The Same Deep Water (5 page)

“What’s Phe short for if your name isn’t Fiona?”

I take a shaky breath, caught off guard. “Ophelia, but nobody calls me that. Ever.”

He shrugs. “No problem, I was curious because I’ve never met a Phe before.”

“I’ve never met a Guy before.”

“Not one like me, that’s for sure.” The conversation remains light but the tension weighs heavy between us. Oh, yeah, definitely not one like you
.
I’ve never met a man who jump-starts my heart every time his dark blue eyes meet mine.

I keep my cool and hope he doesn’t notice my reaction. “Undoubtedly.”

He shifts closer and I will him not to touch me, and wish he would. “Bye, Ophelia. Keep your head above the water.”

The name washes over, pulling me back to the past and wiping away the present. This breaks the tension and makes leaving easier, and following a muttered goodbye, I head outside into the fresh air.

Guy doesn’t understand what his words have done and what I’m facing tonight.

Chapter Seven

Water fills the car. I managed to crank open the door a small amount as we plunged beneath the river, panic prompting me to choose the wrong choice of action. The car was afloat after it hit the river but when I opened the door, the flooding water hastened the submersion.

My parents don’t move, and I scream for them as the pressure slams the door closed again. My little brother, Robin, doesn’t wake, strapped in his car seat and sleeping. I fumble with the buckle, gasping for air in the waterlogged space. My head dips beneath the water, muffling my cries for help as I struggle to unstrap him.

Darkness engulfs, the water stealing my family one by one. I unclip my brother and desperately hold Robin in the small air space above the water. I can’t get us out of the car and hold him up at the same time. The door won’t open against the pressure of the water; I kick at the window but my bare feet do nothing.

My screams are swallowed by the water, stealing my world and my life. Eleven years old is too young to die.

I slam my hands on the window, the air bubbling from my nose to the glass as the water consumes the last of the air.

Heaving a breath, I sit, heart skipping in my chest and I close my eyes again. I’m not dying. I’m not having a heart attack. I can breathe. The light at the side of my bed illuminates my room, and I ground myself by counting the photo frames on the top of my chest of drawers. For a few moments, I sit with my arms wrapped around my legs before I’m calm enough to lie down again. The lamp casts a shadow across the wall. I never sleep in the dark anymore.

The thoughts are back to torture me, the nightly replay of the night my father killed everybody I loved begins again.

Chapter Eight

“Can I touch?”

Erica doesn’t wait for a response, instead lightly running a finger across the shiny black ink against my pale skin. The tattoo healed and, a week later, somebody from my past sees.

“When did you do that? Why didn’t you tell me you were getting a tattoo? This isn’t like you!” She streams out the words in shock.

“It’s on my bucket list.”

“You have a bucket list?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

Erica sits on the sofa in my bright and airy lounge. “I have things I want to do, but not an actual list. You wrote them down?”

“Yes. Don’t you have one?”

“A vague one. Should’ve expected you’d be all organised. I bet you have deadlines for each one too.”

I poke my tongue out. “Do you want me to take you for lunch or not?”

“Yeah, to that coffee shop where the guy works you told me about. Mr Eyelashes.”

“What a weird thing to call him.”

“You mentioned his eyelashes! I mean, come on, that’s not the part of his body where length matters.”

“Erica!”

She grins. “Legs! He has to be taller than you! Whatever did you think I meant?”

“Sure,” I mutter, “let me grab my bag.”

Friends since high school, Erica’s candy bright attitude to the world smudges colour over my grey. I owe Erica for helping me through my teen years, growing up with grandparents after the loss of my family and a switch of towns and schools no doubt triggered the dark side of my mind. My friendship with Erica stopped the depression blacking me completely.

Erica follows me into my bedroom. “How are the new meds going?” she asks.

The box rests at the edge of my bedside table and I quickly push them into a drawer. “Better.”

“You worry me. I wish I lived closer for when you needed me.”

“I’m fine, Erica. The change in meds a few months back screwed with my head. I don’t have the thoughts anymore.”

Erica has seen through my lies before and I’m thankful she wasn’t around at the time I met Guy. His daily texts and calls after the day I almost died prompted me to see my doctor, keep going with the medication, and hold me in a world I fought against.

