“I guess we’ll talk.” Tomorrow at ten, not that I mention this as Jenner takes the bottle from my hand. I fold my arms across my T-shirt, rubbing away goosebumps that are part the result of the cool of the evening and part nervous trepidation. “See what he wants.”
“I think it was pretty clear what he wanted when he set eyes on you this afternoon.”
Even if that were true—no, I’m not going to think about it. No point in inviting that kind of trouble into my mind. Not when tomorrow our lives might change forever.
“Jenner, you can’t tell anyone about this.”
“You really think you’re gonna keep this secret?”
I want to. Actually, I want to run away. “I guess that depends on what he has to say tomorrow.”
Jenner gives a slow shake of his head like he doesn’t know what the answer is, either. He waves as he reaches the bottom of the stairs, depositing the bottle in the recycling. I head back inside and follow my nightly ritual of securing the house to protect my little family of two. It’s not that I feel any sense of threat, given I live in the house that has meant home to me for almost as long as my memory goes back. I guess the issue is, in essence, motherhood. The experience brings a person more moments of joy than you could ever anticipate, but the flipside is fear. Motherhood comes with a lot of fear. Fear of hurt. Of illness. Of accidents you can’t foresee or prevent, and the absolute terror of loss. Up until today, my fears were mostly those. Background fears, kind of shadowy. But today has introduced me to another kind of dread.
Ignoring the enormity of the situation as only one in denial can, I pick my way through a small pile of Legos, collect a stray sock, flip closed a sketch pad and straighten a cup of coloured pencils. Pulling closed the curtains, I check the locks and switch off the lights, carrying out these small nightly domestics as I pad through a silent house.
At the small bedroom that was once my sister’s and my sanctuary, the door creaks as I push it open, but only Moose stirs. From her position curled at the end of Wilder’s bed, she lifts her head, her skinny tail thumping the mattress a couple of times. I cross the room, thankful that my son has always been a sound sleeper and doesn’t stir as the elderly floorboards squeak as though abused. Tucking him in, I pull the duvet up from his knees and settle it over him. His hair is a little damp as I push it back from his forehead. He could do with a haircut, but we’d already agreed he could wait until the new school year, and I try to keep my promises to him.
As my sweet and slightly sweaty boy child snuggles deeper into the pillow, his arm tightens around his favourite stuffy. The toy wallaby of all things seems to be the cause of the strange twist of disquiet in my stomach as I press a kiss to my son’s head, refusing to dwell on the things I can’t change. Even so, as I pull the door closed, I find myself sending a warning out into the heavens.
He’d better do the right thing by my boy . . .
I shower, brush my teeth, and fall into my own bed, ready to dream of anything but the man in the tiny house beyond the haphazard tree line. And sleep, as it turns out, comes quickly. It seems no sooner does my head hit the pillow than I’m out. I guess my overworked brain needs the reprieve, not that it doesn’t spend my night conjuring up pretty images. Dancing in empty streets, flower petals falling like rain from the sky. The echoes of deep laughter and eyes that shone as brilliant as sapphires.
Before I even open my eyes in the morning, it’s all still there, worry replacing pleasant dreams almost instantly. I sit and swing my feet from under the covers, my stomach plummeting as I remember I have to go and meet him.
10
Roman
Past
PLEASANT DREAMS
She looks like a bride.
A shower of blossoms flutters over her dark head as I reach up and pluck a flower from the bough. Her radiant smile and nature’s confetti. Pink and white, I hold the tiny, plucked flower in my hand, spinning it between my thumb and forefinger. I know it’s only been a few short hours, and while it hasn’t been what some might call a meaningful connection, I find there’s been meaning enough in it for me.
I’ve kissed a lot of girls since Jenny Cochrane pulled me into the boathouse during my short rowing career—short because seventeen-year-old Jenny taught fifteen-year-old me there was more fun to be had in an empty boathouse than flying across the water in a tiny scull—but I’ve never kissed a girl who looked at me like Kennedy does. Never wanted a girl like I do right now. The way she’d shivered beneath the stroke of my thumb, her mouth opening to mine on a tiny gasp. The taste of her sigh. Innocence laced with liquor. I want more than just her kisses, and I know it sounds like absolute fucking madness, but I want to own a little part of her.