Authors: Mila Gray
Kit’s off me in a flash and I sit bolt upright. My head is
spinning, my body still burning from his touch, but now
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adrenaline scores through my bloodstream too. I scramble
frantically for my shirt, which is lying on the floor, as Kit
crosses to the door. Who is it?
‘Kit?’
Oh my God. It’s his dad. I grab the T-shirt to my chest
and start hyperventilating in panic. Kit is standing by the
door, holding onto the handle, his head bent. He takes a
deep breath. ‘Yep?’ he shouts. He’s trying to keep his
voice casual but there’s a note to it that shrieks his guilt.
‘What’s the mess down in the kitchen?’ his dad asks.
He’s just outside the bedroom door. Kit glances at me
over his shoulder. I dart behind the door not needing to
be told. Kit pulls the door open, blocking it with his
body, so his dad can’t see inside. I try to press as close to
the door as possible so he can’t see me through the
crack.
‘What’s going on?’ his dad asks.
‘Nothing,’ Kit answers quickly. Too quickly. ‘I was
baking. Dropped something.’
‘Looks like a hydrogen bomb went off in there.’ He
pauses. ‘You often bake shirtless?’
‘I . . . er . . . I spilled something on my T-shirt. Had to
put it in the wash.’
‘In the wash?’ his dad asks. ‘I found it on the floor in
the kitchen in the middle of all that mess that you’re
about to go downstairs and clear up.’
Kit doesn’t say anything for a moment and I wonder
for a heart-stopping few seconds if he’s about to come
clean, but he doesn’t, he just nods and says, ‘Yep, I’ll be
down in a minute.’
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His dad hovers for a few more seconds and I imagine
him narrowing his eyes at Kit and trying to peer over his
shoulder into the bedroom. Kit finally shuts the door. He
leans back against it, wincing. ‘Shit. That was close.’
‘I thought you said he wasn’t back until six?’ I say.
‘Must have got it wrong.’ Kit shrugs at me, that
dangerous grin tugging at his mouth.
I shake my head at him as I pull on my T-shirt. My
heart is still pounding. It’s not funny. I look at my watch.
‘I need to get home,’ I say.
Kit frowns. ‘I’m not sure how we’re going to get you
past my dad.’
I stare at him. He’d better find a way. My dad will kill
me if I’m not home by dinner.
‘OK,’ Kit says, pacing the room, ‘let me think.’ I cross
my arms over my chest and watch him. ‘OK. I’ll go down
and clear up the kitchen and act like nothing’s up. You
wait up here, and when the coast is clear I’ll come and get
you.’
I raise my eyebrows.
‘Or we could just come out and tell him.’
My arms drop to my sides. ‘Tell him?’
‘Why not?’ Kit asks.
‘Because . . . he’ll wonder what we were doing up
here . . . and in the kitchen.’
Kit shrugs. ‘He won’t mind.’
‘
I
mind.’
Kit nods. ‘OK. Well, wait here then and I’ll come get
you.’ He crosses to the door and is about to open it before
he stops and walks towards me. He puts his arm around
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my waist and hooks me to him, then cups my face and
kisses me.
‘You’re so goddamn sexy, you know that?’
I don’t get a chance to answer before he lets me go and
disappears out the door.
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Kit
I start sweeping up the mess, thinking of Jessa upstairs.
Man, my dad’s timing sucks. If he hadn’t come home
would we be having sex right now? No. I can tell that
Jessa’s not ready. And besides, I think it would be her first
time and if it is her first time it needs to be special, not
some quick
wham bam, thank you, ma’am
with one eye on
the clock. I would want to spend all night making her
ready, making sure she remembered it for the rest of her
life.
I glance at the clock. I need to figure a way to get her
out of here. My dad’s in the front room listening to Miles
Davis, which means he must be working on his Sunday
sermon. If I’m lucky he’ll stay put and I can try to sneak
Jessa down the stairs.
I sweep up the remains of the flour and sugar and then
sprint up the stairs. We have fifteen minutes. Jessa’s sit-
ting on the edge of my bed, her foot tapping silently. She
jumps up the moment I open the door and I beckon her
over, taking her hand.
We jog down the stairs and straight through into the
kitchen, my ears pricked for any sound from the front
room. We make it into the truck and I gun it out the
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driveway at breakneck speed. We make it halfway before
the front door flies open and my dad comes out. I con-
sider for a moment keeping on going, but then I see he’s
holding something in his hand. It’s a bag. Jessa’s bag.
I pull the handbrake on.
Jessa doesn’t say a word. She’s just staring out the
window. We watch as my dad strolls over. I wind down
the window.
‘Hey,’ I say, feeling like I just got caught fleeing the
scene of a crime.
My dad’s eyebrow is twitching in amusement. So is his
mouth. I give him a shrug as if to say,
Cut me some slack,
have you looked at this girl?
And he gives me a look as if to say,
Yeah, I don’t blame
you, but son, we’re going to talk about this when you get back.
He holds up the bag. ‘I think you forgot this,’ he says.
Jessa reaches for it. ‘Thanks,’ she mumbles, her gaze
stuck to the floor.
‘We gotta go,’ I say. ‘I’m running Jessa home.’
My dad nods. ‘See you later. Bye Jessa,’ he says and
ambles back into the house.
Jessa doesn’t speak the whole way back. She does
switch clothes, though, back into her school uniform,
which gives me an unrivalled view of both her body and
her litheness as she contorts to wriggle out of her shorts
and pull on her skirt. I almost crash catching a glimpse of
her in her underwear when she changes out of her bikini
bottoms and have to force my eyes back to the road.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say as I see the anxiety pulling at the
edges of her mouth as she checks herself in the mirror.
