The Same Deep Water (7 page)

“Fine.” He hasn’t pulled his gaze from mine the whole time, this connection drawing us further into the dance. We naturally follow each other’s movements, as if we’ve done this a hundred times before.

As the dance progresses, Guy holds me closer, until the last of the space between us disappears.

He doesn’t react but my body does, a sudden heat flowing from the point his fingertips touch the naked skin on my arms, kindling the desire to dig my fingers into his back further. If I keep my eyes on Guy’s, I can stay grounded, ignore the hidden strength of the raw man beneath his cultured exterior, and dismiss the images of what he could do to me.

Shocked but not entirely surprised when my nipples harden against my bodice, accompanied by a not very chaste tingling elsewhere, I break the point chests touch. Guy doesn’t comment or stop; he continues and loosens his hold on my waist.

“Sorry,” he whispers against my ear as I move my head to look past him. This unfortunately brings my face closer to his, the side of our unmasked faces brush. I jerk at the sensation.

“What for?”

“Getting too close.”

“We’re dancing. I’m fine.”

“Do you want to stop?” Guy’s warm breath caresses my cheek, nose touching my ear, and I’m on the verge of twisting my face to gauge if a kiss is next.

Is this what I want?

I disentangle myself. “My feet are starting to hurt.”

“Right.”

“And I’m tired.”

The side of Guy’s face I can see shifts into concerned lines. “Everything okay?”

“I think so.”

We head through the dancing bodies to the table; I sit and pour myself water from the half-empty carafe. Although neither of us speaks, the awareness the dance has somehow shifted our relationship hovers in the charged air between us. Confused by what I really want from the situation, and aware I have work tomorrow, I resolve to keep the line between us uncrossed.

“Am I allowed to tick this off my list now?” I ask.

“You danced. Putting yourself through that trauma deserves a tick.”

“Dancing wasn’t traumatic!” I say with a laugh.

“But you stopped. Did I make you uncomfortable?”

Quite the opposite.
“You’re a good dance partner. You didn’t grope my ass so that was a bonus.”

The dimples appear again. “I have a lot of self-restraint. Your ass is very gropeable.”

“Nice.”

He shrugs. “Hey, I’m a man and you’re an attractive girl.”

My fingers itch to take his mask off and see the expression behind his words, to find if my desire is reflected in his eyes. “Thanks.”

“This is the part where you tell me I’m ‘hot’, exchange of compliments, remember?”

“You don’t need me to tell you that.”

“Very true. I hope you’re not thinking of leaving soon. I’m enjoying this and I’ve even spotted you beginning to relax.”

“You’re good company.”

He laughs. “And you’re so formal!”

“But I’m not sure I’ll stay much longer, sorry.”

Guy shakes his wrist to read his watch. “You
are
Cinderella not Belle. And you’re late, it’s twelve thirty.”

“Ha ha. You stay if you want.”

“What point is the prince without the princess?”

“You’re not a prince, you’re just some Guy.”

I giggle again; but instead of laughing with me, Guy’s mouth twitches. “Okay, let’s go.”

He stands and knocks his chair back then strides away. That was a joke, he makes them enough, why be offended by mine? I hurry to catch up, weaving through the half-empty tables and into the shining hotel lobby where other guests mill around. The music from the function room is replaced by the sound of one couple arguing at an uncomfortable volume nearby.

“I’ll call a taxi, we can share one?” I suggest as I reach Guy.

“Which direction do you live in?”

“Leederville.”

“Wrong way for me, but I’ll come with you, make sure you’re in the taxi safely,” he offers.

“I’m fine.”

“Suit yourself.”

The atmosphere has dropped to several degrees below zero and I’m unsure why. I thought our exchange was banter. Guy buries his hands in his jacket pockets and heads outside as I call the taxi, wandering to the large sliding glass doors and watching him as I make the call.

Guy perches on a wall at the edge of the pick-up area outside the lobby, hands in his pockets, and mask still on.

“Five minutes,” I say as I approach.

“Okay.”

I sit next to him. “Did I annoy you?”

“Annoy me? No, I was having fun, that’s all. But I understand if you’ve had enough.”

“I enjoyed myself. Honestly.”

The arguing couple head past, and when the woman trips and lands on the floor, the man stands and looks down at her, arms crossed.

“I thought maybe because you’d rather be here with someone else,” he says quietly.

“No, you’re my travelling companion. Who else would I bring? Complete the lists together, remember?”

