Remind Me How This Ends Read online

  ‘Yeah, it’s great,’ I lie, relieved she didn’t bump into the man who usually frequents that corner. ‘So … how’d you find me? I mean, the place?’

  ‘Kurt, of course.’ Of course. ‘I bumped into him at the bottle shop yesterday after coffee with my reflexology group, and he invited me around. He mentioned you were keen for us to have some time together.’

  ‘He did?’

  ‘It’s okay, hon. Everyone grieves in their own way. I found that out when my mum died years ago.’

  I freeze, too in shock to reply, but Shirin doesn’t notice. She’s content filling the air with the sound of her own voice.

  ‘My heart aches for you. It does. Five whole years without that beautiful woman.’

  I manage to tilt my head forward, barely a nod but close enough. I’m going to destroy Kurt one limb at a time for dragging Shirin into this.

  But Shirin’s not done. She clutches her hand to her chest, playing with the long strands of beads draped around her neck. ‘I’m just so relieved you felt like you could reach out to me. Finally. I mean, your dad and I are always here for you, always have been, but now … you believe it. I was hoping for a coffee date, something like that, but this … this is such a step forward. And me being a goose, I was just sitting at home doing a puzzle, alone of course ’cos your dad’s off again, you know how fly-in-fly-out is, and I thought, bugger it, today’s the day. I’m going to see her.’ She releases a shaky laugh. ‘Listen to me, rabbiting on.’

  I can barely take in what she’s saying. ‘If I knew you were coming I’d have … ah, dressed up more. Sorry.’ I fold my arms tighter to try to hide the stain. ‘Maybe we should reschedule to a better time … for you?’

  ‘Oh poo, I didn’t call ahead ’cos I didn’t want you to make a fuss. I’ve got everything. Nail polishes, eye masks, the works.’ That’s when I notice the esky and the hessian bag of crackers and chips at her feet. ‘You hungry? I’ve got enough food in here to feed the house. Kurt mentioned it’s a bit of a zoo now there’s five of you under one roof.’

  That’s one way to put it.

  ‘Reckon I can pop the brie in the fridge?’

  Crap. I glance behind me into the house. Ryan’s nowhere to be seen. ‘Um …’

  ‘It’s fine, hon. A little mess won’t bother me. I remember what it’s like to be young.’

  Before I have a chance to think of an excuse — a headache, unshakeable plans, moving to Mars — Shirin bustles inside, announcing she’s putting together her world-famous platter. She’s spitting with excitement.

  Right on cue Ryan wanders past, cracks open the salt and vinegar chips, takes a handful, and mutters that he’ll leave us to it.

  Double crap.

  * * *

  Kurt looks at me from the bedroom doorway in the way he always does when he wants to kiss me. Eyes half-closed, lips curled up. The laziest of smirks.

  ‘Place looks awesome, babe. Did ya tidy up out there?’

  I swallow. I’ve been practising my speech since Shirin left, but I’ve forgotten every word. ‘It’s good, isn’t it? Shirin helped. When she was here today. Shirin was here today.’

  There’s a silence so wide, so deep, I might sink into it.

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  He’s playing dumb and I’m having none of it. ‘Don’t do that. Don’t pretend you’re innocent.’

  He folds his arms across his chest. ‘Fine, I saw her, she asked about ya mum. What was I meant to do?’

  ‘Not invite her around?’ My voice breaks, giving away that I’m more upset than pissed off. ‘I was blindsided. You know Boxing Day was a nightmare! Sunday was just … and then today … it’s impossible. You keep pushing me.’

  Kurt comes over to the bed and sits down next to me. ‘You’re right. But this is hard for me too.’

  I swallow. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning … I dunno.’ He shrugs. ‘Look, let me make ya feel better, babe.’

  He kisses my collarbone, moving upwards to my right earlobe. I squirm and he pulls back, rejected. Up close, I can see his eyes are stained red. I can taste smoke on his breath.

  ‘What’s wrong? On ya period?’

  ‘What? No. I’m just not feeling it. Today sucked.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’m trying to help ya forget that.’ He’s barely blinking.

  ‘I know, but … this is about me, not you.’

