Layla’s nose is pressed against my chest, while her fingers dance against the small of my back. They’re there, then they’re not, like she can’t make up her mind whether to hold me or not. When she first curled into me, my heart was hammering — I bet she heard every thump through my T-shirt — but we’ve been standing like this, almost burying ourselves in each other, for so long my anxiety has thawed.
‘I’m a dead man,’ I say.
She pulls away, her arms loosening from around my waist. ‘Almost. You were almost a dead man. There’s a difference.’
I tell her Trent is going to kill me for stuffing up the work car, then bring me back to life so he can kill me again. I can’t even imagine what Mum and Dad will do if they find out. It’s simple. They can’t find out. They can’t.
She snuggles back into me so suddenly I’m caught off guard. There’s that familiar smell of coconut again. Jesus. It feels wrong to notice that now.
The battered car is still sitting where it landed. Layla hasn’t dared move it yet, and I’m not making my driving debut at the scene of an accident. I look over her head at the trees lined up in a cluttered row in the spreading dark. One tree, with its craggy trunk and branches spiralling into the sky, is within arm’s reach of the car. I try not to let my mind go there; the place where I think about what might’ve happened if Layla hit the brakes one second later. It’s taken this long to stop my heart from thrashing inside my chest.
‘Should we keep driving, or call someone?’ Layla mumbles.
I shake my head. Neither option sounds good when we’re two hours from Durnan and an hour from Canberra. I rule out my parents and Trent for obvious reasons. She rules out Kurt ‘just because’ and refuses to say much else about it. I rule out Dad’s insurance company ’cos I have no idea how that works. She rules out her dad’s girlfriend because she doesn’t want to upset her.
Looks like Sal’s it for now. My grand gesture’s in the toilet.
‘Hey, you’ve reached Sal,’ her voicemail chimes. ‘I’m probably doing something way more fun right now so please leave a message and I’ll try to remember to check it. If that’s you, Mum, yes, I’m looking after myself.’
I leave a voicemail and send her a few texts as back-up.
Half an hour passes and she still hasn’t replied. I scowl at my phone, which is rapidly losing battery, then try her number again.
***
Layla tries to talk herself into reversing the car out of the thicket. Her hands shake on the steering wheel, while mine shake in my lap as I try to ignore the jagged hole in the windscreen.
‘You’ve got this, Lay. Let’s take it slow, yeah?’
‘Yeah.’ She’s chewing on the inside of her cheek so hard I’m worried there’ll be blood.
‘Sure you’re alright?’
‘Yep. Fine.’ Her bottom lip trembles. ‘Stop staring at me like that, Milo. I can feel you staring. Just gimme a sec.’
I watch as she sucks in short, sharp breaths, her hands tightening around the wheel, knuckles clenched.
Jesus.
Her eyes fill with tears again. We can’t drive anywhere tonight. I can’t put her through it, no matter how much I want to get home and deal with the fallout before we risk getting in even more shit.
I tell her to turn off the car and we’ll leave in the morning, then she grabs a bottle of water out of her plastic bag, leaps out of the front seat and clambers onto the boot with the cat ears on her head. I don’t blame her. Not after what happened to us. Not after everything with her mum.
Not that she’s brought that up. And I don’t know if I should bring it up.
Yep, just another day with Layla Montgomery where I wish I had someone whispering lines to me from the wings.
I lift myself onto the boot next to her. Our legs hang side by side and, for a second, as I lie against the back window, everything feels calm. Somehow the accident already seems blurry in my mind, like it’s a dream from a few nights ago and I’m struggling to recall it in full detail.
‘Kinda wish we had something stronger to drink,’ Layla mutters. She sighs. ‘We need to do something about that blood.’
And the dream’s a reality again.
‘We’ll sort it. Promise.’
‘Thanks, dude.’
‘Anytime. Well, hopefully not ever again … you know what I mean.’
‘I do. Hey, I was thinking … if we’re stuck here for the night, can we hold a memorial service? For Skippy?’
‘Serious?’
‘I don’t joke.’ Pause. ‘Fine, I always joke, but not about this.’
‘Not about roadkill?’
‘Don’t call him that. Or her. It might’ve been a her.’
‘You really want to do a funeral?’
‘I do.’
We lie in silence for a while before Lay repositions herself on the boot.
‘Hey, so we seriously could’ve died today, huh?’
‘Don’t say that.’ Hypocrite. I’ve been haunted by the same thought.
‘Hear me out,’ she says. ‘We nearly died, our phones are running out of batteries, we’re stuck in Trent’s dirty-jocks wagon, and you don’t get to see your girlfriend. Tonight blows. It blows hard. We need a little party for two to cheer us up, don’t you reckon?’
‘Here? In the middle of nowhere?’
‘Yes! Okay, there’s no cider or beer, but what good is sitting here doing nothing?’
I gulp down the rest of my water. I can’t tell if she’s serious or trying to distract us, but without a script I’m following her lead and side-stepping any triggers that might upset her. Anything to stop me saying or doing the wrong thing.
‘Alright,’ I say. ‘But we’re leaving by eight in the morning.’
‘Eleven.’
‘No way. Nine.’
‘Ten.’
‘Nine fifteen. We’ve gotta get back for your training in the arvo.’
She swears at herself. ‘At least you remembered that. Hey, any word from Sal?’
