I told Sal that I missed her, and she said that she missed me too. We said it back and forth a few times through the call, especially after I mentioned the car accident. I shared just enough to paint a picture of a grand gesture that’d gone unbelievably wrong. She gasped and swore in all the right places and seemed happy when I told her I’d been coming to surprise her. I guess I made myself sound like a legendary boyfriend. The sort that steals a car and hits the road for two hundred and fifty kilometres so he can see his girlfriend. A guy of the super variety.
Yeah. And I’m also the new prime minister of Australia. I’m moving into the Lodge on Monday.
Sal knows I’m no hero, but I had to try to cancel out all the weeks we’ve been apart and make up for lost time. That’s why I didn’t mention Layla’s name again. Couldn’t mention it. Just like I didn’t ask why Sal’d told me she was lying low if she was planning on partying all weekend. And why I had to stop myself asking why Woody’s arm is wrapped around her shoulders in every second photo of them together. Our catch-ups need to be full of ‘Wish you were here’ and ‘Wish I was there’, don’t they? How else are you meant to cram a relationship into a handful of rushed phone calls and texts?
Especially when I’ve just spent a night in a car with another girl.
A girl who won’t stop winking and singing and humming and forgetting to adjust her baggy top, which keeps slipping down over her bare shoulder.
Definitely not a champion boyfriend.
It isn’t until I’m chowing into my half of the cheeseburger that I realise Sal didn’t bother to dig for details from me either. Not about the family friend I’m travelling with, or what I’d planned for the surprise, or what I did all night in the middle of freakin’ nowhere.
She could be as worn out as I am from feeling stretched between two states, or she mightn’t have wanted to be the one to ruin the moment. Or maybe she just doesn’t care.
At school, all our mates thought Sal and I were meant to be. That we were ‘locked in’ as her friends used to say. For two years I believed them. It’s easy to believe stuff if you’re told it often enough. Except, I think as I wind down the window, I haven’t been told it for a while.
‘D&M skills: five out of five.’
‘What?’
‘Earth to MD!’ Layla tickles my side. ‘I said D&M skills: five out of five. Driving skills: two out of five. That one’s on me, obviously. Company: four stars. We’re excellent sorts, but there’s always room for improvement.’
I swivel to face her. ‘Please. Company is at least four and a third. At least.’
‘Snacks: three and a half,’ she says with a laugh. ‘We had some tasty choices, but we stuffed up the sweet-to-savoury ratio. And those jelly snakes have left the weirdest taste in my mouth. Music: half out of five. That one’s on both of us, although we didn’t count on the whole sleeping-on-the-side-of-the-road thing. Next time we’re bringing a speaker and batteries.’
‘Next time?’
‘I’m focusing on the positives. My survival guide for Durnan is all about the positives.’
‘Oh, yeah.’ I roll my eyes. ‘We’ve stuffed the car, you lied to get out of training, my girlfriend doesn’t give a rat’s, and for some reason you won’t call your boyfriend for help. Remind me where the positives are?’
I suck in a breath. I hadn’t meant to explode like that.
‘Wow. Anger management much?’
My palms sweat as I wait for her to say something else, but she only stares ahead, tapping her fingers on the wheel.
‘Lay …’ She doesn’t leap to finish my sentence like she often does. This is bad.
‘Nah, it’s true. It’s a big rotten mess.’
‘Stop. You were right.’
She arches an eyebrow as if to say go on.
‘And that other stuff — the lie, your boyfriend — none of that’s my business. And yeah, there’s been stuff happen that I wish didn’t, but … but last night was still somehow fun.’
I glance at her, trying to gauge if she’s soaking it in. It’s impossible to tell because she won’t look in my direction.
‘The most fun I’ve had in ages, despite the big rotten mess.’ There. I catch a smile. ‘And if I have to rate it … well, overall road trip: four and a half out of five. I think we could’ve done without the whole accident part. But the rest? The rest was perfect.’
