Inconsolable (16 page)

He nodded. “It's the right thing to do.”

He'd said the important thoughts would wait, that she'd know what to do with them, and she did. “Not for me.”

“Ah, Foley,” he said, his voice soft but heavy like humid summer air.

“I don't know what this is, but it doesn't have to be goodbye.”

He'd closed his eyes again. “It can't be anything else.”

Drum stood and she sighed as a feeling of loss brushed over her in a sprinkle of loose sand, making her shiver, but when she looked up his hand was there.

She took it, and he helped her stand. “There is no rule that says we can't be friends.” If she wanted a life less ordinary she could have a friend who lived in a cave.

He let her hand go. “I'm not the kind of guy you can hang out with in front of TV.”

“No, but you play a mean sunset, and you know how to feed a girl a decent meal.”

“Foley, it—”

She reached over and put her hand over his mouth, his open lips, pliant and damp on her fingers, his beard bristly. He made a shocked sound and stepped back and into a shadow.

She didn't give him time to object further. “Friends go for a run together. They talk about their day. Their evil bosses and their difficult mothers. Friends share a meal. One friend might teach another to meditate. One friend might worry another doesn't have a proper home.”

He shook his head. “I don't need you feeling sorry for me.”

“I don't feel sorry for you. I don't understand you, but I'd like to try.”

“It's not right. It can't be.”

“It's already happening, you and I being friends, and you know it. Otherwise you'd have walked away the moment you knew I was here. It's a great big beach and there was no reason for us to run into each other. No reason for you to want to teach me to meditate. And by the way, I'd like to have another go at it if you're up for it.”

He was facing away, but he might've walked away. He might still.

“Drum, I'll be here tomorrow night for a run and after that I'm going to have a go at this meditation thing, see if I can get it. It would be great if you were here to help me out.”

“No.”

“Of course, if you're busy.” She put emphasis on the busy and he half turned. “Friends can be casual, no strings, no obligations. If I see you,” she shrugged, “I see you.”

She got a nod, but not a commitment. She couldn't read him well enough to know what he was thinking, but she hoped it wasn't still goodbye.

14: Friends

Drum couldn't stay away. But he couldn't reveal himself either. Foley parked her car on the promenade and sat on the hood looking out at the sea. If she looked up to the deck of the surf club she'd see him, but she wouldn't expect him to be there, it was members only and he got to be on the deck because he did odd jobs for the clubbies and they let him come and go as he pleased.

She looked around, locked her car, pocketed the key and went down the ramp to the sand. She wore black Skins, fitted to her knees over legs he wanted to run his hands down. She wore a sky blue tank that showed off the rest of her body, narrow waist, neat ribcage, breasts trapped tight in a sports bra. She had shape to her arms, the indentation of a bicep she'd worked to get. She had an athlete's figure, lean and confident and too easy to watch. He liked her best this way, not in her work dresses and shoes that made her severe, more remote.

He stood on the deck and watched her become smaller as she approached the shoreline and felt guilty about doing it. But at least he wasn't down there waiting for her, holding out an illusion they could be friends like Dorothy and some horror show mash-up of the Tin Man, the Cowardly Lion and the Scarecrow. They'd need a whole new character for him, one without a moral compass. He'd go about looking like a reasonable person, but anyone who had prolonged contact with him would sicken and suffer.

She stood with her feet in the shallows. Hands on her hips, head tipped back so her tail of hair stretched down her back. He didn't want to move until she started running.

On another day, if he wasn't a man without a conscience, he'd stand beside her, feel the same wave lap at his ankles, the same stretch of sand bury his toes. He'd run beside her, adjusting his stride so he didn't outpace her, letting her determine how hard they ran, how long. He gripped the brick edge of the balcony.

He craved that synchronicity of being with her; breathing in the same space, seeing the same vista, hearing her voice, being aware of the cheeky glint in her eye, right before she realised she was flirting and closed it down with a tight expression that locked her thoughts away, but still managed to tell him he disgusted her.