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‘Do you think he’ll say anything?’ she asks, tucking in
her school shirt.
‘To your dad?’ I laugh. ‘No.’
‘To Riley I mean,’ she says.
I shake my head. ‘No. I’ll talk to him. Listen, my dad’s
a chaplain. Keeping secrets is part of his job.’
She looks a little more reassured. ‘OK,’ she says as
I pull over. ‘How do I look?’ She smooths down her
hair, and looks at me and I notice that the free-spirited,
relaxed Jessa has vanished. She’s back to her anxious old
self.‘Like you had a really, really good day at school,’ I say.
Finally she smiles.
‘I had the best day at school ever,’ she says, leaning
over and kissing me. ‘Thank you.’
I pull the truck into the driveway and take a slow breath
out, readying myself. Just as I guessed, my dad is waiting
in the kitchen for me.
‘You want some?’ he asks, spooning coffee into the jug.
I nod and reach for another mug.
‘Does Riley know?’ he asks as he pours out the water.
Cut straight to the chase much?
‘No,’ I answer.
‘You going to tell him?’ my dad asks, giving me a look.
‘Wasn’t planning on it,’ I say.
My dad nods to himself, taking his sweet time to screw
the lid on the coffee and put it away. ‘You sure?’ he asks.
‘Secrets like that between friends have a habit of coming
out. You don’t want to ruin things between you.’
‘Him finding out about me and Jessa, that will ruin
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things between us,’ I say with a bitterness to my voice
that surprises me.
‘And sneaking around behind closed doors − you think
you’ll get away with that?’ my dad asks in a perfectly
reasonable tone of voice. ‘Think it’s fair to her?’
I frown as I take the coffee he hands to me. It’s as bitter
and black as tar. Ever since my dad gave up drink he sub-
sists on eight cups of this a day, refusing to do anything
so namby-pamby as add milk. I swear it runs through his
veins like diesel oil.
‘What if her father finds out?’ he asks.
‘He won’t,’ I say, shooting him a warning look.
My dad raises his eyebrows at me. ‘He won’t hear it
from me. Doesn’t listen to a word I say anyway,’ he says,
laughing under his breath. ‘But you’ve got to think about
what happens when he does find out.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘I know you don’t. But what about Jessa? You’re think-
ing with the wrong head.’
‘I am not,’ I say indignantly. But is he right? Am I so
absorbed in her, in wanting her, that I’m not thinking
straight?
‘She mean something to you?’ my dad asks.
‘Yes,’ I say, wishing he’d just drop it.
‘Really something?’ my dad presses.
I look at him. ‘Yes.’
He nods at me as though pleased about something.
‘Then do the right thing.’
‘What is the right thing?’ I ask him. I feel like I’m
thirteen, asking for his advice about girls. Except when I
was thirteen, my dad was only a year into his recovery
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and I hadn’t yet forgiven him, so chats like this one never
happened.
My dad puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes.
‘Always the honest thing,’ he says, before grimacing and
adding, ‘which isn’t always the easiest thing.’
‘You think I should tell Riley?’ I ask.
My dad gives a non-committal shrug, telling me it’s up
to me. ‘If you tell him, you should probably tell her father
too. Don’t make the same mistake I did.’
My head flies up. ‘What do you mean? What mistake?’
My dad walks to the sink and empties the remains of
his coffee. He keeps his back to me.
‘Is this why you and her dad fell out?’ I ask. ‘Over a
girl?’
My dad sighs heavily and turns back around. ‘I can’t
tell you,’ he says.
‘Why not?’ I ask. This is the first time he’s ever come
close to telling me what happened between him and
Jessa’s dad. I figured a while back that maybe it had to do
with something that went on overseas when they were
both in the same marine unit, but it makes much more
sense that a woman was involved. I can’t believe I didn’t
figure it out before. ‘Why not?’ I ask again when he
doesn’t answer.
‘Not my story to tell,’ my dad says.
‘Whose story is it to tell?’ I ask.
‘Your mother’s.’
I blink at him. ‘She’s dead,’ I say.
My dad walks towards the door. He’s not yet fifty and
still physically an impressive man – stocky, broad-
shouldered – but the fight with the bottle added a good
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ten years to him and he looks closer to sixty, his skin
tanned to leather and his hair completely grey. The men-
tion of my mother seems to have aged him another five.
‘And maybe it’s best we don’t go disturbing old
ghosts,’ he says over his shoulder to me before he closes
the door.
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Jessa
‘You look like Lana Turner.’
‘Who?’
‘Blonde bombshell film star from the forties. Oh my
God, Jessa, don’t you know anything?’
‘My film knowledge only goes back to the eighties.
Sorry.’
Didi does something to my hair, framing it around
my face. It still smells slightly singed from the curling
iron and I’m starting to feel like a Barbie doll. Maybe Didi
was denied one as a child and is making up for lost time.
‘You just need some lipstick,’ Didi says, reaching for
her make-up bag. ‘Not that it’s going to stay on for long,’
she adds as she starts to dab it on my lips.
‘Like I’m going to get a chance to kiss Kit with my
brother there.’
‘I’ll deal with your brother. Don’t worry about that,’
Didi says, spinning me towards the mirror.
I do a double-take. Didi’s right. I do look like I just
stepped out of a 1940s movie. My dress is floor-length
dark blue satin, pulling in slightly at the waist. Didi’s
done my hair so it’s side-parted and hanging loose and
wavy down my back. My lips are bright red and because
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