Eleven Weeks (3 page)

I press my thighs together again. That unwelcome burn stings me again. I bury my face in my hands.
What was I thinking?

“Happy birthday.”

I turn to my left to see Michael scrambling over the rocks toward me. In his hands, he holds two plastic bags.

He sits down next to me. “Close your eyes.”

Normally, I wouldn’t be so quick to acquiesce, but this is Michael—
my
Michael, who I’m about to watch walk out of my life.

I obediently scrunch my eyes tight. The rustling of paper and plastic mixes together, followed by a flare of energy, and then the distinct acrid scent that can only be attributed to a match burning.

“Happy birthday to you …” Michael sings.

I open my eyes. In front of us, balanced on a higher rock, are two bacon and egg rolls, one with five candles jammed into the doughy surface, all alight. “Happy birthday dear Stacey …”

God, I must have had a big night. Those can’t be tears in my eyes, can they?

“Happy birthday to you.”

I blink, and turn to look at him. He’s smiling, the sort of ear-to-ear grin that just melts your heart. I open my mouth to speak, but I choke on the words; they’re stuck in my throat. What I really want to say is,
why would you do this for me?
But all I vocalise is “thank you.”

“Blow the candles out.” He dips his head toward my bacon and egg cake, and I obediently suck in a deep breath and blow. Five little lights wink out, and I grin.

“Now, if your teeth cut through the roll, I think you have to kiss the closest boy?” Michael asks, biting his lip.

I don’t know if I’m still drunk from the night prior, or if perhaps I’m just so hungover that the simplest of gestures has managed to make me way too emotional. All I know is that one moment I’m giggling, and the next I’m leaning over and kissing Michael on the cheek.

It’s quick, barely longer than a peck. And purely to show my appreciation for all the effort he has gone to.

But he smells of clean, of fresh linen, but with a little bit of man mixed in. And his eyes, have they always been so flecked with gold?

“Thank you.” I pull away, duck my head, then reach over to grab my roll.

Silence stretches out between us, but I can’t make conversation right now. Not when the scent of bacon is slowly healing my soul.

I take a big bite, relishing in the yolk that explodes in my mouth, meshing with the bread and the bacon, covering the taste of something akin to blue cheese gone bad that had previously been getting busy on my tongue.

Bite number two and some sauce squirts down my chin. I swipe it away with my knuckles then go for bite three, freezing when I feel Michael’s gaze on me.

“What?” I ask. He doesn’t waver, focusing on my face. “Haven’t you ever seen anyone eat a bacon and egg roll before?”

“You …” He bites his lip. Then he leans forward, reaches out his hand and cups my chin, using his thumb to gently wipe the corner of my lip.

I swallow. He’s so close to me—his face, his body, his breath. My eyes meet his and get lost once more. He bought me a birthday bacon and egg roll. And he’s always been such a sweetheart …

But he’s Michael.
In-a-band, soon-to-have-groupies, likes-to-tease-you-and-say-you’re-pretty-but-has-never-expressed-real-interest
Michael. Michael who, up until two months ago, was in a relationship. One that lasted for two years.

Michael, who I’ve pretended not to love for as long as I’ve known him.

“You know, Stacey. I kind of like … like …” He swallows.

I give a playful swipe with my hand and push Michael away from my face. I focus my gaze back on my roll. Egg and sauce are oozing out of its middle, pus-like liquid that churns my stomach.

A flash of last night comes back to me.
Sauce, oozing out of a burger. A tongue, oozing out of
his
mouth.
Bile churns up my throat again, and I somehow swallow it down.

“Stace? You okay?” Michael’s concerned expression breaks my reverie and I snap back to the present. To the now.

To my eighteenth birthday. With Michael.

“Fine.” I give a wan smile and attempt another half-hearted bite of my roll, but for me, the magic is gone. I crumple up the paper around the bread and offer what I hope is a non-bitchy smile. “Mind if we head? I’m kinda tired.”

