But this is a start, I think in Isabella’s optimistic voice. “Why don’t you ask me something,” I find myself saying with a tentative smile, “and I’ll tell you what I’m willing to share?”
Keats’ blue eyes light up, reminding me of a kid given permission to go nuts in a toy store. “Shit. What to ask first…?” He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “What’s, um, what’s the deal with your parents? You never seem to talk about them.”
My hands clench on my lap and my face drops. I didn’t think Keats would go there so soon, or at all. I was ready to answer questions about being a receptionist, or even talk about Neil.
“Sorry,” Keats apologises quickly, concern in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s all right. Friends know these things about each other.” I drum my fingers on my thigh, take a deep breath, and start from the beginning—my parents and me before my brother, then after Kris was born, and our mother’s desertion. Before I know it, I’m sharing with Keats my dad’s alcoholism and the poverty of my childhood which only ended when I moved my brother and me from under our father’s roof when I turned eighteen. I haven’t seen or heard from our dad ever since.
While I talk, I watch the thoughts cross Keats’ features, half-illuminated by the city lights below the mountain. I see sympathy, empathy, concern and shock. I wait for his disdain, or maybe pity. But neither appears. Instead, Keats exhales loudly when I finish talking, like what he’s heard has taken it out of him. He studies my face and there is something in his eyes that I haven’t seen much of in my life—admiration?
I must be reading him wrong. “So I never had a lot of friends. I still don’t,” I confess, my eyes on the gear stick between us. “Just Isabella in high school. She gave me something to strive for—an ideal,” I add, realising as the words leave my mouth just how true they are. “Not that I succeeded much in emulating any of her achievements.” And there lies my resentment.
“Byron’s the same. It’s tough being the older brother of a high achieving little shit.” He runs his fingers through his hair, shaking his head with an ironic smile—like he can’t believe his luck. “So, it must be your turn to ask me a question?”
It takes me a beat to come up with something to ask him. I don’t know what has brought on this mood he’s in, but this feels like a turning point in our relationship—whatever that relationship might be. I need to make this query count. How often would I get an open invitation to pry?
Then I have it. I should ask him whether he’s at all interested in me as more than a friend. I should just find out once and for all. Except, I’m not brave enough to dive into that great unknown.
“So, what happened with Sofie?” This is my circuitous way to get to the answer I really want to hear, like slowly wading in the sea to make sure I don’t die a horrible death by shark attack. “I thought you’d be with her now.”
He shrugs, palms up. “Me, too.”
“Did you strike out?” I’m enjoying our new-found candour.
“No.”
“Oh.” Does that mean he went to my place straight after being with her? Or they weren’t together at all? “So what happened?” I ask again.
“I’m not sure. She’s perfect—smart, sexy, funny, cultured, classy, educated…And, by most standards, hotter than Isabella. Even Ms Wilsborough loved her today.”
Each of those words hurt like hell. This frankness thing isn’t so fun all of a sudden.
“I thought she was the perfect solution to the whole Isabella situation. I didn’t tell you but, since meeting Sof at the Zombie Walk, I’d been contemplating giving up chasing Isabella. I thought maybe I could forget her and be with Sofie instead. And I wanted to. I mean, I don’t want to hurt my brother if I don’t have to. Being with Sofie made a lot of sense. But there was something…missing.”
Yeah. Me. This ironic thought makes me smile in the dim car interior.
“Did you figure this out before or after you slept with her?” I clarify.
“We haven’t...and I haven’t wanted to.” He bites his lower lip, expression pensive. “I can only pin it down to one thing.”
I hold my breath. This is the part where he tells me he’s realised he should be with me, right? It has to be, or all those chick flicks and romcoms I love so much have lied. I flash Keats an encouraging smile.
He takes a deep breath, before saying, “I must be more in love with Isabella than I thought.”
My jaw drops, my brain scrambling to follow his logic. I get an overwhelming urge to bang my forehead against the car in frustration. I’m too shocked to comment, so I just gape at him.
He runs fraught fingers through his hair. “This whole celibacy thing is fucking with my brain. I’m sure I’m not thinking straight. At least you’ve got Booty Call Neil to take the edge off, huh?”
I don’t answer him. What could I say that wouldn’t expose too much truth about me? Because if I open my mouth, I’d probably yell that Neil is my poor man’s Keats. That he’s on my mind even while Neil is between my thighs. That I shouldn’t be around Keats, but I also can’t walk away from him. Not willingly.
Silence hangs thick in the air, and I suddenly become aware of the loud chirping of cicadas in the trees outside the sports car. The soft rustle of branches as the wind shakes them. The otherwise enveloping silence of our remote location.
“We should do it,” I suddenly hear.
Who said that? I think I just did.
I look at Keats who is giving me a sideways glance like I must have said it. His “fuck me” eyes are wide, expression frozen on his face.
This might be my only