In the early days, the change in medication screwed with my ability to think, walking around in a leaden-limbed daze that took me away from the thoughts instead of dealing with them. Gradually, I moved from not seeing a future to the prodding by Guy to create one. Guy’s background presence stopped me turning back into the shadows; now I’ve allowed him to pull me into the bright future he’s being denied.

“A bucket list is good though, tells me you’re thinking of the future.”

Erica doesn’t know. Nobody knows apart from Guy and my psychiatrist. The day after I met Guy, I saw my psychiatrist and admitted to him that I had thoughts about harming myself. Guy texted to check up on me and I informed him I was being admitted to hospital. I debated whether to give Guy my number the night we met and there’s a deep-seated reason why I did. By doing so, I made myself accountable to Guy. The texts continued. On days I didn’t reply, Guy would send funny memes until I’d relent and respond.  I can only cope with a finite number of funny cat pictures in one day.

“I should write one too, just things like places I want to visit. Not a tattoo though.” Erica shakes her head. “Still can’t believe you did that!”

“I might not stop at one.”

I’m half-serious.

We head to the city, despite the fact I prefer to stay out of the place at weekends, but Erica’s flown from Melbourne to visit and she wants to compare Perth to our home. She was horrified when I chose to move to the loneliest city in the world, isolating myself the same way Perth is. Perth is more than 2500 miles to the nearest Australian city. I’d hoped moving would help, not appreciating that even though the stress was good because I got the job I wanted, the relocation still had an effect on me. I underestimated the strength of my pull to the familiarity of friends and family. But I’m stronger than I thought and I’m pulling through. Slowly.

“Which one?” Erica asks.

I indicate the small shop tucked between a real estate agent and a bookshop. “There isn’t much room!”

“The place is more coffee shop than cafe.”

“Evidently” She wrinkles her nose and sits, pulling a face at the crumbs left on the table by previous occupants.

I check out the staff behind the long, marble counter and spot Ross. Immediately, I duck my head. I’d hoped he wouldn’t be here because Erica is bound to say something I’m sure will call me out.

“I’ll buy the coffees! What would you like?” I ask.

“Vanilla latte.” She doesn’t look up from the menu.

Ross is serving another customer, so I’m served by somebody else, and avoid another attempt to hide my attraction to him, deliberately not looking in his direction. When I return to the table, Erica’s smirk says everything.

“That’s him.” She sucks the froth from her spoon and indicates Ross.

“Shush!” I grab her hand.

“Why sit so you can hardly see him? You could flirt with him from here.”

“I don’t want to flirt with him!”

“Jeez, I would.” She sips from her cup. “But, out of respect to you, I won’t.”

Erica loves to flirt, and especially enjoys shooting down in flames anybody who hits on her in an obnoxious way. She’s half a foot shorter than I am, complains she’s average everything; but Erica is also a master of disguise and has an impressive array of make-up and clothes. Her hair is currently blonde; last time I saw her, it was as brown as mine. One thing’s certain; Erica’s never short of attention.

I tear open a sugar sachet and tip the contents into my coffee. “I don’t want to get involved with somebody.”

“A date or two wouldn’t hurt.”

At school, I didn’t bother with boyfriends, instead spending all my time studying. Same when I went to uni. Sure, I had boyfriends and went through the whole relationship make and break cycle once with a guy from my creative writing class, then gave up. Luckily, I got bored before he did. Battling the dark moods was enough, facing more relationship breakdowns would have added to the spiral.

“How’s the job? Any better?” asks Erica.

I’ve whinged to Erica plenty of times, my excitement over the role tempered within weeks, thanks to my treatment by the boss. Did Pam have the same baptism of fire when she started out? I haven’t figured Pam’s age yet or the trajectory her career took but she seems to think being a bitch is acceptable people management.

“I’m not sure Pam thinks I can do the job.”

“Of course you can! Don’t let somebody ruin what you want to achieve. Just don’t stay if the job’s making you unhappy, it’s not worth the stress. You can always look for another job and you’ll have experience.”

“How’s life as a post-grad?” I reply.

“Good. Stop changing the subject.”

“I hope you didn’t come over here to mother me.”

“Fine!”

My phone beeps and I pull it from under Erica’s in case I miss a message from work.

“Hey! We said no phones while we’re chatting!” She takes the phone from me and looks at the screen. “Who’s Guy?” Erica looks up from the message.