“Sure.” Michael shrugs and stands up, brushing off his jeans. He pauses, then holds out one hand for me, and I gratefully use it to help myself to my feet.

We walk to the car in silence. I follow in his footsteps, trying to fit my tiny feet into the marks he leaves in the sand, one for one. Like having that tiny sense of connection with another human being will ease the pain of the irresponsible lunacy I committed last night.

He doesn’t know. No one has to know.

When we reach the car, Michael holds the door open for me with a flourish. “Your seat,
mademoiselle
.”

“Do you even speak French?” I ask, resting against the cool metal of the fence behind me.

“Depends.” Michael swaggers closer to me, till there are just a few inches separating our bodies. My breath hitches in my throat. He’s so close. So close I can smell the salt and the fresh scent of him. His stubbled throat gleams, and I have this weird desire to lick it.

“Depends on who I need to impress with the language of love.”

At that, I roll my eyes once more. And that’s the crux of it. No matter how much I crush on Michael, he’s never going to take me seriously. Just like the rest of Lakes, he sees me as a piece of freaking ass. Someone he’s always flirted with, even when he had a girlfriend. Some blonde bimbo.

“Thank God I speak the language of hangover, and know that all those who use terms like ‘language of love’ are usually douchebags.” I shoulder past Michael and slide my way toward the seat, only he reaches for my side and pulls me flush up against him. His body is close to mine, his breath warm on my neck, my cheek … my mouth.

“We …” I don’t even know what I’m about to say. All I know is that this moment is here, and I feel like I’m coming home. Like I’ve wanted this my whole life, but I’ve known it’s something I could never have. It’s like indulging in chocolate cake, and deciding to start the diet tomorrow.

Then Michael steps back. It’s like a slap in the face. It’s like a needle in the eye.

“Is everything … okay?” I bite my lip. His eyes aren’t focused on mine anymore. They’re centred behind me, on the car floor.

I spin around, searching for the possible reason for Michael’s distraction, and I see it. My black and red lacy bra where I’d left it, fully exposed, thanks to the open car door.

“You didn’t … you didn’t go home last night, did you?” Michael’s voice is soft, his face pale. He already knows. And I think I knew this was coming from the moment I hopped in his car.

I want nothing more than to tell him sweet nothings.
No, of course not, I always find my way back. I stayed at a friend’s place, and forgot to put my underwear on after the shower.

That? Oh, that. I, uh, left the house in such a rush at my shock of being SUCH a skank that I forgot to put it on.

Neither of those scream
perfect alibi
to me.

“No.” I swallow. A little light, a fleck of gold in Michael’s eyes goes out.

He walks around to his side of the car and opens the door, sliding inside and slamming the door shut with an almighty
thunk
behind him. I lower myself into my seat, pulling the door to and grabbing the offending lingerie from the floor, then stuffing it into my chest.

It doesn’t matter. Hell, I’ve always known that Michael and me? We could never be anything. What’s the point when he’s in a band that’s about to tour the country? What’s the point when he flirts but never makes a move?

What’s the point when I am nothing?

I blank my subconscious and instead focus on the present. Screw that.

Ten minutes later, we pull up out the front of my house. The only words we’ve exchanged since the beach are “Left here, thanks” and “Which way now?”

“Thank you.” I unclick my belt button and push the door open, sticking one long leg out of it.

“No biggy.” Michael shrugs.

“But that’s just it.” I lean forward. “It’s ‘no biggy’ now, but I know it’s a goddamn biggy.”

Electricity crackles between us. I look at his lips, imagining how they’d feel on mine.

There’s an interminable pause. His eyes flick to my lips, back to my eyes, down to my lips, back to my eyes, as each time he gets progressively closer to my mouth.

“Look, I just think it’s not very cool you obviously slept at some dude’s house last night,” Michael starts.

“It was a girlfriend,” I protest, fists on my knees.

