“Yeah. I thought if Byron ever came here I would make him fall madly in love with me with that prop.” There’s a hard edge to my voice as I say this, so I walk away and put a newly framed photograph of Jillie and me on my bookshelf, next to an old picture of Isabella and me in our school uniforms in Year 9.
“Shit. Hay-gen, look, I’m sorry I misread your intentions.” He walks up to me, placing a gentle hand on my upper arm to turn me around. I look at his hand near my elbow till he retracts it back to his side. “That was an asshole thing to compare you to Jada.”
When I look back up at him, my expression is guarded. “It was.”
He nods. “I’m just worried about Mom. She hasn’t been herself since the divorce. And I’m not sure she’s ready to dip her toe back in the water yet. You didn’t see what she was like right after Dad told her he was dying, and that he was leaving her—almost in the same breath.”
“She’s happier.”
“Yeah, for now. I know my mother. She’s not ready to get back on the saddle yet. She can’t take another big rejection, Hay-gen. It’ll kill her.”
“So would grieving at home all day. Heather is a vital woman in her early fifties. She still has time to do something else with her life other than look after her two grown sons while mourning the man who left her for another woman. Hell, it doesn’t matter if your mum was eighty or a hundred. The fact that she wants to make a change is good enough reason to do so.”
Keats releases a jagged sigh and looks down again at the photographs in his hand. “I haven’t seen Mom this happy in four years.” He’s quiet for a few seconds, his eyes never leaving his mother’s smiling face. He shakes his head then looks up at me. “Could you please get her to at least change her profile photo?”
I roll my eyes. “It can’t be that bad.”
“Oh, it’s bad. Check it out for yourself. I’m sure she’s already invited you to friend her.”
I pick up my phone and access the internet—I don’t want Keats to see Miz Peggy pop up on my tablet. A minute later, I’m logged in to my account and sure enough I have a friend request waiting for me from Heather Radley. Her shiny dark bob looks gorgeous with the striking red lipstick she has on. The photo is cropped a few centimetres down her cleavage. But since she must’ve been wearing a strapless top, it looks like she’s topless in the shot.
“See what I mean? She’ll probably get friend requests from all kinds of perverts.”
I begin to dial. Heather does look like a nudist, albeit a glamorous one, in the shot.
Keats sighs in relief. “Thank you.”
“Hi, Heather. I’ve seen your friend request. Thanks. How are you finding Facebook? Yeah. Look, you look gorgeous in your profile photo but Keats is a little bit embarrassed that you look topless in it, so maybe you could crop it a little lower so we can see your top? Yeah. He’s here now.” I look at Keats who has a horrified expression on his face. He is madly waving his hand at me, trying to get me to stop telling his mother of his presence. “Your mother’s asking if you’re coming home for dinner because she’s made your favourite.”
“Um, yeah, I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
I relay the message to Heather who starts talking again in my ear. “Yeah, I know. Seriously?” I look Keats up and down. “I wouldn’t have guessed. Okay. I’ll talk to you later.”
“What did she say?”
“She said she’ll think about changing her profile pic.”
He narrows his eyes at me, knowing I’m hedging. “Seemed like she said more.”
“Your dinner’s getting cold.” He begins to nod with relief, so I add, “And for someone who breast fed till he was three, she said you’re awfully touchy about her breasts.”
I don’t think Keats could’ve looked more shocked, or red with embarrassment. He opens his mouth as if to retort, but closes it again when he sees that I’m having a hard time stopping myself from laughing out loud. Honestly, being friends with Heather is great on so many levels.
“If Mom gets hurt, I’m holding you personally responsible,” he finally says, the threat hard to take seriously since even he doesn’t seem so sure of himself for a change.
“Uh-huh.” I walk him to my door. “You know, Keats, I’ve been practising using the driving game and reading up on my road rules. I’ll see you on Saturday for my first driving lesson in your car.”
Panic flits across his gorgeous features at the mention of me driving and his car in the same sentence. Then a relieved grin brightens up his features. “No can do, Hay-gen. Work’s sending me down to Melbourne this weekend, then we have the bank’s golf tournament the weekend after.”
“What about after work?” I try to bargain.
“I finish late most evenings, and I wouldn’t have the energy to teach you to drive anyway. I can barely fit in a swim once a week.” He shakes his head. “Best I can do is early June.”
Disappointment hits me like an invisible wall. I won’t get to hang out with him for three whole weeks? I suddenly get the urge to ask him to stay for dinner. Wait, I’m not wearing a bra and my fridge is filled with pre-packed rations. I cross my arms over my breasts again.
He can’t stay.
“That’s fine,” I say with a practised shrug that should make him think I care very little either way about his plans. “I’ve just remembered I was doing something with Neil, anyway.” Total lie. I barely know a Neil.
Keats raises a brow at