  ‘Don’t remind me.’ He sighs, then grabs his pillow and heads for the door. It’s so familiar. ‘Bit hot in here. I’m gonna enjoy the lounge room before we mess it up again.’

  ‘You’re not going to smoke any more tonight, are you?’

  ‘Nah, babe. I’ll be in soon. Promise.’

  * * *

  The sky burns fairy-floss pink the next morning. I watch the sun hanging low, willing it to move. All I want is to feel a little magic for a second, like I used to as a kid. Mum used to tell me that fairies helped the sun to rise by hoisting it into the sky pull after pull, using nothing but threads of gold and enchanted dust. I believed her. But the sun doesn’t budge, of course.

  I smile to myself. Maybe the fairies are on strike today.

  I pause at the front door to adjust my shorts and pull up the sock that’s slipping down the back of my Cons. Kurt is splayed on the couch fully clothed, shoes on, drool on the pillow.

  I tiptoe back to our bedroom, flinching at the creaky floorboards. Everything, from the chest of drawers to the carpet, looks like it needs a clean — everything except the whiteboard. It’s spotless. Gone are the scribblings, the sweet notes, the dirty jokes. I don’t even remember which of us wiped them away.

  I scrawl, Gone out, might be a while. Text me if you need the car, Lx, in big loopy letters.

  It’s only when I reach the front door again and steal another look at Kurt that I realise the ashtray on the coffee table is filled with stubs, all within his reach.

  I slip out the front door, car keys digging into my palm, and welcome the warmth on my skin.

  Milo

  The gelato is melting faster than I can eat it. It trickles down my hand, sticky droplets catching in my arm hairs. I stop on the footpath to lick around the dripping edges of the waffle cone. I gurgle with ecstasy as the sweetness spreads over my tongue, then check to make sure no-one’s watching. Even though Trent’s working at the bookshop today, I can almost hear him telling me to buy the gelato a drink first.

  That’s when I see her. Layla. She’s sitting on a bench nearby, legs pulled up high so her chin rests on bare knees. She’s in shorts — the shortest of shorts, the kind where the hem scrapes the skin of her upper thighs. The kind that shows off everything. Jesus.

  There’re people milling around her with crying babies and bags of groceries, but her attention is stolen by something off in the distance, like she’s dreaming while awake. I wonder if I’m dreaming too. It was her casual mention of gelato that led me here after all. If I hadn’t seen her four days ago, I wouldn’t be here with sugar splattered up to my elbows.

  I almost leave without saying hello. We’ve exhausted all our material, I tell myself. Besides, her back is turned so she’ll never know. But for some reason, I walk over.

  ‘Hey, Lay.’

  She turns around, face creasing into a smile. ‘Oh, hey. Hey, you.’

  It’s been a while since I’ve seen someone’s face beam like that when they see me.

  ‘Hey, yourself,’ I get out. ‘Weird, huh? This bumping into each other.’

  ‘It is Durnan. There’s like three of us in town, remember?’

  ‘I’ll pay that.’ I hold up my cone stuffed with melting gelato. ‘Turns out this stuff is good. Who knew?’

  ‘Me. Tried the boysenberry.’

  ‘Salted caramel here.’ I pause, already out of words, realising too late I should’ve never approached her. Damn my self-fulfilling prophecy. ‘So, ah, guess I’ll leave you to it … just saw you there and thought I’d say a quick hi.’

  She smiles again. ‘Well, a quick hi back atc
ha, MD. See ya.’

  I say goodbye and walk off, wondering what the statistical probability is that we run into each other again.

  Then I hear her voice call out, ‘Hey, Milo. What are you doing now?’

  I turn around. ‘Right now?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m going for a walk. Gonna leave my car here, look around some more.’

  ‘I’m ninety-nine per cent sure you’ve unearthed Durnan’s one new thing since you left. Not sure you can top this gelato.’

  ‘Probably not … but you can come with, if you want. You know, just in case I discover Durnan’s second new thing.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t want to miss that. You’re not waiting for someone, though? Your, ah, your boyfriend?’

  ‘Nope. Just me.’

  I pause. It’s not like I’ve got anything else going on.

  ‘Sure, lead the way.’

