“You look nice,” he says like I’ve confused him. “Ready to drive?”
I nod and slide in behind the flat-bottomed steering wheel. I study him before I turn on the engine. “What are you doing here?”
He shrugs. “Went for a drive—my car seems to know the route to your place.”
“Was Sofie busy tonight?”
He shrugs again.
Good enough for me. I start the car. “Where to?”
“Let’s go over the Story Bridge,” he instructs. “Then down Anne Street.”
I pay attention to the road. Brisbane streets at 8 p.m. on a Tuesday night, even this close to the CBD, are relatively quiet. But there are lots of one-way traffic and lane changes required in the city centre. I’m still new enough to driving that I can’t chat when going over roads that I’m not too familiar with.
Keats guides me along the river on Coronation Drive. The streetlamps on the opposite bank provide picturesque orange reflections on the dark water of the Brisbane River to our left. A few turns later, we come to a large roundabout with Keats directing me to take the Mt Coot-Tha exit.
“It’s sixty along here, but watch your speed. It’ll feel a lot faster, believe me.”
The road up the mountain to the scenic lookout is steep and winding, and in some parts narrow. I check the speed a few times as the car glides through the dark night and my ears pop with the altitude. The view to my left is breathtaking—beyond the scraggly trees and mesh fencing, the whole city of Brisbane is lit up like a frozen firework explosion.
“Watch the road,” Keats warns as the car veers in the direction that has caught my attention.
I mumble an apology while I try very hard to keep my eyes on the darkness cut only by the headlights of the Audi and the odd car coming down the mountain on the opposite lane.
“You booked your driving test yet?” he asks.
“Uh-huh. Monday next week.”
Keats doesn’t say anything beside me, so I sneak a quick sideways glance to check what he’s doing. A muscle in his jaw tics before he says, “That’s soon.”
So is the wedding. We’re eleven days out, and he’s still obviously pining after the bride.
I slow the car when we near the summit of Mt. Coot-tha. Ahead, I spot the scenic lookout area with its restaurant, souvenir shop and viewing platform.
Cars line the side of the road with people unloading huge telescopes from the backs of their vehicles, then trekking up the hill, lugging their equipment.
Turning left at the roundabout, we survey the official parking area but there’s nowhere to leave the car, so we keep going until we have done a three-sixty and find ourselves approaching the same roundabout again.
“Must be some cosmic event tonight,” Keats surmises. “Let’s try another spot. Turn right here.”
The exit in that direction is dark but there are cars parked on the side of the road. The narrow fare way is bordered by gravelly stopping bays, beyond which are trees interspersed enough to show glimpses of the city below. We keep going up the road till there aren’t any more cars in sight. The dark, isolated location makes the hair on my arms stand. Isn’t this the setting for countless urban legends about people getting hacked to pieces?
“Park there.” Keats indicates the other side of the road. “Signal and slow down, do a U-ey, then crawl the car to the shoulder. Let’s park with the back facing the view.”
I have no idea what he has in mind but I do as I’m told, though easing the sports car onto the side of the road scares me. My imagination has me accidentally stepping on the accelerator instead of the brakes and sending Keats and me crashing past the trees and over the mountainside.
I activate the parking brake and don’t breathe a sigh of relief until the engine is completely off. I turn my head to Keats but he’s already getting out of the vehicle. I follow him to the back of the car and watch as he opens up the hatchback and proceeds to push the tiny backseats down. Once they’re both flat, he climbs in, and props himself on his elbows.
“Look,” he says, pointing at the view behind me from his vantage point. He pats the space beside him in silent invitation.
Well, hell. He doesn’t have to ask me twice. As gracefully as I could, I crawl into the space beside him. It’s definitely roomier back here than in the front seats. And with the hatch door up, the mountain breeze cools the otherwise sultry night.
I match his pose and prop myself on my elbows too. In front of me are our legs stretched with ankles and feet dangling out of the vehicle. Beyond are the dark silhouettes of trees and the sparkling city below. “So, what now?” I ask.
His eyes remain on the view ahead. “We talk.”
“About?”
He shrugs. “Whatever. Friends talk.”
I study him for a beat before I point out, “Are we really friends? All we have connecting us is Isabella and the wedding.”
We’re so close to the end of our time together, it seems I’m ready for some honesty.
Keats angles his body to face me. “Maybe at first. But you’re probably the closest thing I have to a best friend these days. I’ve hung out with you way more than I have with Deano.”
“That’s just sad,” I say deadpan even though his words have warmed me all over.
“Seriously, though,” Keats says, “I want us to be friends. And if I haven’t asked you a lot about yourself, it’s because I got the vibe that you didn’t want us to talk about you.”
I acknowledge his words with a nod. Does this mean he wants to stay in touch beyond the wedding day? Do I want to live through the torture of being
