never have come back without him.
“What do you reckon he’d do?”
What would Rand do? He’d let her cry, he’d let her rant and rave, he’d let her sulk and all the time he’d be standing there waiting for her to solve the problem for herself and poking at her til she did.
“He’d tell me to get it sorted. He’d remind me I made this bed. That I’ve never backed away from anything and if I wanted this, I’d have to fight for it.”
Bodge nodded. “Smart bloke your brother. You reckon you can fix this then?”
“No,” she said, dropping her eyes to her lap. “I don’t think I can.”
48. Visitor
The dog had his nose pressed onto the wire flyscreen mesh and every time Rielle moved he barked. From somewhere off the hallway she heard Trish Reed call, “Be with you in a minute.” She came to the door with a mixing bowl in her hands, flour on one cheek and dismay in her eyes.
“Arielle, is that you?”
“Hello, Mrs Reed.”
“Trish. Come in, come in. Can you open the door, yes just push it. Sorry, I have flour all over my hands. Down, Monty! I’m trying to get scones on for afternoon tea. Down, Monty.”
Rielle let herself in and followed Trish Reed into the kitchen. She’d been careful; she’d cased the house. No sign of Bonne, so Jake wasn’t around, which meant she’d have a chance to do what she came for.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked.
“Why don’t you put the kettle on? We can have a cup of tea while I finish up.”
Trish moved aside to let Rielle near the stove and went back to her dough. Her movements had a bristling quality to them, like she’d rather sweep Rielle back onto the street than give her access to a copper kettle.
“I came to see you and Mr Reed—Mick—because I want to know if there was anything my brother and I can do for you. We didn’t know until recently Mick had a stroke. We’d have offered to help much sooner if we’d known.”
Trish thumped the dough. “Oh!” She started rolling it out.
“We make a very good living from our band, so we’d be happy to help with money for anything you need: physical therapy, household help, anything really.”
“O
h.” More dough rolling. No eye contact.