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I jolt awake in a warm, dark room, at first with no idea where I am. I search the bottom of my blankets for my phone. A message from Marv at 12.35: We’re slammed man, you’ll have to get Bear, and anyway I think the road is closed. Yal be better to get her on ya bike
Fuck. Guilt consumes me, followed by panic. She’s old, it would have been well below zero, and if the tent collapsed, she’d have been buried, scared to death.
I bolt out of my makeshift bed. In Libby’s apartment above, there are footsteps and muffled voices. I can make out Libby’s voice but not the exact words. A soft glow of light shines through the glass door, voices chat and then the coffee machine starts up from the direction of the café.
I hear the back door open and squeaky footsteps. I duck flat under the covers as café staff arrive to start their shift. Libby could come down any moment. I shouldn’t have done this. If she finds me, I’ve blown it with her, ruined her trust. She’d never trust me again. And how stupid was I to leave Bear?
The hallway light flicks on, and quick steps walk past. I lay silent; in the door window I see the reflection of someone walking past carrying a tray. They yell, “Vee Street Café van will be here in five minutes to collect their order.”
How am I going to get out of here without being seen? I picture Bear frozen; I’m in panic mode.
I wait for the hall to go quiet, pissed at myself for being so incredibly dumb. Footsteps head towards the gallery. I dive behind a pile of stacked canvases as Libby races past, then back again carrying milk crates. I peek over the canvases, and she whizzes past again. I’m paranoid that at any moment she’ll pop in the gallery to check out my work.
“That’s it,” a guy yells from the back door.
Libby hollers, “Thanks, man, see you tomorrow.”
Time to leave.
I grab my stuff, my heart disordered as I open the gallery door and gap out the back. The milk truck is still there. I slide down the side and jump the fence into the alleyway, and a rush of relief slows my heart back to a regular beat, but I can’t relax. I have to check on Bear.
In Central Garden Square, a snow sweeper clears the snow from the footpaths. I unlock my bike, glad I didn’t park it in direct view of the café window. Pausing at the bench where me and Libby sat, something bright and colourful grabs my attention. I glance over at the statue and the wall, and see that the black outline of a deflated heart balloon I painted, that I left empty, is filled with intricately detailed flowers in reds, purples, and pinks. Underneath, someone has written, Never Give Up on Love. It’s perfect and beautiful, and I’m so taken back that Libby sees art how I do, and I’m gushing for her hard.
I speed home, drop my bike, and call out to Bear, scanning for her as I make my way to the tent. It’s invisible – it’s fully collapsed, buried under snow. On my hands and knees, I manically plough snow with my hands. I call, “Bear, Bear!” until my voice cracks and squeaks and tears roll. If I find her dead, it’s my fault. I can’t lose her, too.
I find my sleeping bag, where Bear would usually sleep, and search the tent floor; she’s not here.
I race to the toilet block and jump the gate. The smell’s intense; I cover my nose and find her curled in a tight ball in the corner of the toilet cubicle. I scoop her up, push her under my shirt. She wheezes and coughs. “I’m so sorry, girl.” I wrap my jacket around her and do up the zip.
She pops her head out the top, sneezes, and licks my face. My shoulders drop. She must have slipped under the gate, and as I peer towards the door, I see the gap is just Bear-sized enough for her to fit under.
The bathroom smell makes me dry retch, but it has four walls and a roof. Why did we not use this before? I open the utility cupboard and wade through the box of cleaning supplies, rolls of cloth, hand towels, litres of hand soap, toilet and hand cleaner, cleaning brushes. I empty the container, stuff it with my puffer jacket and the towels, and gently lower Bear in. Using the mop and cleaning supplies, I strip the bathroom clean. It’s still polar in here, my breath escapes as streams of smoke, but it’s the best we’ve got. Using the hand soap, I wash my uniform and hang my shirt and pants on the fence rails outside to dry. There’s no heat in the sun, but they’re clean. I leave the gate open so Bear can come and go, and bike to school.
