When we can’t bear the stickiness anymore, we shower, sharing a hundred kisses under a warm rain.
We nestle close, blankets up to our ears, whispers fine lace in our cocoon.
“Can you stay the night?”
“Can I stay all the nights?”
“Can you say that again in the morning?”
“Can you move in with me?”
“Can we tell Mum and Tom the truth?”
“Can we do it together?”
“Can we run away, if . . .”
“Can they stop us?”
These thoughts and reflections are my new closest companions. We’re together in my dreams, the whole night, making plans for the future.
Last night I spent in her arms—and tonight I hate her—which being interpreted, means that I adore her; that I cannot lie in my bed and not feel the magic of her body. I feel more powerfully all those so-termed sexual impulses with her than I have with any man. She enthrals, enslaves me—and her personal self—her body absolute—is my worship.
K. Mansfield, Journal
I don’t remember which step it was when we stopped holding hands. I don’t remember who let go of whom. All I know as we round into the kitchen, where Mum is holding Julia and preparing pikelet batter and Tom is pouring coffee, is that we’re not touching anymore.
“Ethan,” Tom says, surprised. “You’re here early.”
Mum’s attention snaps to us; her gaze takes us in carefully. She doesn’t seem surprised.
It seemed so simple, last night. We’d bite the bullet. Just get it done.
Julia struggles away from Mum, shrieking our names. She frees herself with the clap of her little shoes on tile and she throws herself at Ethan, lifting her arms, demanding to be picked up.
He pales and pats her head.
She stretches her arms up, an appeal.
My stomach is in my throat.
How is it love if I make him choose like this?
Tom’s eyes are narrowing. There’s something in them that feels like a recoil. Like he might guess, doesn’t want to hear it. Won’t hear it.
There’s movement behind us, someone—or someones—hovering outside the door.
“Well?”
Mum takes Tom’s hand and squeezes. “This might be difficult, Tom. Give them a moment.”
Tension thickens between us. It feels explosive.
“Efin,” Julia whines.
Pick her up. Just pick her up.
Ethan’s frozen.
I start to bleed on the inside. Start to hate Ethan, just as I hate myself, for not being true to us.
Ethan looks at me as his pain flashes across his face. He shakes his head, a tiny movement, a silent conversation.
I wish . . .
Me too.
I can’t be close to you.
I’ll miss you.
We’ve been missing each other since we first met. We knew we could never be.
So, what is this? Later?
No. It’s goodbye.
“Bennet’s offered me a room at his place.”
We’re made to stay for breakfast, and we play along, acting our parts.
Cress and Ford and Bennet join us too, all confused at Ethan being here. Cress the most. Then, she’d woken to an empty house.
Ford gives me a couple of sideways glances. And Bennet, next to me, leans in close and asks when exactly I’m moving to Wellington, and if it happens to be as spontaneous as today, he’ll make that work.
“Thank you.”
“Always.”
Tom makes a toast to change. To the joys of the future. He asks Cress if she’d play something on the harp and delicate music fills the air, notes a buffer between Ethan and me, each one pushing us further apart.
He’ll have Cress.
I’ll have Bennet.
Ford keeps looking at me strangely, and as soon as there’s an opportunity, he drags me into the hall and up the staircase. He’s too eager, and I trip on a step.
In a flash Ethan is steadying me and scowling at Ford.
Ford laughs. “Aren’t you awfully protective of your little brother?”
“My stepbrother.”
Something in Ford’s face flickers, and the hairs on my nape lift. I shake Ethan off, even as I dread this might be the last touch between us.
Ethan curses under his breath and stiffly says he needs something from upstairs. He leaves, and Ford crowds me into the nook of shelves on the landing. A line of Katherine Mansfield books stretches beside us.
He keeps his voice low. “Are you and Ethan . . . Was that play . . .”
“No.”
His eyes widen. He doesn’t believe me. “I see.”
“Nothing is happening there, Ford.”
He nods. “That’s why you’re leaving.”
I say nothing.
He says nothing.
I clear my throat, bracing for his mockery. “Do you care?”
He cocks his head. “It never was about Bennet . . .”
I shove his chest and push past him. “I’ve got to pack.”
“I don’t care,” he calls after me.
I glance over my shoulder; he’s staring up at me, earnestly.
He continues, “I meant what I said last night. I’ve never met someone like you before. There’s something . . . magical about you. There’s so much more to you, so much more than I could ever have imagined. So what you fell for the wrong person? There’s time to fall for the right one.”