| |
So here I am, outside our apartment, peering through the wrong side of the peep-hole. Snap swings the door open and gives me his ‘I’m disgusted’ look.
‘Do you know how gross an eyeball looks close up?’
‘Yep. But you still fall for it every time.’ I grin.
He stands, hands on hips, examining me. ‘Trying to hide a smile, are we? Smashing, isn’t he? I knew it.’
‘He’s okay.’
His smile fails. ‘Oh, Kitten. Tell me you didn’t wear that?’
I glance down at my clothes. ‘What’s wrong with jeans and t-shirt?’
He huffs. ‘Girl, does nothing I say get through to you?’
‘Apparently not. Are you going to let me in, or do I need a password?’
I put a hand on his chest, kiss his cheek, then push him aside before heading straight for the kitchen and the vodka in the freezer. Snap tails me muttering something about my ponytail. I glance at the ginger kitty-themed clock on the wall with its paw-hands purrfectly and permanently stuck on five and twelve. We haven’t replaced the battery because it meows on the hour, but I always like to check it’s still booze o’clock.
I help myself to a shot, grimacing as it burns its way down my throat. A family-sized block of chocolate might have done the trick just as well, but I haven’t done any grocery shopping this week, so there won’t be anything in the fridge except maybe gourmet pate and semi-dried tomatoes – small luxuries to supplement Snap’s free feeds at the pub. My free meals went out the door the moment I slapped Bob. Meh.
‘Tell me everything,’ Snap says, leaning back against the island bench.
‘Not much to tell,’ I say, readying to pour another shot. The first one is already limbering me up. Snap grabs the vodka from my hand before the liquid leaves the bottle.
‘Not another drop until you throw me a crumb.’
He carries the bottle into the lounge room. I collect a second shot glass and follow. He slides into his favourite bright-orange retro armchair and sits cross-legged, smug and elegant as always. I so love how he’s blossomed into this cool self.
After we first moved in, and he got his little ‘bedroom business’ up to a profitable standard, he started replacing our second-hand furniture piece by piece. I gave up trying to put my two cents in; the faces Snap pulled when I suggested coffee tables and sofas was enough for me to give up and let him style to his heart’s content. But it’s not just his taste in furniture and clothing that makes him look so amazing. If only I could rock satin the way he does. And his hair is ‘just so’, and he’s lithe, and witty, and has attitude with a capital ‘A’. None of which I have.
We sit on opposites sides of a low glass-topped table with its little Zen garden underneath: sand, smooth pebbles, a miniature porcelain bridge, bonsai and a little wooden rake. It’s exquisitely arranged. Snap spends hours organising grains of sand into perfectly behaved feng shui–inspired paths.
‘So, give me the lowdown,’ he demands.
I shrug. ‘He wants to mentor me.’
Snap licks his little finger and grooms a perfect eyebrow. ‘Is that a euphemism?’
I smirk. ‘He says I have something special.’
Snap grabs the air in front of his chest, squeezing imaginary breasts. ‘You have two very special somethings, honey.’
I screw up my nose.
He laughs. ‘I’m just kidding. I think your guy is onto something. Your voice is truly amazing. I’ve told you that a million times.’
I wave him off. ‘You’re exaggerating, but I love you anyway.’ I’ve never learned to take a compliment. Some people seem adept at it, as if it’s an entitlement. Not me. I’d rather run and hide. But somewhere deep inside, I know he’s right. I’m not stupid. A gift is a gift.
Snap takes to quizzing me like a master:
How old is he? Twenty. I think.
Does he have his own place? Yes.
Does he own it? How the hell would I know?
Where does he live? In an apartment like normal people do.
Smart arse. Is he single? I didn’t ask.
(Apparently, I’m a fool for missing that detail)
Does he have a car? Don’t know. Didn’t ask.
(Fool again)
Does he have a job? Doesn’t need one. He wrote a hit single.
(Impressive)
Did he buy you lunch? Yes, even though I objected.
Snap approves. I’m incredulous. ‘How can you decide just from that? Are you sure you’re not giving your blessing ‘cos you think you’ve got a chance with him yourself?’
He looks at me as though he’s indulging a puppy chewing on his fingers. ‘Honey, please. He’s straight. Off limits for me unless you happen to toss his poor heart to the gutter. Then I’ll be there to pick up the beautiful broken pieces and convince him to try another side.’
Snap has no idea who’s broken whose heart, but I’m not about to tell him. ‘Choose?’
He rolls his eyes. ‘Whatevs. Don’t go all PC on me, Kitten. You know you’ll never win.’
He’s right. But I don’t care, I’m too busy looking at the vodka bottle, about to tell him to hand it over when I notice his I’ve-done-something-bad look.
‘What?’
‘Promise you won’t be angry.’
‘I’m not promising anything.’
‘Try.’
I lean forward and pick up the little rake from his Zen garden. ‘Tell me or the sand gets it.’
‘Step away from the garden.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Okay, okay. Put it down, and I’ll tell you.’
I do.
He takes a breath. ‘I called Harry.’
‘What?’
He grimaces. ‘You said you wouldn’t be mad.’
‘No, I didn’t. Snap, what did you do?’
‘The night he wrote that note in the pub? I copied his number down. Just to be safe.’
‘Snap!’
‘I worry for you. I knew he looked familiar, but I couldn’t figure out why.’
‘What did you say to him?’
‘Only that I’d break his kneecaps if he hurt you.’
I’m speechless.
‘Honey, don’t be angry. I was just protecting you.’
‘Unbelievable.’
‘Sweetie, you’re an innocent—’
‘I am NOT innocent. You have no idea what I’ve been through.’
‘No, I don’t. Because you’re so touchy. You never open up. You have to learn to trust someone. You can’t go through your whole life on self-depend mode.’
‘Of course I can.’ I go over to him and snatch the vodka bottle. ‘Watch me.’
I return to my side of the table and sink another shot. Fuel for anger. At my own stupidity. I need to shut up before I say too much.
Snap is silent as he observes me from his chair. I’m not sure what his expression is: sad, pitying or disbelieving. I don’t like any of them. He stands, and I brace myself. He’d better not be coming over to give me a hug. He pulls up his sleeve. ‘Remember these?’
I look at his cutting scars. Most have faded, but they’re still there and always will be.
‘Yes.’
He unbuttons his shirt, turns his back and lets the material fall. Across his back are more criss-cross scars. Only thicker. I suck in my breath. He couldn’t have done those himself.
‘My father thought he could belt the homo out of me.’
I stare in horror, realising only now why, even though he’s developed the fittest body, taking care of it religiously at the gym, I’ve never seen him shirtless. It’s me who moves first. I put my arms around him. His cheek is freshly-shaven, and he smells divine as always – some foreign cologne that I can never remember the name of. He hugs me back, then pushes me away so he can button up.
‘Pour us both another shot, sister. I’m cancelling my night out. It’s time you and I shared some truths.’
So, I tell him about Harry. I tell him more about Mum – how devastating her illness was. And how hard it was living with Samuel. But that’s all. I try. I really do. But I’m afraid if the words come out, they’ll swallow me, and I’ll disappear somewhere dark, and I won’t find my way back.
I’m traitorous for not trusting him.
