Getting Real

“I want to take you for an X-ray.”

“I don’t think it’s broken.” Not her hand anyway. The rest of her was broken so long ago she barely knew how to live anymore, and all of that hurt was so fresh, so present because she was back under the blue Australian skies.

“I want to be sure.”

She looked at him and instead of rage saw something else, resignation, comprehension? But there was only so much Jake could understand and nothing he could fix.

“I don’t hate you, Rie.” He folded his fingers through hers.

She looked down at their hands. Was he testing her injury or something else? He’d shortened her name. He didn’t let go. He was forgiving her and it was too much. “After what I just did, with no good reason?” She shook her head and pulled her hand away. “You’re a candidate for canonisation.”

“You must have had a reason. Is Bunk making you uncomfortable?” She shook her head. She couldn’t talk about her reason. Though perhaps Jake was the only one in the world who could understand what panic could make you do. She dropped her head down on his shoulder, said in a miserable little voice, so unlike the power she had on stage, “I think you’re growing on me.”

He kinked his neck to look at her face. “What like a fungus?”

“No, like for real.”

He swivelled and took her shoulders in his hands, surprise rang in his voice. “What? You think I’m weak as piss and you just proved it again tonight in front of fifty thousand witnesses.”

“I—”

“God, Rie. I’m not sure it’s possible to shock a phobia out of someone but if anyone can do it you can.”

She looked in his eyes, so remote earlier, but now she saw he was amused. He’d forgiven her enough to laugh at her. She had another brain snap. She put her open palm on his cheek, leaned into him and kissed him.

He made a surprised, “haah,” under her lips and then hissed when her tongue touched his.

“Yeah,” she whispered, “you’re growing on me.” She kissed him again, this time less tentatively, opening her mouth to his.

He resisted until he didn’t. Until he kissed her back, until he cupped the back of her head and held her to him. He tasted of coffee and mints and safety and escape. And she wanted that so badly. She moved over his lap and he shifted to let her straddle his thighs, his hands now on her back, sliding on the silk of her robe. Her hands were on his chest, pressing, holding, hanging on to the solid reality of him.

She got lost in him. Lost in the rush of sensation and the roar of sweet need. It was familiar and foreign and from nothing, now ess

ential. It took her breath away and it made a gift of forgetting.

She gasped when he pulled away, pulled back into the world, breathing heavily, and she heard the beeping—his phone. He snatched it out of his pocket.

“Yeah. Okay. Cool. Thanks.”

His face was flushed. He hung up, pinned her with a squint; maybe now he was angry. “What was that about?”

She looked at his throat, working to swallow. He was as affected as she was. “Brain snap.” His voice softened. “You’re prone to them tonight.”

She sighed. “I’m something out of the ordinary.”

“Are you sorry that happened?” Was still happening. He was still holding her, his hands on her hips, his phone and the real life it brought set aside. She shook her head. “It’s not like me, but I’m not sorry.”

He breathed out hard and closed his eyes. He tipped his head til it hit the back of the couch. He wasn’t buying it. He’d think she lied. She knew he’d seen her sitting in Jonathan’s lap. He’d think it was the same thing, that she was anyone’s. But she was suddenly too tired and it was too hard to explain why Jonathan meant nothing.

Jake lifted his head. He was focussed again. All business. He pushed her away. “I want to get you to casualty tonight for that X-ray.”

She stood. She needed distance too. “Yes, that makes sense.” She looked around for clothes, thinking of what she could put on quickly to give her a disguise.

“I’ll wait for you outside.”

She looked up and he was gone.

They took the bike, arrived at a riotously busy casualty department full of stoned, drunk, disorderly, sad and stupid accident victims. Half of them were probably Ice Queen fans. In the crazed activity of the waiting room, with her hair under a cap and a sloppy jacket on, no one took any notice of her, though Jake was on edge, watchful for signs of her being recognised and hassled.