  * * *

  Thirteen summers have passed since I’ve swum in the river. I’m not even sure how Layla and I ended up here. Obviously one foot in front of the other on the steaming cement, but there was no prior discussion. No plan to walk towards the water. We simply got lost in conversation, winding past parks and schools and down dingy little streets. Guess we haven’t run out of topics after all. By the time the river was in sight, it was too late for me to turn back.

  The air’s thick with heat, like most summer days in Durnan, so Layla suggests going for a swim to cool off. I can’t think of a good enough reason to get out of it, so it’s her way, like it always was when we were kids.

  From our vantage point high up in the tallest eucalyptus on the riverbank, the water looks murky, far from the Photoshopped sapphire blue on the posters lining the walls of the tourist centre. I stare down and feel a rush of blood to my head. I’m two branches above the tyre swing and six branches above the broken wooden plank that local kids hammered in years ago. I know because I’m counting while trying to stop everything from spinning. My feet are scratched up from the bark, my boxers cling to my thighs.

  Layla’s still in her singlet and shorts. ‘No hands!’ she sings out from the branch above mine. Her body sways and she squeals, lunging for the trunk. ‘Oh my God. Oh God.’

  My knuckles harden as she cackles with laughter.

  ‘You okay down there?’ she asks. ‘You look kinda pale.’

  ‘Not all of us tan like you.’

  I glance at the water below again. Huge mistake.

  ‘Damn, this is high,’ she says. ‘We must’ve been brave doing this as kids.’

  ‘Yeah, we were basically Bear Grylls.’ I don’t remind her I’ve never jumped before.

  ‘I reckon we head down to the swing,’ she says. ‘But I’m going to need that branch you’re on so move your bum.’

  ‘Still a wallflower, I see.’

  I tighten my grip on the trunk and lower myself onto the next branch, scraping my palms and shins. Layla stays close, swinging her wiry legs down with the ease of an aerialist.

  ‘One more, then you’re there,’ she says.

  I’m flooded with images of me either hitting every branch before head-planting into the water, or having a panic attack and needing to be thrown over the shoulder of a fireman and carried down. Either way I’d be on the local news. Perfect.

  I edge my way down to the tyre swing, fighting shaking legs and burning arm muscles. The branch sags under my weight.

  ‘Just grab on, swing out and let go!’ she calls.

  ‘Gimme a sec.’

  I drag my hand off the trunk and fumble for the tyre. It’s worn and the rope doesn’t look much better. I give it a tug. It seems fine, but I steal another glance at the river anyway. The water is muddy, the current strong.

  Layla’s eyes burn into my back. ‘What’s the hold-up?’

  ‘Nothing.’ I pause. ‘Didn’t Cliff Shepherd break his back doing this?’

  ‘I heard he broke his legs and four ribs.’

  ‘Serious?’

  ‘Yeah, there was a shopping trolley floating under the surface.’ She releases an exasperated sigh. ‘Move over to that branch. I’ll go first.’

  We may as well be four years old again and yabbying at a family friend’s farm. Layla was splashing around, covered in muck, ferrying yabbies back and forth from the water to a row of buckets. I hesitated next to them, kicking my gumboots against the grass. She ran over, dumped her latest catch in a bucket, smeared mud on my nose, then darted off, announcing to the grown-ups she was calling the biggest yabby ‘Milo’ and was going to eat it for dinner. I ended up chasing her into the dam, gumboots and all, and we didn’t leave the water for another hour. Layla never looked before leaping. I looked too much.

  ‘It’s fine, I’ll jump.’

  I’ve said it now and I’m not unsaying it, no matter how much my legs tremble.

  ‘You’re peeing your pants, Milo Dark. Let me go.’

  I wobble up into a standing position, right hand pressed against the trunk, left hand feeling the rope burn against my palm. I try to ignore its frayed ends. Another jerk, just to be sure. It holds.

  ‘Jump before you fall. You’re shaking heaps.’

  ‘Dude! I’m not.’ Liar. ‘I’m thinking.’

  ‘That’s your problem.’

  I strain my neck to look down one last time. Seizing the rope with both hands, I leap forward and pray to all the gods that my feet connect with the tyre. I swing out above the river, whooshing past blurry greens and browns and blues. For a moment, time freezes and I see Layla waving from the tree.