I glance at my phone out of habit, but know there’s still nothing. I shake my head. The only thing that’s changed is the battery has dropped down even further. As I turn off my phone to try to save it, I resist the urge to ask Layla why she didn’t call Kurt.
* * *
I lie on my stomach on the car roof and watch Layla rifling through the boot.
‘Boring,’ her muffled voice says. ‘There’s just boxes of books.’
‘Funny that, in a car owned by a bookstore.’
I hear laughing, then, ‘Jackpot!’ She pokes her head out of the boot and waves around a Little Bookshop shirt. ‘There’s a whole carton of them in here. All sizes and everything.’
She passes me her water to hold, then unzips her jeans.
‘Er, whatcha doing?’
‘Dress-ups.’
She rolls up her top, baring her stomach, then tugs at her jeans until they’re over her hips. I look away. I’m still recovering from the first time black lace made a surprise appearance.
‘Dude, chuck me your belt.’
‘Huh?’ I’m still not letting myself look.
‘Just face me, dorkatron. You’re safe.’
Her boots are off. Her jeans are in a heap in the dirt. The top swims on her frame, touching the top of her knees.
‘Your belt?’ she says, holding out her hand.
I roll up to a sitting position, unhook it, then pass it down to her.
‘Nearly there.’ She wrestles my belt around her waist, fashioning the top into a dress. A very tiny dress. She leans against the car as she yanks on her boots, then swipes more red onto her lips. ‘Ta da!’ She puckers her mouth and flings her hands into the air, causing everything to ride up. ‘Friggin’ hell. I guess sudden movements are out.’ She readjusts her outfit, then notices the nametag pinned to the pocket. ‘Veronica?’
‘Our old weekend manager. She’s in Wollongong now.’
‘Veronicaaaa,’ she rolls the word off her tongue. ‘I can be a Veronica.’
‘Veronica would never do this. Any of this.’
Layla ruffles her hair, making it as frizzy as she can. ‘Sure she would. This is such a Veronica thing to do. Now, let me get into character: I’m Veronica, a busy mum with three kids. I’m into scrapbooking, baking wedding cakes for bridezillas, and, when my husband Enrique is at work, knitting sweaters for our sixteen Scottish terriers.’
‘Your imagination terrifies me.’
She grins. ‘Or how about this: I’m Rach, a perky straight-A student who falls for the biggest jock at school, but one day — one seemingly ordinary day — when I’m tutoring him in maths — no, wait, in modern history — at the library, I take off my —’
‘Perve.’
‘I was going to say glasses, perve. Anyway, I take off my glasses, and then we have an epic pash-off in the history section in front of everyone.’
Maybe it’s because she looks ridiculous with her puffed-up hair and smudged lips, maybe it’s because she said ‘we have an epic pash-off’, that my brain almost explodes, or maybe it’s a little of both. Whatever it is, my mouth slides into a smirk. I try to hide it before she sees.
‘Just be you,’ I say.
‘Fine. I’m Layla and I remember when you weren’t so afraid of having fun.’
I gesture at the trees and the twinkling sky. ‘This isn’t fun? Well, considering the circumstances …’
‘It’s getting there,’ she says, kicking at the dirt before closing the boot and climbing up next to me. ‘But remember when you stole your nanna’s false teeth and put them in your mouth? That was fun.’
I cringe. ‘I’d blocked that out. Don’t you have any good memories of me?’
‘All of it’s good,’ she says, squeezing my knee. ‘I shouldn’t tell you this ’cos your ego will grow to the size of the sun, but Mum kinda wanted us to get together one day.’
My guts somersault.
‘Not your dad, though?’ I joke, letting out an awkward snort. ‘It was probably ’cos your mum thought I was boring — a safe option.’
‘Please. I wouldn’t be in the middle of friggin’ whoopdee-knows-where if it wasn’t for you. This isn’t like a normal Friday night for me. You’re not as boring as you think you are, MD.’
‘Ah, thanks. I think.’
‘I never agreed with her, you know? With Mum. About ending up with you.’
‘Yeah. Imagine that.’
‘Oh, I have.’
That’s new information.
‘Kinda anyway. But back then, I’m pretty sure I imagined marrying every boy I met.’
‘Picky, much?’
‘The pickiest.’ She laughs, suddenly interested in the scuffs on her boots. ‘I guess I wondered back then if a Dark would be my first one day.’
‘First what?’ Then it hits me. ‘That? You did?’
She bumps her shoulder against mine. ‘Maybe. Too late now though.’ She mouths oops. ‘Don’t tell Dad. He’ll murder Kurt in his sleep.’
‘Too late, I’m Snapchatting this conversation.’
‘Quiet, you. So have you and Sal …?’
I nod. Barely enough times to fill a hand, but enough for that answer to be the truth.
‘Well. There you go.’
‘There you go.’
Layla scuttles down from the roof and onto the car boot. ‘You were always too scared to kiss me.’
‘No way. I mean …’ Jesus. What do I mean? ‘That came out wrong —’
‘Hello, spin the bottle six years ago,’ Layla says, coming to my rescue. ‘I ended up making out with Toby that night, remember him? He went in with the tongue and everything. Ballsy move, but I guess it made up for your very public knockback.’
Okay, she’s not saving me after all.
But then she smiles. ‘Yep, you were in my museum of hurt or whatever after that. And don’t look so surprised, MD. People always remember the ones who turned them down.’
Shit. How much longer are we stuck here alone together?