At four, I stand outside the Red Gallery door and wait for Libby, hoping she’s remembered she invited me to help with the banner. No one else is here; please let it just be us.
The café door opens, and Libby’s head pokes out. “You know you can come inside, right?” She grins, a coffee cup in each hand while she uses her elbow to hold the café door open.
“For you.” She grins again. “A flat white.” She leads me through the café to the gallery space, where the large canvas is unrolled. I glance at the stack of blankets, still set up as a bed, heat inching up my neck and into my face. While she checks out the banner and the work I completed last night, I gather the blankets in a bunch and dump them in a pile by the canvases. Better that than a makeshift bed lying there as evidence.
She inspects the banner. I watch her smile, and it’s contagious.
“Your work is amazing.”
Butterflies fill my stomach; she runs her finger over the G of Gatsby. “It’s dry enough for a second coat.” The insides of the letters are empty, waiting to be filled.
A plate of food rests on a stool.
“For us.”
Filled buns. My stomach growls. I’m more than hungry, but I ignore them. Nothing says homeless more than a dude wearing the same clothes from yesterday, charging for the free food.
She inspects the table of paints. “You know your work is amazing, right?”
My palms instantly sweat, and my cheeks warm. “Happy to help.” A technicolour explosion replaces the butterflies. “We just need to fill in the letters.”
She starts at one end, and I start at the other; my motivation is to meet in the middle.
She plugs her phone into the sound system; chill summer beats fill the gallery. I’m not sure if it’s the music or the way Libby’s constant conversation makes sure there’s never any awkward silence, but a calmness washes through me as we chat and laugh while we paint. It’s easy to be around her, like my battery is set to recharge.
As we block in colour, Libby chats about how hard it is to get good grades in chemistry, how her dad has moved out, and her mum is not coping. We talk about favourite bands and artists, and it feels like there’s so much to talk about and not enough time. One conversation effortlessly leads to another. Part of me is guarded, careful not to say too much. No one can be fully trusted.
“I love this song.” Libby turns it up and hums along.
“What is this?” I laugh. She’s cute.
Libby sings louder and more dramatic. I shoot her an exaggerated eye roll; I’m happy she finds it funny.
The song finishes. She giggles and holds up her phone. “You choose something.”
I stroll over until she’s right in front of me, dungarees with a big pocket, and a cropped white t-shirt, which shows her stomach at the sides, not that I’m looking. Face to face, my heart drums, faster and faster. She passes me her phone, and I scroll through her song choices, feeling her watch until I press Play. Happy, chill beats fill the gallery. She’s still in front of me, so close I smell her shampoo.
“Perfect.” And we’re beaming at each other.
“Yeah, it really is.” I search her face, and she beams smiles, agreeing with the song choice.
We go back to painting, opposite each other, the banner between us.
She dips her brush in the paint pot and glides it over the pencil outline. “Are you going to the ball with anyone?”
I pick up a pot of the silver paint and search through the box of brushes. “Not my thing.” Which, before all this ball stuff with Libby, was the truth. Now I wish I could go with her.
I carry the paint and brush to the banner, pop the paint top off and dip my brush. I begin to fill the G of Gatsby. Even if I wanted to go, I don’t have the gear, and who wants to turn up to a ball in the clothes they wear to school?
“I’m assuming you’re going with Luka?” Saying his name lights a fire and reminds me what I should tell her.
“He’s got a limo for us, and there’s a before party at his house. You should come?” She’s gushing. I’m dying. “He’s more into the party than the ball. He’s refusing to dance with me.” Her smile fades.
He’s a loser. I don’t care that I have zero rhythm. I’d set all shame aside to dance with her.
It’s the perfect opportunity to tell her, Luka is cheating on you. She kneels next to me, swipes behind her and grabs an iced bun. She’s so close, my stomach bubbles, fizzes. It’s nerve-racking as hell. Painting is the only thing that contains my moxie.
Would she believe me if I told her the truth? If I was her, I’d be pissed I didn’t tell her ASAP.
