“Let’s go. Grab breakfast.”
“Are you going to let me drive on the highway today?”
“No—you’re still not doing your head checks and changing lanes smoothly. But you can have another half hour of driving after breakfast.”
I falter, unsure whether I should protest him reneging on his promise about driving on faster roads.
“It’ll be the best breakfast you’ve ever had,” he adds, seeing my hesitation.
He takes the keys off me and leads us back down to his car. I guess he’s driving. But with the promise of “the best breakfast” ever, I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt.
“Where are we going?” I ask when we’re on Wynnum Road heading east.
“You’ll see.”
The ride falls into a comfortable silence while the car’s Bose sound system plays a Train album. After a while, the opening strains of Drive by comes on and I find myself really understanding its lyrics for the first time. My thoughts wander to my most recent sexual encounter—my only sexual encounter since I hooked up at last year’s New Year’s Eve party. I’m so glad my ten-month drought has finally been broken by the very fine Neil McReedy whose name makes me smile just thinking about it. He’s cute, he’s fun, the sex was good but…there was something missing.
Do I wish it was Keats ringing my bell repeatedly overnight? Hell, yes. Do I want to pass up on the chance to have multiple orgasms with a nice man? No. And maybe Neil will grow on me—especially since he’s got just enough naughty in him in bed.
The click of the indicator brings my attention back to my surroundings as Keats steers the car into a McDonald’s drive-thru at Capalaba.
“This is the best breakfast ever?”
“I’m not done. What are you having?” He indicates the menu board.
Oh, God. I haven’t eaten Maccas since I started my food programme. My stomach tightens in excitement, my mouth watering. It’s Mother’s Milk—the food of my childhood—a treat before Mum left, a staple after she did. My stomach grumbles before I can say, “No thanks.”
“Hit me with the sausage and egg McMuffin meal and some pancakes. With water.” I sound resigned, even to myself.
Keats grins like a devil who’s managed to snag another soul. “I’ll have the same, but with coffee.”
When our order’s in a huge brown paper bag and a cardboard cup holder on my lap, he gets back on the road. We pass by the sleepy suburb of Birkdale as the black car glides over the asphalt. Reaching a small roundabout T-intersection, Keats turns left and I begin to see glimpses of Moreton Bay beyond the houses that line both sides of the narrow, tree-lined street. Down the hill, the spit ends in a giant roundabout with a park in the middle. Today, there’s only a smattering of cars already there. Keats follows the road and stops by a wooden jetty sticking out into the sparkling water of the bay.
“Here we are. Wellington Point.” He looks out at the magnificent view beyond and smiles before letting himself out of his vehicle. I open my car door and a second later, he’s there to take the food off me, hand extended to help me climb out of the Audi. “Come on.”
I ignore his hand, not wanting him to realise how heavy I am, and push off my seat with my usual lack of grace. I follow Keats to the jetty as the fresh bay breeze greets me. The soft rays of the sun promise a beautiful day ahead while the cloudless cerulean sky meets the watery horizon like they’re the best of friends.
“Good morning,” an old man fishing off the jetty says with a friendly nod as we walk past him and his bucket that has two slimline fish swimming inside it. “Whiting,” he tells me with a smile.
I nod, mumbling a thanks while I quicken my pace to catch up to Keats who is almost at the end of the otherwise deserted jetty. When he gets to the very end, he sets down our paper bags of food on the wooden slats, laying out a blanket I didn’t realise he was carrying. I recognise it as the covering I used at the drive-in a few weeks ago. Once the makeshift picnic blanket is laid out, Keats places our food in the middle, then folds himself cross-legged on one edge of the cloth. He looks up at me with an easy smile afterwards, proud of himself.
“This is the best breakfast ever?” I ask as I sit myself across from him. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, self-conscious of my spare tyre because the waist of my skirt is surely punctuating my belly fat.
“Yeah. Great view, comfort food and great company. What more can you ask for?”
A side of making out would be good, I think, but I’m tickled that he likes having me around.
A seagull squawks, surprising me and we watch it land on the water and float on the gentle ripples on the surface. A couple of windsurfers provide a splash of colour against the glassy blue bay as they race across the water. Beyond them in the distance is a long dark green island with a great white patch on one end—perhaps the sand dune of Moreton Island?
Keats is right about the view.
“I guess it’s pretty good,” I concede, and it seems my reluctant answer is enough for him because he smiles and takes our food out of the paper bag.
Halfway through my hash brown, Keats breaks our comfortable silence with, “I’m sorry about this morning. You’re right—it’s been six months since…Going without sex till I get Isabella back seems like the right thing to do, but my penis is starting to hate me.”
When I look at him, he motions around his mouth and I realise I have hash brown crumbs on my face. As usual, these flecks fall on my chest as soon as I dislodge them. I pat those off too
