Malaise Page 11

  Thank fuck for that.

  With a sigh of relief, I sit and scroll through the messages from Dad, my euphoric state diminishing with every word.

  Dad: Ring us.

  Your mother is worried. Nice work on the guilt card, Dad.

  Call now or I’ll phone the police. And say what? You threw your kid out and now you’re positive you fucked up?

  Your things are in the garage. Key is by the side gate.

  Well, at least that sorts the problem with my uniform. One night, and he’s done. One night. I shouldn’t feel this disappointment. It was to be expected, right? Everything I did led to this, so why the hell do I feel as though I wasn’t worth any real effort?

  I finish up and head out to find where Carver went, my phone still in my hand, while I try to work out what I’ll do from here. Den’s funeral is in four days. In all honesty, all I have to do is make it until then and after that? I guess the options are endless, if I’m not fussy. I just need somewhere cheap to stay for a couple of weeks so I can continue to save while living off my pay from the supermarket. What I’ve got should at least get me a train ticket out of here and a few nights somewhere cheap while I look for more work. All good and well if you don’t want to eat. Yeah, there’s that.

  “Something on your mind?”

  It’d be a bald-faced lie if I said I wasn’t disappointed to find Carver now has a shirt on. “Just messages from Dad.”

  “Yeah?” He shifts from where he’d been standing at the French doors that overlook the backyard, to the adjoining kitchen. “Like a coffee? Toast? We have muesli and possibly Cocoa Pops if you like?”

  “No coffee”—he draws his eyebrows up in shock—“and muesli would be great.”

  He moves around the room with an ease that shows he’s no stranger to the kitchen, and gathers up what’s required for my breakfast. “Can I ask what the messages said?”

  “In a nutshell, that my stuff is in the garage when I’m ready to get it.”

  Carver drops the spoon he’d been holding into the bowl with a loud clang, and places both palms on the counter. “Are you shitting me?”

  “Afraid not.” I move around him tentatively to pick up the container of muesli and pour some into the bowl. “It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not.” He slams the heel of his right hand down to get his point across. “Fuck’s sake, Meg. You’re still a fucking kid in the eyes of the law, and here they are throwing you out like yesterday’s trash.”

  I flinch at the venom in his words and focus on not spilling the milk as I pour it over the oaty mix. “I’m not a child, Carver. I can take care of myself.”

  “Like you did last night?” he snaps.

  I frown in an effort not to cry in frustration, and pick the bowl up to carry it over to the table. “Okay, so I screwed up. But do you have to keep rubbing it in my face?”

  He huffs out his nose and leans back against the edge of the bench as I cross to the adjoining dining room. “I’m not trying to rub it in. It’s just that….” He shakes his head, struggling with the words.

  “I’m young? I’m vulnerable? Or would you like to go with inexperienced?” He remains silent as I set the bowl down and take a seat. “Everybody’s got to start somewhere.”

  “And it’s not with milk after a night of heavy drinking,” Tanya helpfully supplies as she sweeps into the room.

  My bowl is removed from under my chin and carried to the kitchen before I can protest.

  “Have this, and I can guarantee the milk won’t be so fluid coming back up.”

  Carver remains in the same position the whole time Tanya buzzes around him, prattling something about how alcohol changes the proteins in milk, or whatever. I’m not really listening. There’s a whole other silent conversation going on in the room.

  He thinks I can’t do it.

  “…as neither of you are really listening, I’ll just go.”

  I snap back to Tanya to find her poised in the doorway, eyes flitting between the two of us. She frowns and sighs, shaking her head before she spins on her heel and disappears down the hall to hook a left into the lounge room.

  “I guess Cocoa Pops are out of the question then, too.” Aww, come on. He doesn’t even smile. No lilt of the lips, nothing.

  “If you can wait half an hour, I can whip up something better that doesn’t involve milk.”

  Intrigued, I rise from the table and head over to where he still stands, arms folded and a dark promise that this conversation isn’t over in his eyes.

