Remind Me How This Ends Page 7

  I lean in, brushing my lips against his to remind him I’m not broken. His hand quickly gets lost in my hair, then he traces the edge of my eyebrow, my chin, my collarbone. Eventually he pulls away and it’s like he’s been injected with bliss.

  But, despite the taste of his mouth against mine, the after is already seeping back into me. I don’t want to give in so I curl against him, fighting it back down, trying to fill myself with as much of this moment as possible.

  Before it disappears and the darkness in me rises again.

  Before I remember I’m broken.

  Milo

  Mum says I need to be careful. ‘Layla isn’t the same any more,’ she whispers, like Layla might tap her on the shoulder. ‘She’s going through a lot, and you should focus on your future instead of complicating things with a girl who’s got a boyfriend.’

  I mutter, ‘There’s nothing going on, it’s Layla, she’s doing fine. I am focusing on my future and I have a girlfriend.’

  That’s when Mum serves up the raised eyebrow. Her knowing look. Mother’s intuition, she calls it. I reckon it’s an excuse to stick her beak where it’s not wanted.

  ‘I saw something,’ she says. ‘A spark.’

  This woman needs a new hobby.

  ‘You’re way off, Mum. She thinks of me like a brother.’

  ‘I saw what I saw. You stayed in Durnan for a reason, Milo — to work out your life. It’s the only reason your father and I aren’t pushing you more, and I don’t want you to blow it. Do you know how shocked people are when they realise you’re not studying yet? With those marks, I barely understand it myself.’

  ‘I’ll get there. And my marks weren’t that good.’

  ‘They were good enough to do something great with.’ Mum sighs. ‘It’s a waste, that’s what it is. Layla’s rebuilding her life, while you have to start a brand-new one. I’m not sure if those goals mix well. I love her, you know that, and you two have always been close, but —’

  ‘We’re mates,’ I say, cutting her off. ‘That’s why it’s easy. Stop seeing things that aren’t there.’

  My phone rattles on the chest of drawers. I check it. A message from Sal. She’s free if I want to talk.

  I hold the phone up in front of Mum’s face and nudge her towards the bedroom door. ‘Anyway, that concludes our session, Dr Phil. I’m talking to my girlfriend now — because I have one. Shall we do this again at the same time next week? Or not?’

  I close the door before calling Sal back.

  ‘Hey, stranger,’ she chirps. ‘Sorry I missed your call. We’ve got about five minutes before I head out with everyone.’

  Five whole minutes. Everything about Sal’s life is scheduled right now, even the phone calls.

  ‘Okay, so you know what I’ve been doing,’ she says. ‘Uni, party, repeat. Now talk me through yours. I want to know everything.’

  ‘It is an exciting life I lead,’ I say dryly. ‘Had a day off so I slept in. Mum’s on my case, again.’

  ‘Of course. Then what?’

  There’s no point in lying. It’ll only give power to Mum’s stupid theory about me and Layla.

  ‘Then I went to the river.’

  Sal gasps. I knew she would so I almost didn’t tell her.

  ‘Did you swim?’ she asks.

  ‘I swam.’

  ‘But, like, where you couldn’t touch the bottom?’

  ‘Yep. Jumped out of a tree into the water too.’

  ‘Milo, that’s huge!’

  ‘So everyone keeps telling me.’ I pause, thinking back to Mum’s lecture about Layla. She couldn’t be more wrong. ‘Anyway, a family friend — well, an old next-door neighbour actually — is back in town and that’s who I went to the river with.’

  ‘No way! You’ve got a mate to spend time with. Sweet. What’s his name?’

  His name? Wasn’t expecting that. ‘Oh, the thing is, he is actually a —’

  ‘Go away, you devil!’ she squeals.

  ‘Sal? You there?’

  ‘Sorry, it’s Woody,’ she laughs. ‘It’s impossible to have a private conversation in this place.’

  ‘He’s there? Right now?’

  ‘Him and about half of uni. They say hi — hang on, Woods! — we’re all going to dinner. Anyway, what were we talking about? Oh yeah, the river. I’m proud.’