Libby picks up a paintbrush, wobbles as she crouches down, balanced on her toes. She takes a bite of her bun, and at the same time leans to dip her brush in the pot. She slips forward, and before she faceplants, I grab her arm to try and steady her, which makes things worse. She swings back, and her butt knocks over two pails. Pools of paint are now all over the carpet, and we both land our arses in the paint like we’re painting butt prints, hers gold, mine silver.
Libby scrambles to her feet, leaving a perfect stamp of her left and right butt cheeks on the carpet and on her jeans. I can’t contain the laughter, it bursts out beyond my control, and I’m glad she finds it just as funny. Libby giggles so hard she snorts, and we’re hysterical; my cheeks hurt from smiling and my stomach aches from happiness. As she tries to wipe the paint from her face, she only makes it worse. Paint streaks her hair, her cheeks, and the tip of her nose.
She leans down and rests a hand on my arm. “Are you okay?”
“Better than ever.” A grin spreads across her face, and the imprint of the hand spreads sparkles throughout my body.
She pulls her phone from her front pocket. “You’ve got paint on your nose.” She takes a picture, and turns it around to show me. She giggles. “You look like a rabbit.”
“Oh, yeah?” I twitch my nose and motion for her to hand the phone over. “Smile, Thumper.” I snap a picture and extend it towards her; her face is even more rabbit-like.
She chuckles. “That’s what I get for making fun of you.” She takes her phone back, then holds out her hand. It’s covered in paint, but I’m not going to not take it. I grab it and she nearly pulls me up, but the paint is too slippery; I can’t grip. I slip back, pulling her with me back into the same puddle of paint.
We lie on our backs next to each other in hysterics; it’s the best and funniest moment of my life.
She turns towards me. “You know, you’re a lot of fun, Dylan Marshall.”
I turn to face her. Our noses are centimetres apart; she has a faint scar on the top of her forehead and the longest eyelashes. I don’t know what to say. She’s a lot to take in. I pull out my phone and, shielding the screen from her view, message her the emoji that sends hearts floating up the screen.
I should tell her about Luka. She deserves to know, but I’m selfish and I don’t want to ruin this moment.
My heart is pounding through my chest. “You’re a lot of fun yourself, Libby soon-to-be Doctor Green.”
Right now, being with her is filling me up, like a missing part of me I didn’t know was lost has been found. I watch her check her message, and her mouth forms a smile as she turns back to face me. Every cell in my body is electrified; my laughter stops, replaced with an inability to stop smiling at her. It would help if she wasn’t smiling back. Our eyes feel locked. I could look away, but I can’t; a magnetic force wants to bring our heads together.
“Oh, right – um, yeah.” And her smile snaps. “We’d, er, better get cleaned up.” She jumps to her feet, pulled out of whatever moment we had.
I wish we could go back.
She extends her arm and helps me up. This time the paint on her hand has dried a little, and as I get to my feet, that magnetic feeling is replaced with awkwardness. And I regret sending the heart emoji, worried she thinks it’s too intense, and dodgy, because she’s got a boyfriend.
“I’ll get some stuff to clean up,” Libby says, more serious, almost robot-like.
We rinse our hands, taking turns at the sink; there are no towels that aren’t covered in paint. Libby fumbles trying to open the gallery door.
I push the door open and let her out.
“Thanks,” she says – orderly, like she’s on a mission.
She returns almost immediately with a scrubbing brush, bucket, and soap.
We scrape as much paint off the ground as we can with the paint scrapers, tap it into the bucket, and spray the paint-covered area with paint remover. We lay clean towels on top and stand on them, soaking up the water and the paint, and repeat the process.
As we pick up the towels for the last time, Libby’s hand brushes mine. Tingles surge up my arm and burst across my chest. I want to grab her hand and pull her close. She’s with someone. She’s not the kind of girl to cheat. I’m not that kind of guy. Well, maybe I would be. Let’s face it, if she kissed me, I wouldn’t stop it.
Her phone beeps. I watch her intently as she takes it from her front pocket. “Luka.” But she doesn’t text back, and I’m reminded of what I should tell her.