“Yeah?” Michael’s brow creases. “Like, a girlfriend whose house you slept at without a bra on?”

“Heaps of girls do that.”
Don’t they?

“Then how do you explain the hickey on your neck?”

I don’t have to reach my hand to feel it. As soon as the words leave his mouth, a sting bites the nape of my neck and an inconsolable burning takes up residence in my cheeks. Flashes of last night come back to me again.
His tongue, lapping at my earlobe. His lips, sucking at my neck.

No face.

No name.

“Anyway, I should be going.” I smile a weak smile.

“Whatever.”

It’s only one word, but it breaks me. With it, I see the light fade completely from his eyes, the alertness from his posture slump to nothing.

I slam the door shut to the tune of his engine kicking over.

And this is exactly why getting in the car with Michael was a bad idea. Because no matter how hard I try to pretend, he always manages to make me feel empty. He is a good, genuine guy, the kind who is friends with everyone, who plays football, is in a band, and volunteers at our local Meals on Wheels shelter on Sundays.

I cheerlead. I act. The only thing I seem to be good at is pretending.

And I will never be enough.

He drives away and I will him to look back. Something. Anything, just to prove that maybe he cares, that maybe he’d be willing to try and make this work, and that his occasional jokes about my looks, or wanting to kiss me are real. Are more than jokes.

He doesn’t look back.

Not even once.

I run inside, quickly shower, and then head back out, grabbing my wallet and keys. I pass Mum on the way. She’s in the kitchen chatting with Scott, and I give them a frantic
hi-bye
as I bolt out the door. They don’t mention my birthday, but I figure we’ll talk about it later. Hell, right now I have more pressing issues—such as, ensuring I don’t have to remember a birthday for my unborn baby—to sort out.

Ten minutes later, I’ve pulled up at the local chemist.

Downside Number 362 of living in a small-ish town: The local pharmacist knows your name.

I peek out from behind a rack of sunscreen. A chick maybe three years older than me occupies the desk behind the prescriptions counter. Mr Holden, my mum’s tennis partner’s husband, is nowhere in sight.

Thank God.

I inch a leg out from behind the sunscreen stand and start the ultimate ninja sprint toward the prescription counter. I’ve never not used a condom before. I’m fairly sure that, no matter how boozed I was, I would have insisted upon it.

But since I can’t remember going home, having sex, or the guy in question, I figure it’s better safe than sorry.

I’m running the gauntlet, dodging shopping baskets, promotional lipstick displays, and small children crawling on the floor.

I slam my hands down on the prescriptions counter. “Excuse me,” I say, suddenly breathless. The girl turns to face me. “I need to—”

“Stacey!” I spin around. Mr Holden is standing right behind me. “How are you?”

“Fine.” I swallow. Totally, not-even-here-to-take-the-morning-after-pill-and-prevent-potential-pregnancy fine.

“Good. Can I help you?” He squints and stretches his long, skinny frame. He reminds me of a weird stick insect. Always has, always will.

“Ah … I was feeling … sick …” Not a lie. “And I wanted some … thing.”

“What kind of symptoms are you presenting, Stacey?” Mr Holden asks, folding his arms across his chest.

Twenty minutes later, after I described my no doubt mystifying and yet not completely made-up symptoms of a pounding head, nauseous stomach, dry lips and sore throat, I left the chemist with a variety of drugs, from cold and flu tablets to Chapstick.

Not
the morning-after pill.

Oops.

I drive for forty minutes and finally find a shop where I don’t recognise any of the pharmacy staff.
Thank God.
I guess that’s the disadvantage of regional towns; the odds of you knowing everybody are pretty damn high.

Foot in front of hesitant foot, I walk up to the counter to be greeted by a woman who looks just like she could play Mary Poppins in the musical of the same name. Or maybe I’m thinking of the “Raindrops and roses, whiskers on kittens” chick. Either/or.