“I’m fine. Nothing to really injure here,” Isabella says self-deprecatingly, touching the younger McAllister’s face.
I watch Keats walk back to his position, his stance stiff as he runs a hand through his short, cropped hair. But with his eyes behind his dark sunglasses, I can’t read past the neutral set of his mouth.
“Sorry,” I say belatedly. “That’s 9-8 to us.”
“Nice,” Keats mouths to me, his sarcasm obvious despite not making a sound.
Mental note: try hitting him again next time.
Blake retrieves the ball and runs over to hand it to Penny who looks at it like it’s a severed head. “What do I do with this?” she asks.
Apparently, other than getting in our way, she also hasn’t been paying attention.
“It’s your turn to serve.” Blake must have the patience of a saint. Or he likes her because he seems totally okay with her cluelessness.
Penny puts the ball on her left hand to use her right to hit it over the net. A second later, the volleyball thumps against the back of my head. Talk about instant karma.
“Nine all,” Isabella says past a smile as Blake rolls the ball under the net to Keats. “Two more and we win.”
Keats walks to the service line, looking impassively at the three of us on the other side, probably wondering who to target. Is Penny hiding behind me? I thought it was obvious that she’s the weak link on our team. I shift my slightly parted legs, making sure I’m on the balls of my feet and ready to receive his serve. With the shit I’ve been having to put up with, thanks to the love triangle on the other side of the net, I need to win this game.
The right corner of Keats’ mouth turns up, making my legs wobble with the remembered touch of those lips. He tosses the ball up, draws back his right arm ready to strike, jumps and sends the volleyball hurtling towards Penny.
“Mine!” I yell, right arm already up and ready to smack that ball back into the other side of the court. My eyes track the volleyball as I jog backwards, totally focused on not letting them get ahead. I jump, the heel of my hand hitting the ball firmly back between Isabella and Byron. I see the lovebirds scramble to get to the shot as I land back down to the sand.
And that’s how I flatten Penny. I look up from the ground to find Keats extending his hand out to me. Everyone else is surrounding Penny who is clinging onto her ankle. There’s a grimace on her face while Byron tries to coax her to let him look at it. I slap away Keats’ hand and get to my feet unassisted.
“You’re dangerous on a volleyball court, Hay-gen,” he says, humour in his voice.
“It’s probably just sprained,” Byron tells Penny, putting five years of his unfinished Medical degree to use. “But you could have it x-rayed if you like. I’ll get some ice from the restaurant, and see if they have a first aid kit.”
“Sorry, Penny. I’ll go with you,” I offer since Byron and Isabella are booked to stay on the island until tomorrow evening.
Penny nods, still grimacing as she clings onto her ankle. Guilt stabs me as my eyes drop to the swelling.
“I didn’t take my car over so I can drive yours, Penny,” Keats offers.
“There’s a barge departing soon, mate,” Blake tells Keats after checking his watch. “If you hurry, you can make it on board. There’s a hospital at Redlands.”
“I’ll help you pack,” Isabella offers, holding Penny’s hand.
“Thanks, chick,” she says.
Forty minutes later, Penny, Keats and I are on the barge to the mainland in Penny’s Porsche. Our “patient” is reclining in the back with her leg up on the seat, Keats is behind the wheel and I’m riding shotgun.
As soon as we’re allowed to leave the vehicle, I make an excuse to get away from Keats. Weaving my way through the cars, I go up the narrow, steel stairs to the viewing deck above. I walk over to the rails and look at the wake of the ferry, letting the biting bay breeze whip my hair about my face.
I sense Keats beside me before I see him. He’s got his arms resting on the rail next to me, eyes still hidden behind his sunglasses. I straighten up, my body stiff with repressed annoyance. I don’t speak, undecided how much of my feelings to reveal to him. I don’t want him to know how much last night hurt me. But I’m also not letting him get away with using me as a surrogate for Isabella.
He opens his mouth, closes it, shifts his stance, takes off his sunglasses and concentrates on hooking it to the neck of his jumper. He leans forward, rests his forearms back on the rail, studies his hands, and finally, finally glances up at me.
He looks rough. Sleep-deprived red eyes, a five o’clock shadow and a greyish pallor. He puts a hand over his forehead and slowly runs it down his face.
“I fucked up. Last night.”
I nod, still unsure what to say to him.
“Having Isabella so close and with Byron…” He looks out at the bay beyond. “It’s driving me nuts.”
I keep my expression neutral—it’s well-practised so it hides the fact he’s just making what he did last night worse in my books.
“I don’t usually drink that much. That’s not a cop out. I totally take responsibility for my actions. But if I’d been sober, I would never have done what I did last night—wouldn’t even think of doing that to you. I don’t want to mess up what we have. You’re a good ‘mate’, Hay-gen.”
Ouch. Too bad he doesn’t mean the American meaning of “mate”.
Chapter 19
Early-August
With my parents the way they were, I never thought I’d be friends with anyone from their generation. But there’s something about Heather Radley McAllister that I connect with. And, surprisingly, it’s not her cute, misguided eldest son. In fact, I’m still