“Come up to the apartment; I’m sure there are some of my dad’s clothes hanging around that would fit you.”
I’m so taken aback, I don’t say anything.
We put all the lids back on the paint tins, which rubs more paint onto our hands.
I follow her up the steps to her apartment; a laugh slips out at the perfect bum- and handprints on the back of her dungarees.
“Are you laughing at my butt?” She twists around, attempting to get a better look at her backside.
“Yep.”
She spins me round. “The same thing is on your arse, too.”
Libby points me in the direction of her shower. She opens the wardrobe opposite and passes me a complete change of her dad’s clothes. “These will work. I chose them for Dad.”
She drops a towel on top of the pile. “Use whatever you like in the bathroom. I’ll shower in Mum’s.”
Libby heads down the hall and into her mum’s room.
I flick the shower on, and the warm water cascades down my back. I can hear the sputter of water from the shower in the other room. It’s odd knowing that right through that wall, Libby is naked.
I turn up the heat, wash my body and hair. I can’t remember the last time I had a shower like this, in a family bathroom with warm fluffy towels. A dressing gown hangs off a hook on the door; there are plants and seashells arranged on the windowsill.
I make sure to click off the shower before Libby does. I don’t want to drain all the hot water or to come across like I’ve been in there too long. I pull on the boxers, slightly amused at wearing Libby Green’s dad’s undies. The black jeans are loose, but pass, even the length, and I slip on the t-shirt, navy blue with a pocket on the top right-hand corner. It’s mint. I look at myself in the mirror and tame the mop of messy waves. I look ... not homeless. A massive improvement. It’s the best I’ve looked and smelled in ages.
Using the squeegee in the shower, I do my best to clean up the paint, rinsing away any traces. Before I exit, I make sure the bathroom is in the same order as I found it and hang my towel on the towel rail.
I gather up the dirty, paint-covered clothes and open the bathroom door, holding the pile away from my clean, dry clothes so not to get them covered in paint. Outside the door is a plastic bag. Libby whizzes past me, wrapped in a towel. I can’t help but notice her bare shoulders with a lingering tan line.
I fill the bag with my clothes, then, awkward about where to wait, wander through the lounge and into the kitchen. On the fridge is a photo of Libby, Luka and Francesca from the gallery opening. Libby faces Luka with a lovesick grin.
I gotta tell her.
The longer I leave it, the longer she’s fed a lie, and I can’t handle that.
Libby’s bedroom door opens, and as we walk down the stairs and back into the gallery, Libby turns the conversation to serious ball talk. “Let’s finish painting this banner.”
We set out the paints, this time on a tray with a lip around it, so as not to repeat the same bum-print situation. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed to know that option is off the table.
We begin blocking in the gold, Libby on one side of the canvas, me on the other.
I’m not sure how to begin or push the words out. I figure the best way is to just say it. Things are good between us, and maybe she’ll be so grateful, things will get even better?
Libby carefully glides her brush around the edge of the B.
And since she’s not looking at me, I spew the words out. “Libby ... I saw Luka and Katie kiss at the beach.”
Her brush jerks and paints over the edge of the letter. She looks up, her eyes wide with disbelief. “What? Sorry, back up. What did you say?” She shakes her head. “No.”
She stares at me, and as I predicted, I spot the second her world shifts, from happy to broken.
“What, how, when ...” Her voice catches, and the look on her face is the same as when I picked her up off the steps at school, after she found out her dad was leaving. All the sunlight has faded.
I tell her about the white car, how it was the same one we saw when we thought it was Mr Campbell’s. “It was Luka with Katie, not Mr Campbell.”
“What the hell? When?” She bats tears away.
Do I hug her, put my arm around her? She looks broken when she cries. I’m not an ideal emotional-support person; I never know the right thing to do or say, for fear I’ll do something stupid that makes it worse.
“A few days ago.” I step forward, ready to wrap my arm around her shoulders.
She snaps, “You’ve known for a few days? You’ve been here hours, and you tell me now?”