  We chat for another minute before our time’s dried up. For some reason, I don’t clear up the miscommunication. It would’ve been simple to explain — ‘The thing is, my family friend is actually a girl called Layla who I’ve known since we were kids. But don’t worry, she’s a bit of a pain and there’s nothing going on’ — but I don’t. I’m not sure why. I wonder if Sal’s ever done the same to me. Lied by omission.

  As we say goodbye, Sal tells me she misses me. For the first time in a few days, despite Woody sounding like a jackass in the background, I believe her. Which is why it’s so screwed up when I hear myself telling her I’ve thought about her all day.

  I hang up and all of a sudden I want to press rewind on the week. Go back to missing Sal, my mates and my old life, even if it makes me feel like I’m sinking in quicksand.

  Go back to Layla being nothing but a memory.

  * * *

  Layla: Hi

  Layla: It’s Lay, btw (not sure if you saved my number)

  Milo: Hey, stalker

  Layla: Ha!

  Layla: So, I’ve been thinking …

  Milo: Dangerous

  Layla: If I want to survive in Durnan, I need a plan

  Milo: Go on …

  Layla: #1 Bag out people lapping the main street. Snacks compulsory

  Layla: #2 Eat body weight in gelato. Choc-chip, peanut butter, salted caramel, repeat

  Layla: #3 Have a treehouse party

  Milo: GO ON …

  Layla: #4 Do whatever it takes to forget my sad little life. PS: Your shout ’cos I’m broke. The clucking A-holes at Joe’s still haven’t called

  Layla: #5 Skinny-dip at the river

  Layla: Kidding. (Or am I?)

  Milo: You’ve seen me naked anyway

  Milo: Perve

  Layla: Once was enough, ha ha

  Layla: PS: I bumped into Trenticles down the street. Swear he talked about his calf muscles for 10 mins

  Milo: It’s official: I’m the better Dark brother

  Layla: Time will tell. Night, MD

  * * *

  Layla: Hey! Me again. Hope your week’s good. Clucking great/scary news: got an interview at Joe’s!

  Milo: Eggcellent

  Layla: Should I tell them raw chicken grosses me out? So foul

  Milo: Fowl …

  Layla: You cluckhead

  Milo: Nah, I’m a chick magnet

  Layla: Go lay an egg

  Milo: Still hate you

  Layla: Hate you more

  * * *

  Layla: Morning! Miss me?

  Milo: Cluck off

  Milo: Hope the interview goes eggs-traordinarily well

  * * *

  Layla: Dying, dying, dead. Layla’s time and place of death: Monday, 10 am, job interview, Joe’s Charcoal Chicken Shop

  Milo: Bet you smashed it. (Like an egg. I’m the worst)

  Layla: His wife hated me. Said my hair was pink. (You really are)

  Milo: Your hair is pink

  Layla: Didn’t sound like she enjoyed my pink hair

  * * *

  Layla: Argh! I got the job! WTF?!

  Milo: Of course you did! We should celebrate

  Layla: Yeah? Free on Sat?

  Milo: I’m in

  Layla

  Milo is drawing circles in the dirt when I get to the river, tubs of gelato in hand.

  ‘Chocolate brownie for you, sir.’

  ‘More gelato? Well, cheers to your clucking new job.’

  I scoop out a chunk of salted-caramel gelato and plant myself down next to him, keeping a decent enough space that our shoulders and hips and toes aren’t touching, without being too far a
way that it seems like I’m avoiding being close. It’s all so coordinated, but I’m conscious of keeping things safe. I figure enough days have passed for whatever the weirdness zapping between us for a microsecond was to dissolve and float off like a dandelion clock in the wind, but I don’t want to take any risks.

  Milo swaps sweeping circles in the dirt for shovelling gelato into his mouth while scrolling through his phone, his thumb flicking to its own beat.

  ‘Dude. You’re being that guy.’

  ‘Huh?’

  I point at his phone, then at me. ‘Hello? Rude. How are you?’

  ‘My bad. Sorry. Cool news about the job. Very cool.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess. Really need the money so …’ I watch him steal another glance at his phone. ‘Okay, what’s up?’

  ‘What?’

  I raise an eyebrow.

  ‘Bad habit,’ he says, tucking his phone into his pocket. ‘So when’s your first day?’

