The other reason, impossibly, happens to be lying in a hospital bed with a puncture in his chest.
That thought is interrupted when I ride down our driveway and notice the letterbox is still full. I stop briefly beside it to pull the letters, junk mail, and a magazine out. My sister hasn’t been outside today. She loves it outside.
I swing my leg over the bike and walk up the driveway, making my way inside to find her. She is sitting by the window, her torso swaying forward and back, her dark hair in a ponytail, the long strands tumbling down the back of her wheelchair. She is still in her nightgown. I reach her and kneel at her side, staring up into a vacant, lost gaze.
“I’m home, honey,” I say with a small chuckle. “Let’s go outside.” Rising, I lay the mail on her lap and kiss her forehead. I grip the chair handles, kick the wheels’ safety off, and manoeuvre her around the house, making our way out the front door. Pushing her onto the lawn, I park her under a big palm tree and kneel beside her. The grass cushions my legs, the thin blades tickling the bare skin between my ripped denim jeans.
I sit down and pull the Food and Wine magazine off her lap. She has had a subscription since she was twenty. She loves all things culinary. I keep them all. Every subscription.
I scoff as I read the leading article aloud for her. “Life’s a peach.” I sigh. It most definitely is not. “This one is about peaches.” I flick through it. “Peach deserts. Peach beer. Peach jam. Now, if I could cook at all, I’d give this one a go,” I say, pointing at the peach tart on the page.
‘I’ll cook for you every night.’Seventeen-year-old Bronson’s words tumble into my head. I clear my throat as it tightens up; not wanting her to hear how the words are strained. “So, weird thing happened today. . . You’ll never guess what. . .” I rip the tart page from the binding and fold it, making an origami rose. Back in high school, whenever we would gossip about boys, we would make bouquets and swans. I only ever spoke about one boy.
“Bronson is in Darwin.”
I gaze up at her, my fingers still working away through muscle memory. “I feel so strange,” I admit. “I’ve barely thought about him. . . Not for a long time anyway. I think I even forgave myself.”
Of course, I’m met with silence. On a good day, I can get a sigh or a scoff, sometimes a chuckle, but I’m not sure that they aren’t just sounds. Not attached to any sentiment or feeling. Just sounds her mouth sometimes makes. Either way, her chuckles make me smile.
“Girl, he was angry with you. He didn’t want you after what you did,” I say for her. “And it was forever ago. You don’t even know him anymore.”
I groan at my inner Akila. “Fucksake. I’m being ridiculous. I was a child. He was a child.” My words add to that emptiness in my stomach. I rip at the grass blades, watching as they scatter in the gentle, tropical breeze. “He was so angry last time I saw him. And I feel this sinking feeling inside. Now, having to face him again. Maybe. I doubt he wants to see me anyway. Or maybe he just doesn’t care at all. I mean, it’s been eleven years.”
“You know he’ll care,” I answer for her. “Hate is still a form of caring.”
I wince, my Akila monologue grating on me.
“Hey!” someone calls out from behind me. The husky voice comes from Akila’s carer - Mary. “I’m heading off. She had a good day but wouldn’t let me take her pyjamas off. But I thought it wasn’t worth upsetting her over.”
“Sure. It’s all good,” I call back, not turning around because I’m annoyed, but it isn’t worth the fight. Perry picked her and pays for her; nothing she does is ever wrong.
We owe him so much.
* * *
After blowing out the candles on the neatly set dining table, I pick up both plates. The cold vegetables and steak slide around as I walk them to the trash and scrap the idea of an apology down into the lemon-scented rubbish bag.
Another cold meal.
Another night eating alone.
Strolling up the stairs to our bedroom, I pull off my navy-blue dress and heels and chuck them into the dressing room. I pull out my earrings. I wipe off my makeup. Slide onto the bed, feeling all kinds of restlessness.
Rolling around, I flip from side to side and then lay flat on my back to stare at the ceiling. The fan above me hums as it moves warm air around, the humidity affecting me more now than it ever has. And I thought tonight would help me dissolve the confusion I feel over havinghimso close.
Help me highlight to Perry howfineI actually am.
But my efforts have fallen into the trash along with the overcooked steak and undercooked vegetables.
Blinking into the dark, my breathing picks up pace as an ache shifts between my thighs. I squirm around, groaning at how uncomfortable it is.
Closing my eyes, I imaginehishands trailing from my face towards my nipples. When I reach the tight aching nubs, I squeeze them to the point of pain and my pussy ripples. Groaning at the sensation so cruel and needy, I continue the descent of my fingers until they are between my legs. My folds are wet. I push a finger inside to elevate some of the yearning, the internal beckoning for a release. I move my fingers inside the way he used to. With steady, deep, meaningful thrusts. My ears and neck and face grow hot, prickling and perspiring in the surrounding humidity.
I picture the sweet agony on his face as he comes inside me. Picture the way his muscles would contort with restraint as he pounded into me. All those large muscles. They weren’t that intimidating when he was seventeen. Now, though, they are very. Very. Intimidating. I can only imagine the way he could handle a woman in his bed.
At that thought, a burst of pleasure begins, and I don’t even bite down on my lips, moaning his name to the world, feeling the beginning of something so needed bubbling through me.
Heat boils in my stomach.