Pause.
Pause.
Pause.
And then.
‘Overall trip: four and a half stars,’ she says. ‘I agree. Anyway, what’s the time check, good sir?’
She’s back.
‘Two thirty-three, Miss Montgomery. We’ll be home in about fifteen. Mum and Dad will be at the races, and Trent’s not back ’til tomorrow arvo, so we’ve got time to spare.’
‘What a finish. Legendary, some might say.’
‘And some would be correct. I reckon we swing past mine for like two minutes so I can drop off my stuff — you know, after “staying the night at Murph’s” — so Mum and Dad don’t freak that I’ve bailed for Sydney with him or something. Then it’s straight to the mechanic.’
‘Your parents love you so much it makes me sick. And by the way, I love this plan. It’s genius.’
* * *
We slow to a stop in front of my house. Layla spots Trent tearing across the veranda before I do.
‘What do we do? MD? Should we get outta here? Shit!’
I’m frozen.
Trent was supposed to be away camping for another night, but there’s no time to wonder why he’s back so soon. He’s seen us, which means he’s also seen the giant dent in the bonnet and the crack yawning across the windscreen. If he was going to be annoyed about us taking his work car, he’s going to go postal about us banging it up.
I unbuckle my seatbelt, wondering if it’s too late to escape and start a new life thousands of kilometres away in Darwin or Byron Bay. As he barrels down the driveway, I can see he’s barefoot, shirtless and ruddy — maybe blistering from too much time water-skiing with the boys, or maybe so angry his body is close to self-combusting.
Layla’s widened eyes search mine for guidance, but I’ve still got nothing. After months in overdrive, my brain has chosen this instant to take a sick day.
Trent’s arms pump back and forth at his sides as he storms towards us, shouting so many obscenities our neighbours will have enough material to talk about for the next six months.
He opens the door before I can, now so close I can see a vein pumping in his forehead.
Hand gripping the top of my T-shirt, he yanks me out of the car and pins me against the back passenger door.
‘I can explain!’ I say as the door handle digs into my lower back. ‘Let me explain!’
‘Go on then.’
I strain away, pushing at his hands, body wilting against the car. ‘Let … go … first.’ I feel pathetic and bet I look it in front of Layla too.
‘What happened to my car, mate?’
‘Trent, let him go.’ Layla circles around the car to stand behind him. ‘Let him go then I’ll explain.’
‘He’s a big boy, Montgomery.’
Without warning, Layla throws herself on Trent’s back. She wraps her arms around his neck and jerks backwards, putting all of her weight into it. He sways on his feet, but finds his balance, grunting for her to get off him. Her knees and feet dig in around his waist, her hands clutch at his throat, his shoulders, his collarbone, anything she can make contact with. Trent’s grip on me loosens, slipping a little every time she pulls.
‘Montgomery, relax!’ He chokes out a laugh. ‘Jesus, I’m only messing around! I’ll let go! I’ll let go!’
She doesn’t though, and with a final tug from her, I manage to twist out of Trent’s grasp. I fall to the side and my hip slams into the open car door.
Trent walks over to join Layla, who has flopped onto the grass, panting. The two of them sit side by side, arms wrapped around their knees. He’s always like this — exploding, then relaxing within a few minutes. A human firecracker.
I plonk down next to Layla, rubbing at my side. ‘You’re a real jerk, Trent, you know that?’
‘You stuffed the car, bro.’ He shakes his head. ‘Mum and Dad are going to blow up when they see it. What were you doing?’
‘Relax, you two, it’s my fault,’ Layla interrupts. ‘Tell him, Milo, tell him we could’ve died. I didn’t see a roo coming, but it was an accident. Just an accident.’
‘I love ya, Montgomery, but he flogged my car.’ Trent leans back on the grass so his shoulders and biceps pop.
I sit up straighter. ‘It’s technically mine too.’