And that was as it should be. Exactly what a man without substance, without backbone, deserved.

Why wasn't she running? She turned and he almost ducked, so real was the feeling she was looking right at him. From where she stood she'd see a figure on the balcony but she wouldn't know it was him, wouldn't expect it to be. He realised she was looking at the clock over the surf club door. So much for casual, she was waiting for him.

He was made of jelly, not stone. He'd go downstairs and when he stood under the clock, if she was still at the shore he'd go down to her. Tell her again, this friends idea was a waste of her time, a threat to her well-being.

From under the clock he couldn't see the shore. Too many parked cars in the way. He glanced up the length of the beach, where he'd be able to see if she was running, and couldn't spot her. He crossed the promenade and stood at the top of the ramp that led down to the sand. She was still at the shore and now she could see him. She made a big armed come here, hurry up gesture. He knew her face would be sunshine itself. But he felt like a storm front.

He jumped the distance from the ramp to the sand and toed off his shoes, leaving them against the wall. They'd be there when he got back; they were too busted up for anyone to want to steal. He'd tell her to go, to leave him alone, to get on with her fucking life.

He watched his feet push into the sand, listened for the clean squeak of shell fragments colliding with skin and when he looked up she was gone. She'd started to move along the wave edge. He quickened his pace and she moved from a walk to a jog. He hit the wet sand and felt his leg muscles contract as he pushed into a run. Did she know he was there? Ahead, she ran around a kid building an epic castle and he slowed to avoid a surfer with a tangled leg rope. Not once did she look behind to see if he followed.

They could travel the whole beach like this, her in front, him behind, starting to sweat but less from the dying heat than the sight of her. Nothing on her body was spare or extra or left over. If he was jelly, insubstantial and weak, she was bamboo, wild and strong and flexible. She could splatter him into a million skerricks of nothing and he would still dirty her with his foulness.

He stopped, feet smacking the wet sand hard, breath coming in grunts. Why was it so hard to remember that? When he looked at her all he felt was want, the steady sting of desire whiplashing around his heart and throat. It made him forget he was unfit, unclean.

“Come on, you big girl.”

He looked up. She'd stopped too, was dancing foot to foot. She jerked her chin up in challenge. “You're not even trying.”

He was trying to do the right thing and that wasn't chasing after her. It wasn't being beside her, being close enough to brush against her, have her voice in his ear and her smile made for him.

She took off again. If he let her go, she'd understand. He looked out at the horizon. It didn't matter if she understood. He'd walked away from the privilege of being known. But with Foley, he craved it. For tonight, just for tonight, if she gave it, he'd take it.

He let one more wave break over his shins. She'd put distance between them. He'd need to work to catch her. He kicked off with a long stride, pounding the wet sand, his footprints stamping deep, hers already filled with water and dissolving. She was running hard, as if she knew the only reason he'd let himself be with her was if he had to work to win that prize.

He pulled his arms in tighter, eased his centre of balance forward and he gained on her. In a few seconds she'd hear him coming, it was all the warning she'd have. If this was a different life, he'd sweep her into his arms, bring them both to an easy rest, take her remaining breath as his own in a kiss to stagger them both. But easy wasn't allowed either, because it'd once been too effortless and others had paid the price for his choices.

She laughed, tossing her head when he raced up behind her. Now beside her, he could see the sweat sheen on her arms and chest. She didn't let up her pace and they raced along together, pounding the shoreline. A mum pulled her toddling kid out of their path. An older woman stepped back, smiling at them to give them their speed, a fisherman held off his cast till they passed in front of him. They were the wind and the sea and every element of life pulsing in between.

The rock pile at the end of the beach loomed and they both slowed, strides shortening, energy reined back, lungs grasping. Foley stopped first and he blasted past her then turned back. She was bent forward, holding her thighs, her back curved to drag in her next breath. Sweat dripped off her chin.