  “Like what?”

  “Get me the butter from the fridge door.”

  I do as I’m told and set it down beside him.

  “Golden syrup from the pantry, and if you dig around in the back you might find some cooking chocolate.”

  “He draws and he bakes.”

  “Got a problem with it?” he asks, head down while he slices off a wedge of butter.

  “No. It’s kind of impressive, actually.”

  “Glad you’re so easily won over,” he snaps.

  I set the ingredients down as requested. The bastard refuses to look at me, even when I pointedly crook my neck to stare at him.

  “Pot, Megan,” he demands. “Under the stove.”

  I whip the cupboard open and push the pans aside to grab the only pot that I can see. “Is there a problem with me being here?” I straighten and set the pot down beside him. “Because if there is, just say so and I’ll walk.”

  “No problem,” he grinds out as he slaps the cut butter into the pot with more finesse than necessary. “None at all.”

  “Really? Because all you’ve done is remind me how naïve and childish I apparently am, and it’s really ramping up my self-confidence, which is just great considering the shitstorm I’m facing. I especially love the fact you make me feel like a burden, even though I never asked for you to intervene,” I sass.

  He heaves a sigh and drops the chocolate in his hand into the pot. “You’re not a child, Meg.”

  “You seem to like reminding me how young I am every chance you get though.”

  “Maybe I’m not reminding you,” he says as he snatches up the remaining chocolate and dumps it in the pot before squeezing a healthy dose of golden syrup in after. “Maybe I’m reminding myself.”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  “You reckon you’re a smart girl—work it out.” Carver turns his back and slams the pot down on the stovetop, cranking the dial around to half.

  I know what it sounds like it means, but whether or not that’s the intended message, I don’t know. “Do you want us to be… a thing?”

  “Depends what you classify as a thing.” His muscled arm is a stark contrast to the gentle stirring motion he makes.

  “Anything more than friends.” I cross my arms over myself and wait on his next move.

  He stirs the melting chocolate and butter slowly; his shoulders rise and fall in a steady rhythm as he breathes long and deep. Everything about his posture appears calm, collected.

  Which is why I yelp in surprise when he ditches the wooden spoon and whirls on me too fast for me to retreat. He slams both hands either side of my hips on the edge of the bench and leans in close, a small frown pinching at his brow.

  Carver swallows hard.

  I lean back, only to have him match me by moving forward.

  He licks his lips and drops his gaze to my mouth.

  I can’t breathe.

  “When’s your birthday, Meg?”

  “A little under a month.”

  The tip of his tongue sweeps a lazy trail along the ridge of his top teeth as he grins, the wolf ready to devour the lamb. “Less than four weeks and you turn eighteen.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Perfect.” And with that he’s gone as quickly as he approached. “I better not burn the chocolate.” He picks the spoon up and returns to stirring the pot—quite literally. “Could you pass over the Cocoa Pops?”

  With shaking hands I set the
container down on the bench beside him. His fingers brush mine as he picks it up, and then empties a pile into the pot. I stay rooted to the spot as he turns the heat off and mixes the ingredients together until he has a tacky mess on his spoon. Scraping the majority off, he holds what’s left out to me.

  “Lick it.”

  I take the offered spoon and hold it as he ducks around me to retrieve a rectangular tin and some baking paper. He looks over as he lines the tin and glances between the spoon and my mouth.

  “If you won’t have it, I will. Didn’t you ever lick the spoon when you baked with your mum as a kid?”

  “Mum and I never really did that kind of stuff together.”

  He hesitates with a spatula in hand and frowns at me. “Really? I thought everyone did that.”

  I shake my head and lick the back of the spoon. His hooded gaze tracks the sweep of my tongue.

  “Good?”

  “Yum,” I reply around a mouthful of wooden spoon.

  “Mmm.” He shakes his head and picks up the pot, upending the contents into the tin and pressing it down as I finish off the remnants on the spoon.