  I’m about to launch into an explanation, but pause. ‘You’re dying to check it again, aren’t you?’

  ‘Nah, I’m good.’

  ‘Please. Show me what’s going on.’

  ‘Bossy.’ Shaking his head, he passes me the phone.

  On the screen is a pretty girl in a bikini with her arm wrapped around a guy in board shorts. Their mouths are frozen into two mammoth grins. I zoom in on the shot. The sides of their faces are pressed together and his hand is grazing her hip. They look like a Diet Coke ad, all fresh and light and giddy with laughter on a scorching summer’s day.

  ‘Who are they?’ I ask. ‘And why are we ogling them? Context, please.’

  ‘That’s Woody — he studies law and has already kissed more than thirteen girls since Orientation Week.’

  I snort. ‘Interesting bio.’ I zoom in closer. ‘Cute. Bit jocky.’ More zoom. ‘Whoa, he has a nipple piercing!’

  ‘What?’ Milo clambers in for a better look. ‘Jesus. So … that’s Sal next to the walking nipples.’

  ‘Really? I wouldn’t have recognised her.’ I zoom in again. ‘She’s such a babe now. You never told me that.’

  He shrugs, snatching the phone back to keep scrolling. ‘They’re kinda close, right? This guy is all over everyone in the photos, but she’s always with him.’

  ‘They’re friends.’

  ‘That’s what she says.’ He doesn’t sound convinced.

  ‘Let’s buy you some time while we sort this out. How are you on the texts?’

  He shrugs. ‘Alright.’

  ‘No … the texts. Alright’s not gonna cut it, MD.’

  I take the phone back, open up his messages and start typing. He grabs at it, but I wriggle out of his grasp and finish writing my masterpiece.

  I show him the message. ‘Hot, right?’

  ‘You came up with that? Just then?’

  ‘Some of my finest work.’ I press send. ‘Sal won’t give that guy another thought.’

  ‘Did you just …’ Milo’s jaw nearly hits his knees. ‘You sent that to my girlfriend?’

  ‘Yeah, but you get to take all the credit. But if you ask me —’

  ‘I’m not asking for anything!’

  ‘— it’s still not enough. You have to visit her. Make a scene. Long-distance sounds hard, but you’re focusing on this random nipple guy too much. She couldn’t come to you, right? So go to her.’

  ‘I have a little something called work.’

  ‘Get Trenticles to cover your shifts.’

  Milo scoffs.

  ‘Go up for one night then! There’s the bus, although they only have like one stupid time a day, or you could road-trip it. I’d loan you my car, but Kurt’ll probably need it for stuff. Any other ideas?’

  ‘Not really. There is the family work car … it’s sort of mine and Trent’s, but —’

  ‘Perfect! Ask him.’

  ‘Nah.’ His brow furrows; he’s pissed off at himself for letting me find out about the car. ‘He’d never let me borrow it.

  ‘In that case you’ll need an alibi for when it goes MIA.’

  ‘Familiar with the phrase “grand theft auto”?’

  ‘Think of it more as a little white lie.’

  ‘I can’t drive.’

  ‘Come on, there are toddlers in this town who can drive. Who in Durnan can’t drive?’

  He bounces his thumbs on his chest.

  I fail to hide my smirk. ‘Wow. Just … wow. Okay, Romeo, I’m sure a driver can be arranged for you. But just for the record, I will be paying you out for quite some time about this.’ I pause, unsure whether to say the next words on my tongue, but they blurt out before I’m sure whether I’m doing the right or wrong thing. ‘I can probably drive you there if you’re stuck, like do a road trip sort of thing.’

  Milo’s eyes widen.

  ‘As a favour,’ I add. ‘You and Sal will owe me forever when you’re married with triplets and I’m living alone in a basement with a pet ferret. But if you’re worried about me being a third wheel … I mean, if it’d be weird to have me tagging along …’

  ‘Nah, course not.’ Milo runs his hands through his hair. ‘I’ll think about it. I reckon it might be better to plan something for later, you know? Do it properly.’

  I poke at my gelato. ‘Up to you. But sometimes you’ve gotta paint outside the lines, dude.’

  I hear a crack as he breaks a stick in half.

  ‘Like, if you were my boyfriend and you pulled off a romantic gesture like that …’ My voice trails off.