He walked back towards her, pushing his damp hair off his face. Now that he'd caught her, he didn't know what he was supposed to do. How this friends who met to run on the beach together thing was supposed to work, what she'd expect from him that he couldn't deliver.

She looked up, her face red. “That was brilliant.” She dragged a breath in and smiled and she was glorious. “If you made me work like that every day, I'd be the fittest I've ever been.”

She had no idea what it'd cost him to be standing here with her. What it might cost her.

She straightened up. “Let's go back, but not so full-on or I might throw up an organ.” She spun about and started out again, at a more reasonable pace. This at least he could do. He jogged up alongside her.

“You're one fit dude, Drum. You can tell by looking, but now I know it's not all for show.”

He frowned, disturbed by that in ways he couldn't identify.

“That was a friendly observation. Don't get all tense with me.”

He grunted a response, then realised he'd yet to say a word to her. “You're fit. You don't need me.”

“My world is not going to collapse if you don't run with me, but I like it. Tell me that wasn't fun for you and we don't have to do it again.”

He couldn't tell her that. He felt so disconcerted, so out of himself, he was worried that if he looked behind him he'd have left no divots in the sand to prove he existed.

Then she laughed and it was
I told you so
set to music. They ran the length of the beach in silence and then another whole lap with just the sound of their feet and their breath. The light was almost gone when they sat in the sand. He faced the sea.

She faced him. “Tell me what to do again.”

“Close your eyes and focus on one thing.” He snuck a look at her. She had her eyes closed and a twitchy smile, like she'd guessed he'd check. Pieces of hair had come loose from her ponytail and curled around her face. He'd brushed a flyaway strand away from her cheek before he'd thought about it. He hadn't touched more than the wisp of hair, but she must have felt the nearness of his hand before he snatched it away. She opened one eye and smiled.

He gripped his knees, digging his fingers around the bone to keep them still. When he'd touched her last night it was goodbye, now he didn't know what it would be.

“Let your thoughts occur, but don't chase them. Breathe and feel it fill you up.”

His own thoughts were hunting clouds and butterflies with a rapid fire automatic weapon; he couldn't grasp them or pin them down and he was filled with indecision; it weighed on him like a war crime, but he wanted nothing more than a tender tether to her.

She closed the eye and sighed on an exhale. Her body softened, her smile relaxed.

“That's it.”

He turned his face to the sea again and closed his eyes. He tried to let those errant thoughts explode to mist, burn away. He breathed and listened to the sea and failed. His senses were too tuned to her, vibrated with her nearness. He should've felt constrained by that, compromised, but in that moment he gave up fighting it. It was too big, too unexpected and he was tired of this struggle. He opened his eyes, stretched his fingers out on his thighs and looked across at her.

She'd given up too. She was leaning back on her hands. “I'm not very good at this.”

“It's not easy.” It was torture to sit beside her and not want to touch her, to forgive himself enough for that want not to make him feel sick.

“Are you talking about meditating?”

“Yes.” He barked it too quickly and felt transparent when she laughed.

“Is it so bad, this being together like this?”

He turned his face away. “You could be together with any number of eligible, suitable, mother-approved men.”

“You had me up until that crack about mother-approved. Now you've all but mandated our friendship.”

“How is this going to work, this friendship?”

She leaned forward, elbows to her knees, tried to look him in the eye. “Easy.”

It wasn't easy, it was a tidal force; inevitable. Other people tried to befriend him, Paul, some of the staff at Fat Barney's, Tony and his wife Gina, but friends were a luxury he didn't deserve, and Foley was a force of nature who could alter his carefully constructed world, tear the logic of it all down and shred it before he knew where he was. He couldn't afford that. He didn't want it. Going back to the house during the sculpture show had been hard enough, all that luxury and no edge to remind him of why he couldn't have it.