His shoulders relax and he shifts, our legs touching. The summer evening is muggy, no breeze to cool my skin heated by the dance. Guy looks upwards where the Southern Cross shines brightly in the cloudless sky. “Shame. I wish it was raining.”

“You’d rather wait in the rain?” I ask in surprise.

Guy smiles beneath his mask and keeps his gaze on the stars. “Your list. Number five. As your travelling companion, I’d be happy to oblige.”

Kiss in the rain.

My heart skips at his directness. “You want to kiss me?” I whisper.

“Purely for bucket list purposes.”

“Take your mask off.” Guy unties the mask and slides it from his face. His hair sticks up on one side and I study him. I need to know the truth behind Guy’s words and the situation.

“That’s the only reason?” I ask.

Guy reaches to touch my cheek, drawing a finger along to my jaw, watching the path it takes before looking back to me. “No.”

The sensation of his finger remains when he removes his hand, and I fight and fail against appearing to be a stupefied teen. “Oh.”

“You don’t want to?”

I shift my leg away from his. “Might not be a good idea.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure… It’s just…” I grapple for words. “I like being friends.” As soon as the lie is out, I cringe.

Guy purses his lips, his disappointment clear. “I suspected so. You’re very protective.”

“Cold?”

“Protective.” He folds his arms beneath his elbows. “Is one of the reasons because there’s somebody else?”

“I told you there wasn’t.”

“Is the reason because I’m going to die?”

I reel at the interjection of death into our conversation, but Guy’s face is impassive. The words are nothing to him. “No. Not unless my kiss will kill you.”

“Maybe your kiss would do the opposite.” I attempt to equate the man sitting with me to the casual Aussie bloke who took me for a tattoo, and realise I forget the depth in his eyes.

“Most guys – men – don’t ask permission before trying their luck,” I say with a small smile.

He laughs. “I think you want to kiss me too, but I think sometimes, the princess should call the shots.”

“You’re putting me in control of this?” I ask and stand.

Guy stands too and looks down at me. He slides my mask upward, into my hair. “To a certain extent, yes.” He rests his fingertips on my lips, and I shiver. “But I like to be in control as much as you do.”

“Some things we can’t control, can we?”

“Some things we think we need to when letting go is better.” He shifts closer. “So you’re telling me that I need to ask? Okay…” Guy touches my lips. “Will you kiss me?”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Or do I have to kiss you?”

I have no idea what to say, shaking from the slightest touch, denying the desire I have for this strange man who I want, but could never stand to fall in love with and lose. Breaking his gaze and the intensity of the moment, I dip my head.

He sighs. “No problem, I’ll keep my lips to myself.”

“Until it rains.”

“Until it rains and then do I have permission?”

“Maybe.”

He gives a small shake of his head. “Bloody Perth summers. Can we go to Melbourne, there’s more chance you’ll kiss me there?”

I could kiss him. Now. Here. We’re seconds away; all that’s needed is one of us to take the step. A step to Guy and back into the deep water.

A taxi appears nearby, and with it the excuse to break this before I throw myself into Guy’s arms and lose myself in the fantasy of the handsome prince who rescued me almost three months ago.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, Belle,” he calls as I head to the waiting car. “And see you next week for the next item!”

Chapter Ten

#9 Ask A Stranger On A Date

Guy doesn’t contact me the next day. Or for several more. This is unusual because we talk at least once every couple of days.

On the second day, I send him a text asking if he’s okay and receive no response.

Did I upset him that much? If this is because I wouldn’t kiss him, I’m glad I didn’t. Guy’s looking for somebody whose shoes I can’t fill; I’m frightened of becoming emotionally attached to Guy and a kiss or sex would be the first move toward that. What if I’d relented and kissed him, been swept up in the moment, and we’d continued the fantasy and spent the night together?

Three more days and three more texts, nothing. My concern something serious could be wrong with Guy has retreated and is replaced by disappointment. I get the hint.

His rejection pushes confusion and irritation into my days, and I look over my list. Should I plan one without him? But each item I consider feels like a betrayal to my pact with Guy.

After three weeks of trying to contact him with no response, I take my list from the fridge and push the paper into a kitchen drawer so I don’t have to be reminded of him each time I open the fridge door. I will continue the list, with or without him.

****

The opportunity to work on one of the items arises a week later; and I’m certain if it weren’t for the list, I’d never consider doing this.

My morning visits to the cafe and Ross have multiplied to include post-work visits too. In a non-stalkerish way, I’m now aware he doesn’t work Tuesdays or Monday evenings. I still visit the cafe on those days, in case my growing interest in Ross becomes apparent to the rest of the staff if I miss those days.

