Authors: Mila Gray
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roses? Does he know that when your nostrils flare like
that it’s because you’re trying to stop from crying and
that when you say “yeah, sure” it usually means “no”?’
He takes a step nearer. ‘Does he make you see stars?’ he
asks in a low voice. ‘Does he call you his
north
star?
Because that’s what you are to me. You’re the reason I
made it home.’
I squeeze my eyes shut.
‘Does he know exactly where to kiss you?’ Kit mur-
murs and startles me by brushing his hand just beneath
my ear. ‘Just here?’
My eyes flash open as I suppress a shudder.
‘Does he know exactly how to touch you?’ he asks, his
gaze falling to my mouth. ‘Does he tell you that you’re all
he thinks about? Does he tell you that he lives for you?
That he breathes for you? That he dreams of you every
damn moment, awake and asleep? Does he tell you any
of that?’ He pauses to look at me and I try to keep a blank
face. ‘No, I didn’t think so,’ he says quietly.
I narrow my eyes at him, taking a small step back-
wards to put some distance between us, because his
nearness is muddling me almost as much as his words.
‘He might not say or do any of those things, Kit, but he
does keep his promises. He wouldn’t walk away and not
come back.’
‘I did come back,’ Kit says under his breath.
I shrug. For a few moments we stand there watching
each other. My fingers hurt from gripping my sides so
much. I’m trying not to cry, but with each breath it feels
as if the sob is going to come tearing out of me. ‘It’s too
late,’ I finally say.
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‘OK,’ Kit says after a beat. I watch him struggle to
compose his face. ‘I’d better be going then,’ he says. ‘I’m
sorry.’
And after all those words, with me watching him half
in disbelief and half in horror, words rising mute up my
throat and bursting silent on my tongue, I watch him
walk away. Does he not see? I want to scream and call
him back. I was just testing him. I don’t want him to
leave. I want him to stay – to fight for me, to prove to me
that he really means it, that he isn’t ever going to walk
away again. But he’s failed the test.
‘That’s right,’ I whisper as he walks towards his bike.
‘Walk away. That’s what you’re good at.’
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Kit
I’m standing in exactly the same place I stood almost a
year ago on the day of Jessa’s birthday party. This is
where I came when I was trying to decide whether to go
after her or walk away. I stood here staring at the waves
slamming into the pier, trying to weigh up the pros and
cons. It wasn’t possible to stay away from her then. And
now?, I think to myself. If I’d stayed away then, would
things be different now? Would Riley still be alive? It’s
those kinds of thoughts I have to stop myself from think-
ing or else I end up following them down rabbit holes
and getting lost for hours, sometimes spinning out
completely and having a full-on panic attack.
Part of my therapy was learning how to cut the
thoughts off as soon as they arise. There’s no point in
thinking
what if
. What is
is
, and there’s no changing it.
The only thing to do is move forwards.
Does the same philosophy apply to this situation, I
wonder? Should I just accept it, cut Jessa off and move
on? For the last three months, ever since my dad found
me in that bar in Guam, I’ve been working so hard to
edge back from the precipice, the whole time keeping
Jessa in my sights like a lighthouse in the dark. My dad
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was the ballast that stopped me from sinking. Without the
two of them I don’t think I’d be here today. I’d probably
be passed out drunk somewhere, maybe dead.
Though I try to push it away, the memory of Jessa’s
face when she opened the door flashes into my mind. I
know I saw for just a split second after the initial shock
had passed and before she rearranged her face into blank-
ness something resembling joy. I didn’t imagine it. I know
she was happy to see me.
She was thinner than I remember, and grief seems to
have rubbed away the last traces of girlhood. Her face
was more defined, her eyes bigger, though maybe it was
just the short hair making them stand out more. But the
biggest difference was the lack of spark in her eyes, as
though she’d shrunk back in on herself. I shake my head,
trying to jar the memory loose, but it doesn’t go any-
where. It won’t be going anywhere for a very long time.
Man, she was even more beautiful than I remembered.
And Riley . . . the thought that passed through my mind
when I saw Jessa standing there holding the baby was
that
that could have been us
. That could have been Jessa
holding
our
baby. Stupid dream. That’s never going to
happen now.
My teeth clench hard enough to crack as Todd’s face
superimposes Jessa’s. In my darkest times I’d sometimes
imagine Jessa with another guy, but he was always face-
less and nameless. Seeing Todd walk up behind her like
that made my blood run cold. What was that with his
fucking hand on her neck? I thought I might rip his arm
clean off when I saw him do that. And calling her
babe
? I
take a deep breath, reminding myself I have no right to
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get angry. She waited for me for months and I didn’t even
have the decency to email her. Why am I surprised she’s
found someone else and moved on?
But did it have to be Todd? Is she having sex with him?
I slam my fist into my hand and lean over the pier railing
breathing deeply, trying to banish the images that start
flooding through my head. Don’t go there, I warn myself,
but even so I can’t stop myself from picturing Todd un-
dressing her, kissing her, taking her to bed. Does she like
it? Does she want him the same way she wanted me? Do
they make love or just have sex?
I don’t believe she loves him. Or is that me just not
wanting to believe it? Did I imagine the look in her eye
when I brushed my hand against her neck? Did I imagine
the quiver in her voice when she told me it was too late?
Did I imagine the slight flush in her cheeks? Isn’t that a
telltale sign she’s lying?
‘Hey.’