And I step back. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t want to hurt you. Oh, shit, I’m sorry.”
“You should leave.” She turns her head.
I grab my bag.
She doesn’t look back. “Go.” This time her voice turns harsh, and my heart falls off a cliff.
“I’m sorry.” I close the door behind me.
I walk down the hall. Every step further away makes me want to turn back. I reach the back entrance to the café and sulk through; Francesca fills a water jug from a tap next to a table stacked with glasses.
My voice cracks. “Libby really needs you.”
She doesn’t look up and continues to stack cups. “I’ll be there in a second.”
“Probably best you go now.”
When she faces me, it must be written on my face that I’m cut up as hell and that Libby needs her help ASAP. She leaves immediately.
At least Libby will have the person who loves her more than anything with her. I walk back to my bike, which is covered in snow, and look up at the window of Libby’s apartment.
I yank my phone from my pocket. It’s stupid to imagine she’d have sent a GIF; even more ridiculous that I want to send her one. I search for one that says I’m sorry, and that I never realised I wanted to be with someone until I started hanging with her, that she brightens my insides and makes me feel alive. I write Sorry, and press Send.
I ride towards the tent through mounds of white; it’s slow going. The howling wind drives snow sideways into my face. If it weren’t for the lit snowplough clearing the main road, I wouldn’t know where the footpath ended and the road began. When I reach the toilet block, I push away the snow piled against the door. Bear isn’t in her box bed or anywhere inside. It’s barely warmer inside than out.
Using my phone torch, I call outside, imagining her frozen, lifeless body. “Bear! Bear!” I manically search through the old tent site and under the trees; she’s not there. What if I can’t find her?
I’m desperate; she’s old and small and wouldn’t survive the night outside. I can’t lose her, too; she’s all I’ve got left. She was Mum’s dog.
A sneeze and cough come from under the toilet block. I shine my light towards the back wall where the pipes and drain come out, and there she is. I drop down and scoop her out; her body shivers uncontrollably, and with every breath in, her chest wheezes. Inside the toilet block, I slide down the wall, sit on the ground, and offer her food. The water in her bowl is frozen solid, and she can barely stand, let alone lift her head. I pull her under my top, wrap my arms around her and hold her close.
My hands and feet sting, and I legit see my breath freeze on its way out. It’s too cold for Bear. What if she doesn’t last the night?
Bear doesn’t stop shivering for the next half hour, and no matter how close I hold her, her breathing doesn’t get better. There’s a break in the wind, and I know what I’m contemplating is the stupidest idea on the planet. But it could save Bear’s life.
I wrap her in a jersey, a towel over the top, stick her back under my jacket, tuck it into my jeans and zip it up. Bear’s wheeze vibrates through my chest as I ride towards the Red Gallery Café, hoping I’ve remembered the door code correctly and that the gallery is closed.
The café is blacked out; the lights are on upstairs. I cut into the alleyway, tie my bike to the lamppost, and haul me and Bear up and over the fence into the café car park. I’m an idiot, but I don’t know where else to go that’s warm and that has food. If I’m caught, there’s zero chance for Libby and me to be friends again.
I bolt to the back door; the security lights flick on, and my heart drums. Libby’s bedroom light is on; one look out the window and I’m snapped. I push the combination and the door lock releases. As I gently close the door behind me, the warmth is tropical. Using my phone torch, I sneak into the kitchen, grab a bowl, fill it with cubes of cut cheese from the fridge, and a wedge of chicken and vegetable pie. I pour a cup of milk and contemplate heating it in the microwave, but the hum of the microwave could be heard from upstairs. Footsteps travel in Libby’s apartment above, moving from one room to the other, followed by voices.
I carry the food back to the gallery and offer it to Bear. She laps up a little milk but doesn’t touch anything else. It’s better than nothing; at least it’s warm and dry, and it’s gotta help her lungs.
I make up the bed like last night. Bear curls into me under the covers and falls asleep, still wheezing, but better. I watch her chest rise and fall until my eyes can’t stay open any longer.