Page 8 of Hired Help

I jerk back, wincing while she freezes, eyes full of sorrow.

Then Kaden is there, inserting himself between us. He doesn’t do anything, say anything else, but his presence gives me cover to move back, to inhale a breath, to pull my fragmented pieces together.

Brooke turns to leave, shoulders shaking.

“You should brush up on your technique, darling,” I call after her. “Then your next lay won’t be left so traumatised a lifetime of self-abuse sounds preferable.”

“You’re such a fucking prick,” Floss says, deliberately shoulder bumping me on her way past.

Kaden once again steps in, glowering at me.

“Here you go,” Everett says with a laugh, showing me his phone. “Posted on the senior year noticeboard in case anyone missed it.”

I smile but my insides are twisting, pulling so taut it feels like any second I’ll implode.

“I’ll catch you in class,” I tell him, moving into the corridor, heading for my room, in the opposite direction to Brooke’s. “Just need a minute.”

“Sure, man. You want to skip? There’s a demolition derby running over at the Ruapuna Speedway, starting at midday. My cousin’s got a few old clunkers he’s planning on racing, and I’m sure he’d let us destroy one.”

“No.”

I move away, adding nothing more, afraid of what will leak from my tense frame if I stay a moment longer. When I reach my room, I enter just long enough to grab a small box, then stride along the corridor, slipping through the side exit.

There’s a handful of students out here, one of them glancing over with a guilty expression, a cloud of vapour streaming from his lips.

I trudge past them, across the sodden fields, unreasonable anger surging when my feet slip on the marshy surface, choking with a recent run of heavy rain. I want to fight the lingering drizzle, the wind, the mud. Even squeezing my injured hand into a tight fist doesn’t slake my bloodlust.

Behind the school, a set of train tracks run parallel to a cycle track. I swipe out of a rear gate, stomping grimly forward for twenty minutes until I reach the edge of a manufactured suburban lake, a flashy new subdivision that after five years still hasn’t sold its vacant sections.

There’s a public jetty, and I walk out to the end, staring at the mix of houses. Half of them are unoccupied, which makes the lived-in cul-de-sacs seem emptier.

I dig into my pocket, pulling out the black velvet jewellery box. It’s soft, warm after being held against my leg for so long. I open it, examining the engagement ring inside.

The main stone is from my grandmother’s ring, an heirloom my mum handed over at the funeral since, ‘You’re the only one here to carry on the line.’ The coloured diamonds flanking the princess-cut stone are from Mum’s original engagement ring from Dad. The one that never led to a wedding.

Even the yellow gold band and the platinum setting were fashioned from the heirlooms. Knowing how much value Brooke places on family and how little hers places on the concept in return, I liked the idea of presenting her with a piece that celebrated generations of love.

My parents’ marriage might have failed before it walked up the aisle, but I know from how deeply my father hurt her, their shared affection once lit up Mum’s world.

I even enjoyed the process of having it made. The way I got to think about how she’d react, not just to my proposal, but as I held her close and told her where each piece came from, how it confirmed her place in my family’s line.

It pleased me to daydream about the proposal. I loved kissing her, being with her, and knowing that our future together was nestled in my pocket, just waiting to be brought out, presented to her, waiting for her agreement to set the relationship in stone.

And while I’d been enjoying those daydreams, Brooke had been enjoying the company of another man’s bed.

The dull fury hits again, sinking into my belly like a sucker punch. The ring started this whole mess. On break, I couldn’t stop taking it out to admire it, fiddling with it, snapping the lid open and closed any time Brooke was out of the room.

Alicia had spotted it the first day. Her jaw had set, nostrils flaring, while a sad expression camped in her eyes.

I thought it was sadness because her little girl was all grown up and about to start a new journey. In my worst moments, I thought she might think Brooke would turn me down or request a postponement.

Instead, she’d taken me aside ten days later and shown me a video that tore through my ambitions with a savage hunger, gobbling them until even the crumbs were gone.

I’d stared in shock, recognising the man in the video almost instantly. After Alicia mouthed her platitudes about regret and how she hated to have to do this, I stormed into the kitchen and pulled the chef aside, demanding an explanation.

The man had stared at the footage, face calm, clearly familiar with the images already. “And?” he’d asked when I couldn’t stand to play it for another second. “Did you want an apology for not being enough for her?”

With a grimace, I snap the box closed, heft it in my hands for a second, then hurl it deep into the lake. The box sinks beneath the surface with barely a ripple. No fanfare.

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