Hiding behind my laptop as usual, I pretend I’m working; but instead, research my own articles, ready for the day I crazily believe I’ll be allowed to publish one in
Belle de Jour
. The chair opposite me scrapes and somebody sits. I look up and straight into a pair of beautiful, brown eyes, with eyelashes I couldn’t achieve without ten layers of mascara.

“Is it okay if I sit here?” Ross asks. He might have the chocolate eyes, but I’m the one melting here; I go from not being interested in men, to a desire for two in the space of a month.

“Sure.”

Ross sets his coffee cup on the table in front of him, slender fingers curled around. He wears the usual black work shirt with the cafe logo on and his dark hair contrasts his pale skin. I guess days in a coffee shop don’t allow for much time in the sun, or he could be a sensible skin cancer avoiding person.

But those eyes.

“Working?” he asks and sips his drink, ironically the smell of chocolate drifts to me.

“Yes.”

“What do you do? You must work near here because of the times you come in, and how you dress.” He indicates my blue silk blouse, indicating in the process, he’s the kind of man who can control the impulse to stare at women’s breasts.

“
Belle de Jour
. Trainee.”

“And woman of few words,” he says and flashes straight, white teeth to match his other perfection. Jesus, I’m obsessed. And confused. Wasn’t I considering cosying up with a surfer a few weeks ago? No, Guy’s left the picture. I demonstrate the conversational skills of a three year old by not responding with anything at all.

Bucket list.

Do it.

Ross sat here, didn’t he? That’s halfway.

“Did you want to meet up some time?” I blurt.

I cringe at the surprise in Ross’s otherwise cool expression. Crap, he’ll say no and I can’t even pretend I’m drunk.

“Well, you saved me asking,” he replies.

“Did I?” I shake my head. “God, I sound like an idiot.”

“You’re sweet.”

“Sweet?” I wrinkle my nose.

“Don’t forget, I see you come in here every day. I’m a people watcher, which is why I love my job. I can tell a lot about how people behave when they’re in here. You, Phe, are sweet to people. The time you paid for the guy’s coffee who was a dollar short. Helping mums with prams out of the door when I know you’re running late? And impossibly polite. Sweet.”

“Oh. Right.” The compliment doesn’t feel like one to me, but if he likes sweet girls, I’ll take it.

“Where were you planning to take me?” he asks.

“I hadn’t got that far.”

“Good thing I had. Are you busy after work tonight?”

“Yes. No. I mean, crap.”

The half-smile tipping his mouth at one corner suggests he’s used to girls blabbering around him. I’m not used to blabbering around men. “Yes or no?”

“Today’s Monday.”

“Sure is. Restaurant? Bar? Movies? All?”

“Um.” My mind cycles through the options. Movies, no chance to talk; what if he only likes car chases and gunfights. Pub, I’ll only get drunk. Restaurant, I’m fussy; what if he takes me to somewhere I don’t like?

“A meal?” I suggest.

“Restaurant it is then. Your choice.”

“Yes.”

“Which is?”

“Pardon?”

“Your choice.”

“Oh. Um.” Maybe the movies would have been the best choice because the chances of us having a conversation seem slim if this continues. “There’re a few nice places in Subi.”

“Okay, cool. Want me to pick you up?”

“I’m fine. I’ll text you with my choice later.”

Ross’s eyes shine. He pulls my receipt from the edge of the coffee cup and scrawls a phone number on. “Sounds good.” Then he stands and inclines his head to the door. “I’d best prepare for my date. Eight?”

I nod, hanging onto the word ‘date’ as I watch his tall figure leave the cafe, taking my breath with him.

As I finish my coffee, my mind wanders back to the few times I met Guy. Weird, we grew closer to each other; and even though I fought against the attraction I have to him, I didn’t think my rejection would end things between us so readily. Tangling with Guy made no sense, and now I’m doubly pleased I didn’t kiss him. Ross would be a much more suitable, normal date.

****

I dump the short dress onto the growing pile of clothes on my bed. Half a dozen changes and I’m no closer to choosing. White capri pants and fitted pink top. No. Three variations of summer dress. No. Bugger it. I pull on black skinny jeans and a loose fitting white top that scoops low against my neck. The tattoos catch my eye in the bathroom mirror as I put lipstick on. They still take me by surprise when I see the birds; but I love them, and I’m now considering my next tattoo.

Scouting around the lounge for my low-heeled boots, my phone beeps and my stomach lurches. What if Ross is cancelling? I grab the phone from the table.