“Just some Guy,” I say with a smile to myself.

“Some significant Guy?”

God, I hope the message is a sane one.

“‘Hey, beautiful. Check this out’,” reads Erica. “Um. Beautiful?”

I snatch the phone away. “He’s a friend.”

“How come you never mentioned him? How long have you known him?”

“About three months.”

“Three months? Far out! Who is he?”

How do I explain Guy to Erica? Or anyone? He hovers on the fringes of my life because I won’t let him in. Since I got the tattoo and spent the evening with him a couple of weeks ago, we’ve conversed by text only; he never tries to call. Is he waiting for me to contact him first?

I click on the link and the webpage opens to a charity masquerade ball being held in Perth in a couple of weeks. I was aware, invites were emailed to work, but huge social events with an expectation of networking don’t appeal.

“Like I said, just a casual friend. We’ve only met a couple of times.”

Erica points at my phone. “Photo? Is he hot?”

“I guess...”

“Photo!” She grabs the phone from me and scrolls through my pictures. “Huh. Why no picture? Facebook? Is he on there?” She clicks open the app.

“No idea, I never asked.”

“You’re friends but not Facebook friends. That’s weird.”

“Not really, I just don’t know him well.”

“Well enough for him to call you beautiful!”

“I don’t think he reserves that term for me only.”

“So what did he message about?”

“Nothing.” I switch my phone off and place it pointedly on the table.

Erica eyes my shaking hand. “Is he a creeper? Is that the problem?”

“No, no.” How do I explain this? “We’re friends. We’re... working on our bucket lists together.”

Erica sits back. “What does that involve?”

“So far, not much. We’re planning what to do.”

“Phe, do you know how weird that sounds? Kinda romantic too.”

“No romance.”

“So Mr Eyelashes is in with a chance? Two men to choose from!”

“Erica!”

I look over my shoulder. Ross serves a new customer adding his natural charm to the order, broad smiles for the young mother and her brown-haired daughter. Ross remembers the names of regulars, asks how their day is with genuine interest; I’ve heard him many times. I stare, as I often do, picturing his full lips on mine, his large hands against my skin.

‘Ask a stranger on a date’?

Ross looks over, because he has a sixth sense I’m staring or because he noticed where I sat when I arrived here? Our eyes meet briefly, too brief to gauge any interest.

No, I’m one of hundreds of customers who pass through here daily. Part of Ross’s job is to keep customers coming back and flirting is a useful tool to use. Rejection would be embarrassing. I need to choose somebody who I’m certain is interested.

****

I responded to Guy’s text with an “I’ll think about it” and he didn’t reply. That was two days ago.

He’s a curious person, sometimes his texts are sharp and witty, smoothing the rough edges off frustrating days, and other times they’re short and opinionated. This dichotomy puts me off. I’m uncomfortable spending time with people who I’m unsure how they will react. I like my world organised and predictable; people who aren’t don’t fare well in my life.

I return to work refreshed after my weekend with Erica. Today, Pam is out interviewing a local doctor who’s an ambassador for women, the type of woman who stands for the person I’d like to be when I’m older: successful, self-assured, and an achiever. I’m left to copy edit articles and scour stock photo sites for suitable accompanying shots. An hour later, and my eyes glaze as I stare at beautiful beaches and tropical paradises. The untouched sand and solitude would add these places to anybody’s bucket list, why aren’t they on mine? Because I live in a city edged by impossibly blue ocean and white sands, my preference is to experience the cold and rugged.

And I hate water.

I’d like to visit historical places. England. With my bucket list partner. Possibly.

My phone beeps.

Guy texts the link again and I glance around before clicking on the invite. My experience of balls is school formals. One school formal. A childish excitement harking back to childish dreams of being a princess accompany as I read the description and look at the photos. Ball gowns and beautiful people, mysterious Prince Charmings. I shake my head, well aware the thrill of disguise underlies the attraction of masquerade balls.

What would Guy look like in a suit? The image amuses me – the raw material of the casual Guy unimaginable in formal attire. Undoubtedly hot though. I dismiss the thought, Guy’s not interested in me, and we know too much about what’s wrong with each other.

I reply.

I smile at the text and return to the stock photo site and somehow find myself on Etsy, because going to a masquerade ball calls for research, obviously.