Leave Me Breathless

‘It’s been a while since we visited. We should get some flowers for her grave when we get home.’

‘Good plan.’ I pull up to a roundabout, indicating left for the main street in Grange. Something catches my eye across the street, and I squint, trying to zoom in. What the . . . ?

‘Dad!’

I jump and slam my foot on the brake, just stopping in time for the red light. ‘Shit,’ I breathe, immediately scanning the other side of the road again. I thought I saw . . .

‘God, Dad, you scared the shit out of me.’

‘Hey!’ I scorn her, reaching across and slapping her leg. ‘Don’t let me hear you talk like that.’

‘Hey, is that Hannah?’

I follow Alex’s pointed finger, finding Hannah up ahead getting in a taxi. ‘Looks like it,’ I muse quietly.

‘What’s she doing in Grange?’

I pull away when the light turns green, forcing nonchalance. ‘Beats me.’ I peek up at my rearview mirror, seeing the cab pull out and take a right. But really, what is she doing in Grange? And why do I care?

I don’t know what it is with Alex lately, disappearing on me constantly. She was supposed to be getting flowers from Mr Chaps’s shop, while I got something for dinner. I stalk up and down the aisles with my basket full of stuff, scanning the space, and with each aisle that turns up no results, my dread multiplies. I have a horrible feeling I know exactly where she is.

I grab a few bunches of white roses – Mum’s favourite – and slam my basket on the counter at the till, ignoring Brianna’s starry eyes as she scans my things. ‘Did you see Alex leave?’ I ask her.

‘Yes, she went toward the post office.’

The post office, which is just past Hannah’s shop. ‘Great,’ I say to myself, tossing a few notes on the counter and claiming my bags. ‘Keep the change.’

I stomp out and dump the shopping in the back of my freshly repaired truck, then throw myself in the driver’s seat, my eyes laser beams trained on the front of Hannah’s shop. Ten minutes pass. No Alex. My muscles become more tense by the minute, until I’m forced to remove myself from my truck before a cramp sets in. I walk up and down, constantly looking up to Hannah’s shop. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ I snap at no one, striding down the street. What’s the problem, anyway? Hannah’s the one who’s been avoiding me. Maybe now I can get the explanation I deserve. Or perhaps an apology. Not that any of it will make a difference. I’m over it, and Alex’s words earlier have only confirmed that it’s a good thing.

My heart does some weird galloping shit the closer I get to the cute little arts-and-crafts shop. Stupid heart. I reach the door and butterflies join my thumping heartbeats. Stupid butterflies. I open the door and smell her immediately. Stupid raspberries. Then I see her and my whole damn world turns inside out and upside down. Stupid fucking world.

She’s sitting at an easel, swishing a brush loaded with paint from side to side. And she’s wearing the dungarees she had on the night I met her. Her hair is piled high, wisps falling here, there, and everywhere around the huge red scarf tied in a bow on her head. The legs of her dungarees are rolled up messily, she’s in a sleeveless T-shirt, revealing her shoulders, and her feet are adorned in a pair of red Birkenstocks.

She is perfectly Hannah.

‘One second,’ she says, the sound muffled. I register the brush in her mouth as she gets up close to the canvas and dots the brush that’s in her hand from one side to the other. Then she leans back. Inspects her work. Nods to herself. Looks at me.

And life as I know it ends here. Her eyes widen in surprise, and definitely panic, and she quickly shoves her palette of paints to the side, taking the spare brush from between her teeth. ‘Hi,’ she says, pushing up off the stool.

‘Hi,’ I reply, lifting a pathetic hand. And then we stare at each other, the silence unbearably difficult. I’ve slept with this woman. Had the most amazing night with this woman. And now . . .

Hannah decides to break the awkward silence, which is a good job as I have no idea what to say now that I’m here. ‘Did you want something?’

Yes, take your clothes off and let me go to paradise again. ‘No, nothing.’ I stuff my hands in my pockets. ‘Actually yes, I came to get my daughter.’

A few creases stretch across Hannah’s forehead, and I notice a blob of paint above her eyebrow. I should wipe it off. And the bit on her arm. And the splash on her neck.

‘Your daughter isn’t here,’ she says tiredly.