Guy. After three weeks of ignoring me, he sends a text as if we only spoke yesterday?

I place the phone down and it beeps again

This time I switch off the phone and shove it in my bag. Guy contacted me; but after ignoring me for weeks, I’m not dropping everything for him.

I can’t switch my phone off. What if Ross calls? I click the on button and within a minute, the phone beeps again.

Right, sick for three weeks
. On the verge of texting those words back, I pause. I bet he doesn’t mean flu.

I glance at the clock on the DVD player. 7.00pm.

Guy has never asked to see me. Not in such strong terms. How sick is he?

I chew my lip, torn over what to do. He helped me when I needed, and in a roundabout way is asking for my help too.

But I want to see Ross. He’s not my Prince Charming, but he’s the object of lustful fantasies; the man who could distract me from my pull toward a dying man I also fantasise about, but who I’m certain will break my heart.

I text.

Do I call Ross or text him? Am I blowing my only chance here?

One awkward conversation with Ross later, I head to the cafe where I often meet Guy.

Guy sits in his usual spot, and looks around as I approach. I pull up a chair and sit too. He’s pale, eyes less bright than usual, and wearing a smart shirt and jeans. His hair is different, buzz cut around the back and sides, shorter on top

“Image change?” I ask.

“My hair was annoying me. Thanks for coming.”

“That’s okay. Sounds like you need someone to talk to. You helped me when I needed it.” I move to take his hand, but stop myself.

“Ah, but I only spoke to you when you needed because you were on my list.” He smiles weakly.

“Way to make a girl feel special.”

He smirks, but doesn’t apologise.

“Why were you really there that night?” I ask in a low voice. “Was that true about the flowers?”

Guy rubs his lips together and watches me. “Omnia causa fiunt.”

“What does that mean?”

“Look it up.” He picks up his cup. “Tell me about your Prince Charming.”

I blink at his subject change. “I don’t have one.”

“So you weren’t going on a date?”

“I was, but it was the first.”

“Oh. Shit. Sorry I spoilt things for you.”

“It’s fine, we’ve re-arranged. Ticked an item off my list though, I asked him.”

I expect Guy to laugh in agreement; but instead, he focuses on the cup in his hands. “Good. I hope he’s a nice guy.”

“I came here to talk about you, not me.”

Guy drains his coffee. “Yeah. Let me buy these.”

This Guy’s manner is different to usual. He hovers back from the counter, letting others in front of him, hands in pockets. The confidence is missing. He avoids my eyes when he returns and sits and pushes the cup to me.

“You always drink the same, which is why I never asked,” he says.

“I wasn’t going to say anything. It’s fine.”

Guy takes his time opening a sachet of sugar and tipping the contents into his cup. Do I ask him? Wait for him to say?

“You said you’d been sick. Are you okay now?”

“Yeah. Had to go to hospital for a couple of weeks.”

“Oh. That’s not good. Are you...?”

He continues to focus on stirring his coffee. “I’m alright. A weekly check-up is all I need for now.”

I relax. “You still have time, don’t you? To do what you want.”

Guy looks up. “Yes. For now.”

I can’t go on with this friendship unless I understand what’s happening. If we have a friendship and Guy needs my support, he needs to let me know what’s wrong with him.

“Your illness. Is it something that will stop you physically first? I mean, do you only have a certain amount of time before you can’t walk or something?”

“That’s blunt.”

“I don’t know how else to ask. You won’t tell me what’s wrong with you.”

“You never asked again.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“I’d rather not say.”

I place my hands under the table and he watches. “I don’t have something contagious, so don’t worry your pretty head about that. Whatever we decide to do together, I won’t give this to you. It’s all inside me and isn’t coming out.”

Cancer? Why does he keep avoiding my eyes? He behaves like any other normal person whenever I see him; and I understand this is something he may not want to talk about, but I’m fed up with trying to figure this out. How can this man with his infectious nature who embraces everything life has to offer him be dying? And why won’t he tell me?

We drink coffee in silence as dusk sets in. Groups chatter around us, meeting for coffees, and preparing for their own nights out. Several couples sit close together, touching and connecting.

The conversation about our almost kiss obviously isn’t happening. I wish I were more clued up on body language; he seems guarded, which makes sense. How bigheaded of me to think he hadn’t contacted me because I’d rejected him when the obvious answer was illness.

The way Guy held me when he danced, the feel of his arms around me sticks though, and the desire to have this again was behind my asking Ross on a date. If I could find another man who wants to hold me and kiss me, I don’t have to fight my feelings for Guy.