Page 12 of The Version You Hide

I cruise down the main boulevard, or more accurately, putt along, towards the winding road that leads across town to Cliff Haven beach. It takes less than five minutes before I’m parked out the front of the tiny, wooden shack I call home.

I take the stairs two at a time, the wood splintering under my weight as I bound up to the faded blue front door. I turn the key in the lock and jiggle the handle, something I’ve learned has to be done in just the right way to gain entry, then swing the front door wide open. I’m about to step inside when I’m almost knocked off my feet from behind by a solid mass of black and tan fur.

The friendly, yet clumsy brute that’s made himself a home with me barges past, galloping his way over to the sofa where he proceeds to jump on it, making himself comfortable. His tongue protrudes as he pants heavily, his eyes wide with pride as a string of drool descends to the sofa cushion.

“Nice to see you too, Chance,” I say with a shake of my head. “You crazy mutt.”

I found Chance on my second day in Cliff Haven. Or maybe he found me. He’d turned up on my front doorstep after a storm one morning, his coat matted in mud and sand. Pamela, our local vet assumed him to be a kelpie- border collie mix. She helped me search high and low for his owner, but to no avail.

I’d thought he looked like he needed a friend, but in hindsight, maybe I did. Which is why I decided to take him in and share my home with him. A choice I sometimes regret when I find him sprawled over the couch or huddled up under my duvet when I return home from work. There are no fences around the beach house. He’s free to come and go as he pleases, yet he always finds his way back here.

Besides the stench of seaweed that’s obviously coming from Chance, there’s another pungent odour that fills the tiny beach cottage that wasn’t here this morning. A musty sort of dampness. I round the kitchen bench, the worn-out floors creaking under my toes, and discover the problem. A large puddle of water has pooled in the kitchen. Droplets trickle out one by one from the cabinet below the sink.

I groan, glancing down at my watch. Even if I report this to the landlord, there’s no way they’ll be able to get a plumber out until tomorrow morning. I’d learnt that lesson a month ago when the bathroom sink sprung a leak.

It won’t be the first DIY job I’ve done since moving in six months ago. Home repairs had never been my forte, but when your budget is low and professional help is scarce, you’d be surprised how well you can cope with a few dollars’ worth of hardware supplies and about eight different YouTube video tutorials.

I throw open the cabinet doors and crawl underneath to inspect the damage and as I do, a flood of water sprays me directly in the face as the pipe gives way completely. I guess this one is going to take a lot more skill and patience to repair.

I let out a frustrated growl and then a sloppy tongue glides up my cheek, a wet nose nuzzling my ear. “Chance!” I shout. “What are you doing, boy? Stop!”

I turn and try to direct him away from me but the water still shooting out from the broken pipe makes it almost impossible. Surrendering, I scratch the spot behind his ears as he flops onto the floor, flipping onto his back into the puddle, tail wagging madly.

Despite the kitchen filling with water and knowing I’m likely going to be spending all night googling how to solve this problem, a laugh erupts from my chest. No one could wipe my smile away if they tried. Because this place is mine.

This mess is mine.

This is the life I chose.

And I wouldn’t change it for the world.

Chapter 4

MACKENZIE

“Oh my gosh! Remember that little dance routine you did back in third grade?” Pamela gushes as she lifts a bright pink tasselled skirt from the dusty box she’s just manoeuvred from the corner of the loft. “Check it out!”“Oh mum,” Kristen whines. “I hated that stupid performance. And that stupid skirt. It constantly gave me a wedgie.”

A quiet snort escapes me. I’m still getting used to this quirky side of my half-sister. When we’d first met, she’d come across as moody and serious and far too into her career.

Not that being driven is a bad thing, but I could sense that she was hiding behind it all. I understand now that she was going through so much. Her efforts to keep herself busy had purely been to keep her mind off the things she didn’t want to face.

She pouts at my reaction, swatting me playfully on the wrist which causes the handful of photographs I’m grasping to slide from my grip. She offers an apology as they fall to the floor, but I barely hear it.

I’m too focused on the shiny, smiley faces that stare back at me from the glossy polaroids below. I try to mask my sorrow but it’s too late. Kristen sees through me. She always does. She drops to the ground in a flash, hastily scooping up the pictures with both hands.

But I’ve already seen.

An image of a happy father cradling his newborn daughter, another of a doting dad holding his baby girl upon his shoulders. Reminders that although we share a biological father, we’ve both grown up having very different experiences in life.

I was bitter when I first learned of Kristen’s existence, believing that she had been raised on the proverbial ‘right’ side of the tracks and I on the ‘wrong’ one. I realise now that Kristen was fighting battles of her own and I’ve let go of my resentment, but I can’t deny the piercing sting in my chest at seeing those photographs.

I don’t blame Kristen. At one point I did, but I had been blinded by my own insecurities. I’d thought that she’d had the perfect life, but it turned out I was wrong about that too.

I might have been the one that grew up with the alcoholic version of our father, but for the first eight years of her life, Kristen had been raised by a financially stable family man. The same man that turned out to be a total douche that abandoned her and her mother for another life. That other life included me, so if anything, she should be the one resenting me. But Kristen has only ever made me feel welcome in this town, and in her home. Even when I didn’t deserve it.

“Are you okay?” she asks sliding the rest of the polaroids from my grip, a frown of concern etched in her brow.

“Fine.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. A tell-tale sign of my vulnerability. Then in an effort to change the subject, I gesture to the countless boxes that crowd the other side of the loft. “Do we really have to go through every single one of these boxes? It could take years.”

---