  He makes it halfway across the room toward the fridge with the slice tin balanced on one hand before the sound of the gate on the driveway being dragged open glues him to the spot. “Shit.”

  “Your dad?” I ask, dumping the spoon in the sink.

  “Yeah.” The slice tin is flung onto a shelf in the fridge so hard it hits the back and only refrains from careening back out because Carver shuts the door on it. “I thought he would be later than this.”

  Tanya comes speeding out of the lounge, swinging off the kitchen doorway with one hand as she flies into the room and over to the window that overlooks the drive. “Is that Dad?”

  “Yeah,” Carver replies, hands running frantically through his hair. “Change of plans, Meg: we’ll buy breakfast out.”

  “Go,” Tanya says. “I’ll tidy up the kitchen.”

  My heart rockets inside my chest, the unease in my gut no longer from my lack of food after alcohol. What the hell has them so freaked out?

  “We’ll duck out the laundry door. Grab your stuff.” Carver points back up the hall to his room.

  I run the few metres to his bedroom and rebound off the frame as I turn inside. Snatching up the bag of wet clothes from last night, I give my pockets a pat to make sure I have my phone and then turn to head back out when the rattle of the front door stops me dead.

  “What you cooking?” A deep, gruff voice calls out.

  “Something for later,” Carver replies. “You’re usually hungry after a night out.”

  The loud slap of what sounds like a hand to a shoulder precedes a chuckle. “Good boy. Where you going?”

  “Got a few errands to do,” Carver says flatly. “Anything you need while I’m out?” Any trace of the apprehension in his voice from mere seconds ago has long gone.

  “No, I’m good.” A pause. “You all right, girl?”

  “Yeah. Peachy, Dad,” Tanya answers. Although, unlike Carver, her fear remains.

  “You lying to me?” The jovial timbre has left their dad’s tone. “You know I don’t tolerate liars.”

  Silence… other than the loud tha-thump of my heart in my ears.

  “What you two hiding?”

  “Nothing, Dad,” Carver says.

  “You bullshitting me too, boy?”

  Fuck. What do I do? Should I walk out and take the heat, or stay here and listen to Tanya and Carver take a grilling for me?

  “Have I ever?”

  I daren’t move, daren’t breathe, waiting on the answer. Tension wracks the air.

  “No, you haven’t.” The airy friendliness is back in their father’s voice.

  I suck in a deep breath and sit carefully on the side of the bed. Heavy footfalls sound up the hallway, fast approaching the doorway. With stealth I didn’t know I possessed, I slip behind the open door and hold my breath.

  “Meg,” Carver whispers as he enters and shoves his boots on. “Where the fuck are you?”

  I step out of my hiding spot, yet the fear doesn’t subside seeing the sheer panic in Carver’s eyes.

  “We need to go, now.” He grips me by the upper arm and pushes me behind him as he edges to the door.

  Tanya’s voice drifts down the hall, followed by their father’s. From here it sounds as though they’re both at the dining table, but who would know for sure?

  Carver pulls me forward and turns us right into the hall, away from the others. Using his body as a shield, he guides us out the back door and toward the Falcon. I say nothing as we quickstep across the gravel, and he pulls the driver door open.

  “If he hears two doors close, he’ll be suspicious. Crawl across and lie down.”

  I get in, heart still lodged so firmly in my throat I wonder if it’ll ever find its way back to my chest or if this is the new normal. Carver slides onto the driver seat and shuts his door, quickly turning the car over and reversing at a moderate pace into the turning bay. We come to a stop at the gate, and he gets out to wrench it open.

  I don’t take a full breath until we’re several streets away.

  “Can I sit up now?”

  “Shit. Yeah, of course you can.”

  “What the fuck was that all about?” I rub the chill from my arms.

  He catches the movement in the corner of his eye and slides the heater control to the far end. “Dad isn’t that friendly to newcomers.”

  “You said everything about him was lies.”

  “They are, but I also said he’s not a guy you want to cross.”

  I frown, pulling my knees into my chest. “Why would he get angry with me?”