  ‘What?’

  ‘What?’ It takes me a second to catch up with what I’ve said: if you were my boyfriend. ‘I mean, if my boyfriend did this for me … I’d be blown away.’

  ‘Right … yeah, cool.’

  Milo’s phone buzzes. He scans it once, twice, then grunts with surprise.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask, trying to peep over his shoulder. ‘Sal again?’

  He hesitates, then passes me the phone.

  ‘Dude.’ I whistle. ‘You owe me so bad.’

  Saved by the text message.

  Milo

  My mind hasn’t stopped racing all week, but for once it’s all good stuff. I’d say things are back to normal with Sal, but they’re not. They’re better than normal. We’ve been texting non-stop ever since the message. My phone is pasted to my hand; I’m addicted.

  After turning off my bedside lamp, I scroll through my phone to reread Sal’s texts. Damn. Layla knows how to get a girl’s attention. She could run courses for guys like me.

  Last time we spoke, Sal told me she’s going to have a quiet one this coming weekend so she can catch up on all the things she’s let slide during the first six weeks of uni. I’ve never pulled off a surprise before. I’m not that guy, the one who orchestrates big gestures. Even Sal’s birthday presents have involved her input — a clue, a hint, a straight-up request.

  Her voice softened when she said she was happy that I’m taking the time to work out what I want to do, but she misses me, apparently, and wants us to Skype more. My stomach wobbled — guilt maybe? — when she said I seemed more like myself again, and whatever I was doing I should keep doing it.

  I still haven’t corrected her on the ‘family friend’ issue, mainly because I don’t want it to sound like something it’s not. If there was any weirdness with Layla — and I’m still not sure there was — then it’s disappearing … no, it’s gone, and I don’t want to do anything to throw things out again. Not over nothing. Not when everything is going well.

  I should’ve gone to sleep an hour ago, but my brain isn’t cooperating. I’m back online and lost in everyone else’s lives. Halfway between sniggering at the comments on BuzzFeed and rolling my eyes at a long-winded status update from Murph, the master of online slacktivism, I notice Woody has been tagged in more photos on Sal’s page again.

  I tell myself to stop being jealous. It’s nothing.

  Don’t click, don’t click, don’t click.

  I rarely take my own advice.

  Wo
ody’s profile has exploded with new photos since Layla and I pored over it. He’s updated his main picture three times since then; in all of them, his nose is just as burnt, his hair just as messy. Sal has liked the photo, but so have one hundred and seventeen other sheep.

  I stare at the endless stream of partying, mates and girls until all the images blur into one ginormous mess.

  Shouldn’t have clicked.

  * * *

  Milo: You up?

  Layla: Yeah. Hi

  Milo: Hi. I’m in

  Layla: ?

  Milo: For the road trip

  Layla: OH MY GOD! Yes!

  Milo: Tomorrow after I finish work? It’s last minute, but Trent’s away — we can take his work car

  Layla: Sweet! TGIF road trip! I have work training at Joe’s on Sat arvo so need to be back by 2, OK?

  Milo: Done. Get some sleep, driver

  Layla: Forgot it’s past your bedtime, grandpa

  Layla

  We jolt to a stop outside my house, straining against our seatbelts. I’m still adjusting to driving Trent’s work car.

  ‘There’s just someone I’ve got to see real quick before we leave,’ I tell him. ‘Don’t talk to anyone, okay? Or do anything. Just wait here.’

  Milo raises his arms above his head like he’s about to be arrested. ‘But I was planning on having tea and scones with your dodgy drug-dealing neighbours. Joking.’

  ‘You’re such a snob.’

  This is why I can’t tell people I live here. Not that he’s wrong.

  I snake my way up the driveway, passing the tangle of garden that’s so overgrown it’s creeping onto the concrete. The lawn is dry as straw and almost as yellow. None of us have been keeping up with Mel’s chore roster.

  ‘Hello?’ I call out as I open the front door. Only the whirr of the fridge replies. ‘Kurt, you home, babe? Anyone?’

  When no-one answers, I head for the bedroom. Kurt’s clothes are strewn on the floor next to our unmade bed, and my make-up is scattered all over the chest of drawers.