I spring upright and glance over my shoulder. A girl is
standing there. She’s about Jessa’s age, with long brown
hair, dark eyes and a copper tan that in twenty years
is going to make her look like an old leather bag. She’s
wearing Lycra shorts and a sports bra that don’t leave
anything to the imagination.
‘You’re Jessa’s ex, right?’ she asks, out of breath. She’s
clearly stopped mid-run.
‘Um, yeah,’ I say. She looks familiar but I can’t place
her. ‘Ex. Right.’ The word sticks in my throat like an axe
blade. It’s the first time I’ve admitted it out loud.
She smiles widely, showing off perfect teeth the colour
of polar ice caps. ‘I’m Serena? Remember me?’ And when
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she sees my frown, she adds, ‘From prom?’ Every sen-
tence sounds like a question.
‘Oh yeah,’ I say, suddenly recognizing her as the girl
who was being pawed in the stairwell. ‘How you doing?’
I ask half-heartedly. I’m not in the mood for small talk.
‘I’m great,’ she says, wiping sweat from her brow.
‘How ’bout you?’
I laugh under my breath and look away. ‘Yeah. You
know . . .’
‘What you doing?’ she asks.
What does it look like I’m doing?, I feel like asking.
‘Just hanging out,’ I say.
‘You’re a marine, aren’t you?’ she asks.
‘Yeah,’ I say, before remembering that’s not true. ‘Well,
not any more,’ I clarify. ‘My contract just ended.’ After
four years I’m now out, just like I promised Jessa I would
be. Out, with no idea what I’m going to do next.
‘Wow,’ Serena says, crossing her arms over her chest in
a way that shows off her cleavage to better advantage. ‘So
what are you going to do now?’ she asks, and I look at
her sideways because it seems the question might have a
secondary meaning. I’m right, it does. She’s licking her
lips and staring at mine.
‘I don’t actually know,’ I say, choosing to ignore the
suggestion.
‘You want to go get a coffee?’ she asks.
‘Um . . .’ I say, thrown by her directness.
‘Or maybe something else?’ she asks, seeing my hesita-
tion.
It’s clear from the way she’s staring at me exactly what
the something else is. I muse with not a little incredulity
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at the timing. After a year of no women, of not even look-
ing at another woman, and within half an hour of Jessa
telling me it’s over, I’m being offered sex, what looks like
no strings sex. But I hesitate.
She’s now playing with her hair, twiddling it between
her thumb and forefinger, still looking at me with a small
smile playing on her lips. From the tilt of her chin and her
posture, one hand resting on her hip, it’s obvious she
thinks that there’s no way I’m going to say no, and for a
few seconds I do think about it. I think about what it
would be like. How it would feel. How it might help
me forget for five minutes everything that’s going on in
my head. It’s tempting. It’s been so long since I’ve been
with anyone and I miss closeness. I miss affection. It
might even help me get over Jessa. Isn’t that what’s rec-
ommended? Doesn’t it help you move on – screwing
someone else?
Serena raises an eyebrow as though wondering what’s
taking me so long to decide, and just like that I come to
my senses. What am I thinking? The thought of going
there turns me cold. The only person I want to be close to,
lose myself in, is Jessa.
‘Nah, I’m good,’ I tell her.
She looks startled for a second before recovering and
tossing her hair over her shoulder like an uptight stallion
before a race.
‘Whatever,’ she says, before jogging off, her ponytail
swinging angrily.
I laugh under my breath and turn back to contemplat-
ing the waves.
*
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A couple of hours later when I get home, my dad’s where
he can normally be found, doing the thing he can nor-
mally be found doing. He’s in the kitchen making coffee.
‘What happened?’ he asks.
I wonder if he’s been here for the whole day, pacing the
kitchen, waiting for me. He looks like he’s drunk about
fifty cups of coffee in that time. The bags under his eyes
have bags, and I know he’s worried that I might relapse. I
think his own alcoholic past has made him nervous. But
I’m not an addict. At least, not in the usual sense of the
word. The only thing I’m addicted to is Jessa, and that
drug is well and truly off the menu, unobtainable, so how
can I possibly relapse?
‘I told her,’ I say.
‘You told her sorry?’ my dad asks, unable to disguise
the nervousness in his voice.
‘Yeah,’ I say, and then, shooting him a sheepish look,
add, ‘and maybe a little bit more than that.’
My dad arches an eyebrow. ‘What she say?’ he asks.
I shrug. ‘She said it’s too late. She’s moved on.’ Putting
the words out there makes it seem more final.
‘What are you going to do?’ my dad asks, pouring out
the coffee.
‘I’m going to sign up for another four years.’
There’s a long silence. My dad has frozen with the
kettle in his hand mid-pour. I don’t say anything. I’ve
spent the last four hours down at the beach trying to get
my head together and figure out the future, and this is
what I’ve decided to do.
‘I thought you were out,’ my dad finally says.
‘Guess not,’ I answer.
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My dad’s mouth pulls down at the edges. I know he
was looking forward to having me home for a while. ‘You
sure?’ he says. ‘You’re not just reacting?’
‘Nope,’ I say. ‘Well, OK, maybe. But I don’t want to
stay around here. I can’t. Too many memories. Every-
where I go.’ I don’t add that I can’t stand the thought of
running into Jessa and Todd.
My dad frowns. ‘What about LA?’ he asks.
I look away, out the window, feeling the sting. ‘That
was our dream,’ I say quietly. ‘Mine and Jessa’s. I don’t