  I let go, screaming, mouth locked open, as I hurtle downwards. My body slices through the water and I thrash around, struggling for the surface. I find it. In between spluttering and gasping for air, I paddle towards the bank, which is overgrown with long, slimy reeds.

  I did it. I freakin’ did it!

  ‘That was awesome!’ Layla hollers. ‘You crazy monkey — I could kiss you!’

  I barely take in what she’s saying as I suck in breath after breath, each gulp feeling like a triumph.

  * * *

  We lie on the grass, listening to the galahs chatter.

  ‘Your nose is getting kinda red,’ Layla says. ‘We better be quick before you turn into a tomato.’

  She peels off her singlet to reveal a black bra. A black bra with lacy bits on the sides.

  I sit up. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Drying off,’ she says, before shimmying out of her shorts, swearing as they catch on her hips, and bouncing around until they’re finally off.

  She plants down next to me on the grass, barely thirty centimetres away. I don’t know where to look, so I look anywhere but at her. In my peripheral vision, I see her unclipping her bra. Jesus. Covering herself, she wriggles out of it, then rolls down, chest to the grass. She’s in nothing but black undies — black undies with lacy bits on the sides. A misjudged turn of the head and our eyes meet. This time, I forget to look away.

  ‘What?’ she says, as though it’s normal she’s lying next to me like this. ‘I don’t want tan lines.’

  ‘Cool.’ Smooth.

  Layla lets out a long sigh tinted with bliss. ‘Man, I don’t remember it being this quiet here. Have you even seen anyone else around in the last hour?’

  ‘Nah. You?’

  ‘Nope.’ She readjusts herself on the grass, edging slightly closer to me. Maybe deliberately, probably accidentally. I try not to notice her undies slipping. Her hand reaches around and pulls everything into place. ‘It’s all ours then.’ She tugs at a blade of grass. ‘This is pretty nice, right? Bumming around together again, I mean. Random … but nice.’

  ‘For sure.’

  Looks like I’ve left my vocabulary in the river. I reach for a clover and tear at the leaves; anything to stop me catching a glimpse of the curve of her hip or the fleshiness of her mouth. And that black lace.

  Anything but the black lace.

  ‘Hey, MD, my stuff’s still wet — can I borrow your T-shirt for a bit? I’m kinda cold.’
>
  I pass it over, relieved I don’t have to avert my eyes any more. It hangs off her like a garbage bag.

  My stomach churns as she wriggles closer to rest her head across my legs, her long limbs stretching across the grass. Over the years we’ve sat or laid in various positions like this a hundred times, in rumpus rooms, in campsites, on trampolines, but it feels different now. Or she’s different. Or maybe I’m different.

  Layla nibbles on a fingernail, not seeming fussed at all. We’re still like this for a while, letting the cicadas fill in the quiet.

  She looks up at me, black smudged around her eyes from the water. ‘Hey …’

  I look down at her. ‘Hey …?’

  ‘Race you to the river?’

  ‘Now?’

  She nods.

  Without warning, I pull my legs out from under her and sprint across the grass, bellyflopping into the shallow water with a splash. She charges after me, clambering up my back until she’s perched on my shoulders. She raises her arms high and pumps her right fist.

  ‘I’ve seen Milo Dark naked!’

  Her call hangs in the air, before she cracks up laughing so much she falls backwards into the water.

  As we’re splashing, and screaming, and laughing, I notice there really is no-one else here. The river is ours.

  Later, when we’re back in her car, our bodies dampening the seats, I think of Sal. Or the fact I haven’t thought of Sal. Not for hours. Not once.

  Layla

  Milo’s mum, Jen, has always been kind but firm — a potent combination. Somewhere along the way I realised it’s easier to say, ‘Sure, I’d love to come in for some mushroom risotto,’ rather than making up polite excuses. During primary school, she was the kind of mum the other mums envied for seeming so perfect. Every day, she flitted between canteen duty, working for The Little Bookshop and packing nutritious lunchboxes. My mum never tried to compete with her friend, just watched in glee as everyone else did. ‘We all have our ways,’ Mum’d say as she supervised me spreading Vegemite onto my bread before school, and a little on the kitchen bench. I wonder if Milo’s ever made his own lunch.