Eleven Weeks (29 page)

And then, the piece de resistance, the pop of colour in my monochrome style, the black and white floral curtains. Granted, perhaps it was a little unfortunate choice, but they worked, nonetheless.

“Mum … Dad …” Mum clasps her hands together, her eyes bugging out of her head. Dad raises his lips in a half-smile. They look genuinely happy and I’m so very grateful to them in that moment. “Thank you,” I say in a very small voice. What they’ve done … what it means is just … I swallow a lump in my throat. Tears well in Mum’s eyes, and Dad has his lips pressed together.

“You know I won’t live here forever though, right?” I try and break the tension.

“And?” Dad tilts his head. His spectacles slide down his nose.

“And so it’s a lot of work for someone who might leave this town to go to uni,” I say, my arm sweeping the room.

“Stacey ...” Mum pauses. “I know it seems like we’re not there for you a lot. We were so lucky to have kids who were so … I guess so self-sufficient, and I …” Mum’s lower lip trembles. “I think I forgot how to be a mum.”

I press my lips together. The sight of one of your own parents crying is heartbreaking to say the least.

“Anyway, I know you can’t erase some of the things we’ve done overnight. But … we’re going to try so much harder.” She launched herself at me and gripped my hand, pressing her fingers into my palm. “We’re going to try.”

Big, fat tears welled in my own eyes and I struggled to keep them at bay. “You know I”—sniff—“love you guys, right?”

“We love you too, Stacey.” Dad walked over and rubbed his hand against my back. “We love you too.”

Dear Small Human,

I’m sorry. I know I’ve said it before, but I need to say it again.

I’m sorry for recklessly running across a road, and ruining your life. I put my heart before yours.

God, it hurts. I used to read about people losing babies in the gossip magazines, and I’d wonder—man, writing this makes me feel like an idiot—I’d wonder how come they’d get so depressed when their baby wasn’t even the size of a DVD case yet. How the hell could I have known?

How on earth could I have not?

I miss you. You know something weird? I’m still taking those folic acid supplements. I’m not even pregnant anymore, but it’s like I can’t give them up.

They’re all I have left of being your mum.

I’m going to be okay, though. I’m trying. I think I’ll study, become a drama teacher. After all, pretending is kind of my thing.

I miss you, but I know that one day—not tomorrow, not next month, and maybe not even next year—one day, it will stop aching.

I don’t think I’ll write to you again.

But thanks for listening.

Thanks for … Thanks for everything.

Mu
Stacey xx

“K
ATE.”
I throw open the door and fly across the room, enveloping my best friend in a huge hug, crushing her arms to her sides in the warm afternoon light.

“How are you?” Kate asks as I pull away, hiding my slight wince from the ribs. Damn, those skinny bones take ages to heal.

“You idiot.” I punch her gently on the arm. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Kate mumbles. She casts a sidelong look to the left and I see a guy there sorting through a box of prints. He looks nothing like Lachlan, from his blue eyes to his pale skin, but I know it must be his brother, because who else?

I launch my next attack on him, wrapping my arms around him as if we’re long lost cousins twice removed in some sort of a country hick movie. He blinks, but ends up patting an arm on my back gently.

“You must be Stacey.” His voice sounds quiet, but I think he’s smiling. Just a little.

“This sucks.” I pull back and look at him, straight in the eye. Because sometimes, “sorry” just doesn’t cut it. For a situation like he’s in, “sorry” seems like the cheapest word you can buy.

“Hell yeah.” Johnny gives a weak smile.

“I think this is a nice idea, though.” I turn and look at the art that’s already lining the walls. There are black and white sketches he’s pencilled out. Images of the beach, the street … lips … Kate’s lips? “He was such a talented bastard.”

“Stacey!” Kate’s jaw drops, and I shrug. I reckon Lachlan would have appreciated it.

“Hey, hey.”

That voice.

Michael.

I turn to see him swagger—yes, Michael,
swagger
—into the room. The white shirt he’s wearing fits close to his body, the black jeans giving it that slightly rock star look. His chocolate eyes are alive with enthusiasm.

Where the hell did my knees go?

“Michael.” Kate smiles and gives him a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks so much for stopping by to help.”

I give Kate some serious daggers in her back, which I’m sure Michael sees. Who cares? It’s not like he likes me. People who like you reply to your text messages.

“No worries.” Michael nods. “I think this is just such a nice—hey, man.” Michael sticks out his hand in front of Johnny who slowly takes it and gives a single pump.

Kate doesn’t let the moment last long, instead angling herself so she’s facing the two of us. Michael and me.

Oh, no.
Surely she’s not going to …

“Okay, well, I need you two to go through the guest list and make a check sheet for the bouncers, then sort out a music playlist,” Kate says. “But Johnny and I need to concentrate, so I’ll need you in the backroom.” She gestures toward the little room at the back of the café.

