“Parking lot”. The Americanism reminds me of his roots, and the cowboy-hat-wearing lion on his chest. Two months and I still haven’t seen it in person.
“Where are we going?” I ask him.
“Somewhere a lot quieter. I need to make sure you can make the car go forward and back and turn before we have to worry about other drivers.” He indicates left, checks his blind spot, then changes lanes. I know all this because he tells me. “So, you heard from Isabella recently?”
I was wondering when he’d get around to asking about her. I look at the clock on his dash. An hour and a half since he knocked on my door—a record for him.
“Yes. She’s excited about her flight home in the second week of July. She’s dying to see the church and to get the venue sorted. Those hotels are still fully booked for the Saturday she wants. Plus, she and Byron have to take that couples counselling thing that the church makes people do.”
“I can’t believe I’ll see her next month.” His voice sounds upbeat.
Ouch. Like the rest of us, bar Byron, Keats hasn’t seen Isabella in person since she left again for London last September. But did he have to sound so excited about seeing her again?
“Well, expect to see a lot of her. She also wants to go to Moreton Island to spend some quality time with the bridal party.”
“Including me?”
The soft way he asks this breaks my heart and stirs new resentment inside me towards the bride for breaking his. I can tell from his halting way of querying about Isabella that it hurts his pride to sound so needy.
“You are part of the bridal party.”
He nods and concentrates on the road, my guess, a lot more than he needs to.
“Did she ask about me at all?” he inquires after a spell of silence.
I hesitate before I tell him something that would just encourage him. “She asked how you were doing. If you still seem mad at her for what happened with Byron.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said you’ve been helping me with the wedding. She seemed relieved.”
He releases a breath I didn’t realise he was holding. “Thanks, Jess.”
Goosebumps instantly cover my arm at the sound of my name on his lips. It takes me a second to restore my air of nonchalance. “What are partners in crime for?”
“Yeah.” He snickers, totally clueless of the shift in my thoughts. “Which do you think would get to Isabella more next time she sees me—me with a date like I’m totally over her, or single like I’m saving myself for her?”
Personally, I’d prefer single and totally over her. “If you want to be friends with her first, she needs to get the you’re-not-interested vibe.” Like you project so well with me. “Otherwise, she won’t let you near her.”
“Hm.” He nods thoughtfully like I’ve given him a great idea.
Why am I giving him advice gold?
“With a date it is, then. Might even make her jealous,” he says with a relaxed grin as he comes to a gradual stop at a red light. “So, good thing Neil’s not the jealous type, huh? He okay with you hanging out with me all day?”
“He’s fine.” My voice sounds disappointingly tight to my ears. I’ve always valued my ability to bullshit my way in and out of any situation. It took me years and plenty of heartache to master, after all.
“You didn’t tell him about today, did you?” He mistakes my silence while I’m coming up with an answer as a yes. “Tell me about him.”
“He, um, works in my building. Similar height to you. Short brown hair, brown eyes. He works in public relations.”
“Hm. So does Deano.” I can’t read Keats’ tone—is he surprised that I’ve got real details about my so-called booty call guy? “You remember Richard Dean?” He indicates left and enters a new housing estate in Cannon Hill.
I make a non-descript sound in the affirmative and leave it at that before I disparage one of his close friends. It’s probably one of the most diplomatic moments of my life.
“You been seeing this guy long?” Keats asks, indicating before he parks the car on the side of a street of huge houses with small yards.
“No.” The less I say, the fewer lies I’ll have to remember. “Where are we?”
“This place is pretty quiet on weekends. Good for practising getting the car to move.”
I look around. The curtain of the house we’re in front of flutters and its owner looks at us with a lot of curiosity.
“Won’t these people mind that we’re going round and round their streets? They might think we’re being dodgy and casing out the place.”
“In an Audi? I doubt it. Besides, these people are my neighbours. Or at least they were until my parents divorced and I moved back to Oklahoma with Dad. I’m renting out my house here at the moment.”
I check out the estate with renewed interest. This looks like an exclusive neighbourhood to buy a home in—big bucks to claim a spot, for sure. It’s totally out of my price range, so no chance of being neighbours with Keats even if that wasn’t a creepy concept.
“Actually, we’re in front of it right now. I’m probably freaking out my tenants, making them think this is an unscheduled inspection.”
We look at the two-storey home with the curtain that moved. Modern construction with a spacious veranda on the upper floor and a light-coloured rendered façade—it looks too huge to be a mere bachelor pad. One of the two-car garage doors is open revealing a late model BMW 4WD. Even his renters own a luxury car. I so don’t have a chance of residing here. I can’t believe Keats had this house before his parents divorced four years ago—he’s only twenty-eight now.
“They could keep the lawn neater,” Keats comments. “Maybe I’ll have a chat with the real estate agent.”
I suppress a cringe. My dad didn’t believe in mowing the grass unless the council threatened