  “He wouldn’t,” Carver says simply as he slaps the indicator stick down and waits at a red light. “He’d fuck with you to get at me.”

  “You two don’t get along,” I observe.

  “You could say that.”

  “Why?”

  “Everyone’s got their reasons to be at odds with their parents, right?”

  Yeah, I guess they do. I pull my phone out from my pocket as we move on, and feel the bitter sting of rejection when I find no new messages from Dad, or moreover a single one from Mum.

  Why is Dad the one who’s doing all the contact? Does Mum even know what’s going on?

  “Where to?” Carver asks. “I’m kinda just heading toward town.”

  “Home.”

  He glances across as he drives, a frown displaying his confusion at my answer.

  “Dad will be at work, so maybe if I talk to Mum while he’s not there, there might still be a chance. You know?”

  He nods, his shoulders relaxing. “I like the sound of that.”

  “I’ll just need you to drop me at the end of the street, is all. I hope you’re not offended, it’s just that… well, they….”

  He chuckles, tossing his head back to let the glorious sound escape. “Babe. Don’t try to apologise. I’m used to everyone thinking about me like that, and honestly? Whatever gives you a better chance of sorting things out, I’m on board with.”

  “Thank you.” I reach my hand across the seat between us hopefully, and relish the warmth in my chest when he takes hold and wraps his fingers tight around mine.

  “I’ve got faith in you, okay? Whatever happens, remember that if you end up having to do this thing called life without your parents behind you, I have faith in you.”

  “I wish I knew why.”

  “I wish you could see why.”

  FOURTEEN

  Misty rain settles on the windscreen of the Falcon as Carver and I sit without speaking on the roadside. The wipers whirr as they clear the water, the gentle rumble of the engine idling saving us from utter silence.

  Who would have thought a simple conversation with your mother could be this difficult? This terrifying?

  Who would have thought a mother and daughter could even get to this point?

  “I guess I should go get it done.”

&
nbsp; “I’ve got all the time in the world if you want to wait a few more minutes.” Carver twists in his seat and reaches across to sweep the hair off my face. “Bit of advice: don’t build it up to be more than what it is. It’s one moment in your whole life, a few minutes in the day. It’s not an unclimbable mountain, or a river that’s too wide to cross. It’s a conversation with your mum, and if it goes bad, then so what? You try again another day.”

  Where the fuck did this man come from? He’s the voice of reason when I need it most. Is this your doing, Den?

  “You’re right.” I repeat what he said over and over in my mind, steeling my resolve. “It’s the blink of an eye in the grand scheme of things.”

  “Look at me.”

  I turn and meet his gaze, immediately confident with the conviction in his eyes.

  “Keep your cool, and don’t hide how you feel, okay?” He shuffles on the bench seat so he’s close enough to hold my face in both of his hands, the warmth of his palms on my jaw bringing comfort. “I have faith in you. Remember that.”

  “Okay.” I nod, my face still in his hold.

  His eyes flit between mine, and my lips, before he lets go and slides back across the seat to rest his back on the door. “Go. Sort this out with your mum.”

  The drizzle hits my skin in tiny pinpricks as I step out of the car and draw a deep breath. The light rain dampens my hair; Tanya’s clothes that I wear aren’t quite enough to keep the cold from bringing goose bumps to the surface of my flesh. I cross my arms over my chest and walk the short distance to my parents’ house—my so-called home.

  As ridiculous as it seems to do so, I knock on the door.

  Mum answers within seconds, perfectly coiffed and scarily resembling the woman she was before all this happened. She can’t have come right that fast? One day? “Meg.” She does nothing to hide her surprise.

  “Mum.”

  “Are you here to get your things? Dad said he left them out in the garage in case we weren’t home.”

  Fucking liar. I swallow the vile words I have for my father, and nod toward the house. “Can I come in?”

  “Of course.” She frowns and backs away, rambling something about the weather as I step into the living room and physically reel at the sight.