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” I raise my eyebrows. What the hell is she trying to pull? I can’t be stuck in a small room with him.

“Nope.” Kate shakes her head, and lays her best puppy-dog eyes on me.
Bitch.
“I think you’re a good friend who’ll do what I ask in my time of need.”

Damn it! How the hell can I argue with that?

Michael does his usual energetic walk over to the room and I traipse behind, my feet sticking to the floor.

The back room of the café is as you would expect a back room to be. It’s full of boxes of stock, paperwork littered across a desk, and a heap of switches and other important looking things flashing electronically in the corner. The deep scent of coffee washes over me. I wonder if you can get high from this stuff?

Thud.

I spin around. The door has slammed shut behind us.

Bitch.

“No coming out till your jobs are done,” Kate shouts through the door.

Double bitch!

I suck in a deep breath, and spot a sheet of paper with names down the side, crosses and ticks in a column next to it.
“Okay, so I’m guessing this is the list …”

I pick it up and rifle around the items on the desk in search of a pen and piece of paper so we can create a new sheet for the bouncers. Honestly, why she didn’t she just print this out is beyond me …

“You know, you could at least talk to me,” I say. My eyes don’t leave the list of names in front of me. They can’t. “I’m sorry about everything. I’m … I’m making an effort, you know? I’m trying to change.”

Once more, I’m greeted by silence. If I hadn’t heard him speak to Kate and Johnny before, I’d swear the guy had turned mute.

What a freaking dick, anyway. Who ignores someone, someone you used to care about, when you’re locked in a tiny enclosed space together?

I slam the pen on the desk and spin around, my eyes flashing. Only to see …
me.

Michael has done something fancy with his computer and what I’m guessing is a little projector, because a photo of me is blown up and projected onto the back of the white storeroom door.

In the photo I’m laughing, leaning forward, and even without the glory of high-definition and full colour, you can see my eyes are sparkling blue and that I really am … happy.

“Michael …” I look at him. He’s got this small, close-lipped smile on his face, and is leaning back against the counter his computer is resting on.

He presses a button on the computer and soft music starts to play in the background, the gentle strains of a guitar strung along in a nice, easy fashion.

“Stace, you have to know that I wasn’t mad about the baby,” Michael says in a voice that makes me step closer to hear him better. “I mean, sure, I wasn’t thrilled, but you know it’s more than that, right?”

“Of course I know …” I silently add
now
to the end of the sentence. I’ve known since the day in the park, but sometimes, you’re so blinded by your own trees, it’s hard to see the forest. Or however that stupid saying goes. Honestly, who can be stuck in a grove of trees and not see a forest?

“The thing is, you pushing me away hurt,” he says.

“I didn’t mean to … I only did it because I didn’t think I could be … what you needed me to be.” The words come out surprisingly easily. Only once did they get peanut butter-glued to my throat.

“I know,” Michael says, and I grin as I catch him muttering “now” under his breath. We are so very similar and yet so completely different. “And that’s why I’ve made you this.”

He hits a different button on the computer in front of hum and all of a sudden the soft music changes to “Sadie, the Cleaning Lady”, an old John Farnham song that has me bursting into laughter.

“What the hell?”

“Shh!” Michael hisses, and the pictures begin to change.

The first image is me, but not me—it’s my head super-imposed over that of a woman cleaning a bathroom. She’s kitted out in fifties housewife attire, a handkerchief knotted around her crown. Underneath the picture, in bold font, it reads:

You could be a cleaning lady.

“Really?” I fold my arms and give Michael a
look
, but he only laughs. I have to admit, a small giggle escapes my mouth, too. It’s pretty funny. And he’s freaking
hot.

And not mad at me.

Next the image changes, and this time it’s a picture of what I’m fairly sure is supposed to be Frankenstein
,
pouring some sort of bubbling liquid from one test tube into another. Again, my face has been superimposed over where his ugly mug would be, with the caption below reading:

You could be a mad scientist.

“Michael.” I laugh.

The song reaches the chorus, and the image changes again. This time it’s a picture of my head superimposed onto what looks like someone in a swimsuit pageant, mid-strut down the catwalk in a red bikini.

You could be a swimsuit model.

“Now that one really isn’t a stretch.” Michael winks, and I roll my eyes. But I take a step closer to him. He doesn’t move away. In fact he—he reaches out his hand. His deep brown eyes sparkle and I delicately place my hand in the palm of his.

His hand is warm, and soft, and strong. And safe. Lord, his hand is
safe
.

The next slide shows up and every bit of control I just exhibited flies from my body as a photo of a woman cradling a newborn baby in her arms comes onto the screen.

You could be a mother.

“Michael.” My voice does that stupid high-pitched thing it does when I’m about to cry and he grabs me, pulling me into his strong arms. I hiccup in a sob, feeling his warmth. It’s nice, here in his arms. I blink back my tears. He stokes my hair.