Trent laughs. ‘You’re mucking. Well, the old man’s not gonna let you in a fifty-kilometre radius of it now anyway.’ He tugs at a blade of grass, swearing to himself. ‘So a roo, huh? Poor bugger — did it make it?’
I swallow. ‘I don’t know.’
‘There’s some big ones out this way. You alright? How ’bout you, Lay?’
He got there in the end.
‘We just need a mechanic,’ Layla says, and shoots me a reassuring smile.
‘Not sure why,’ Trent says. ‘It’s gotta be a write-off.’
‘Why are you even home?’ I ask, eager to get the attention off us. ‘What happened to camping?’
‘Raj’s missus showed up and it changed the whole vibe so we called it early.’ He shakes his head again as he looks at the car. ‘Unbelievable. The front half of that crapbox is a disaster.’
‘I’m getting it fixed before anyone else finds out.’
‘Better scram then, bro. Mum’s inside.’
‘What? Why didn’t you tell me? I thought she was at the races.’
‘Calm ya farm, her hair appointment went over or something.’
Freakin’ Trent. As insightful as a tick.
Mum’s voice pipes up behind us. ‘Thought I heard a commotion out here. Hi, you three!’
Perfect.
She teeters towards us in heels and a fancy dress, adjusting a ridiculous hat in the shape of a flower. Oblivious to what’s going on with us, she rattles on about her new hairdresser and Dad’s tickets to the VIP marquee.
‘It’s so gorgeous to see you all lined up like that,’ she gushes. ‘Just like old times. I swear I have a photo somewhere just like it.’
Layla hurries to her feet. ‘Ah, you look great, Jen … I was, ah, just leaving.’
‘So soon?’ Mum takes us all in before her gaze rests on the car. ‘Jesus Christ on a cracker! What happened?’
She totters over for a closer look, running her manicured hand over the dented bonnet, gasping when she sees the windscreen.
‘I can explain everything,’ I say. ‘We’re okay, but we hit a kangaroo and —’
‘You and Murph did this? You took the car?’ Mum’s voice is trembling.
‘No … not Murph. Just me.’
‘And me,’ Layla adds. Even her voice is shaking a little. ‘I was driving.’
‘I’m the only one to blame here,’ I add.
Mum clears her throat. ‘Inside the house now, Milo.’
‘But, Mum, let me explain what —’
‘I said now.’ Her tone is hard. ‘Trent? Are you also involved?’
He keeps his head down. Despite his flaws, he’s not into ratting anyone out.
‘Milo, I said inside.’
I haven’t moved ’cos I’m still processing if there’s a way to get out of this without dragging Layla through it too.
Mum grabs my arm, nails digging in, and pulls me towards the house. I don’t bother to resist this time; I just hurry to keep up with her.
She pauses for a second and turns to face Layla, who’s still standing on the lawn, one boot kneading the grass. ‘Is someone coming to pick you up, Layla?’
‘I don’t think so, but I can walk home,’ she says. ‘I’m so sorry, Jen.’
Her voice is quiet, barely a murmur. She wouldn’t ever have seen Mum like this. I don’t think I have — not towards me anyway. I float under the radar most of the time. It was always Trent who got grounded or suspended. Never me.
Layla’s eyes widen as Mum barks at Trent to drive her home in her car. She insists she’s fine, but that doesn’t mean squat to Mum, who tells Trent to put on a shirt then do what she says.
I’m not even sure why Mum’s taking her frustration out on him right now. Maybe habit. Maybe disbelief that it’s me who’s stuffed up for once. As Trent heads up the driveway to grab a T-shirt, she turns around to drop her most cutting glare on me.
‘I am barely keeping it together right now,’ she says, disappointment oozing from every pore. ‘Taking the car without permission, worrying me sick at the thought of what could’ve happened … don’t even think about lying to me when we get inside, Milo. Don’t even consider it.’
Layla catches my eye. Her look is apologetic, watery. I’m sorry.