Page 127 of Muddy Messy Love

I press my lips to his, then tuck myself under his arm, resting my head on his chest, inhaling that woodsy cologne. An easier silence follows, but Sheila’s barbs soon hook me again. Cole must sense it too. “Did Sheila say who he is?” The mere mention of my mother’s name seems to tighten him back up.

“Thomas Nilsen,” I whisper as strange old men parade through my mind.

Cole stops breathing, and his heartbeat scatters beneath my ear. I prop up on my elbow to look at him. “Do you know him?”

“No.” He frowns. “I know a few other Nilsens though.”

“Maybe they’re related?”

“I doubt it.”

“Apparently he’s a politician.” Cole shifts to sit up off the side of my bed, so I crawl up next to him. “Are you okay?”

He covers my hand on his thigh with his, threads our fingers, and stares at them. “Listen, take the rest of the week off. I’ll talk to Marla. I’m sure she’ll happily cover a few more days.”

“Today’s enough,” I say, and I mean it. Now that he’s here, I feel stronger. Less broken. Like I’ve levelled up on the resilience meter.

“No.” Cole squeezes my hand. “I insist. This is a big deal. You need time to process, and I imagine a dozen screaming toddlers will render that impossible.”

I chuckle. He’s not wrong. “Thank you,” I say, dragging my thumb over the deep concern etched between his brows to erase it. “What would I do without you?”

I expect a witty comeback or at the very least a smirk, but Cole just stares at me, his eyes thunder-cloud bleak. “Aves,” he says with a heaviness that sinks my stomach.

My smile evaporates. “What?”

Cole swallows, and my heart bolts, but then he closes his eyes, shakes away the thought, and flashes me a weak smile. “Nothing. We’ll talk soon.”

In Loving Memory

Matthew Sean Masters

July 28, 1971 – January 20, 2016

Beloved Husband, Father & Son

With You in Spirit, Always & Forever

I lay a long-stemmed yellow rose atop a copy of today’sHerald Sunnewspaper at the foot of Dad’s honed granite headstone, then drop to lie down on the manicured grass next to his plot, staring up at the glowing cotton clouds.

With you in spirit, always and forever.That was the second-to-last sentence Dad wrote before he climbed into his candy-red sedan, drove to a quiet beachfront car park two hours south, and downed a bottle of sleeping pills. As the sun bid farewell, so too did he. Always and forever.

“I’m sorry” was his last sentence. I know because I found the note and coroner’s report boxed up with his belongings in the garage when I packed before Sheila left. It was an unwanted Christmas gift and yet another heartache that precipitated my derailment. One that will bealways and forevertattooed to my brain.

The rose’s sweet scent rides the spring breeze and fills my nostrils as the mid-morning sun heats my skin, but I wince. Such pleasantness only serves up a cruel contrast to the pain that’s crippled me for two whole days. Still, I ignore it and begin our favourite game. “I see a giant crocodile’s head with its jaw open,” I tell Dad as a reptilian-shaped cloud floats past. Once upon a time, it would be his turn now, but these days I do all the spotting and just pretend he makes the shapes.

Another cloud transforms. “I see it. A wizard with a bulbous nose, beard, and pointy hat, right?” No answer comes, and it occurs to me that anyone might be watching me lying in a graveyard, talking to the sky. But a graveyard is a special place.One that rouses empathy and compassion from passers-by, rather than judgement. Here, in the quiet, amongst the dead and grieving, I can be me.

Besides, it’s not my first time. I visit Dad to cloud-watch whenever the reality of his death smacks me in the face so hard I can no longer pretend it didn’t happen. Plus, I needed to escape the house. There’s only so much solace clay can provide. And there are only so many times hurt can circulate, screaming its pain story to the empty theatre in my soul, before I go mad. What’s more, the temptation to Google Thomas Nilsen hasn’t let up. It’s itched at my fingertips and lured me to my phone over and over again. The curiosity is killing me, but to open Pandora’s box, I need Dad by my side. It feels like less of a betrayal to him that way.

“Dad, are you still here?” A butterfly flutters down to land on my nose, and her tiny feet tickle as she bats her lemon-yellow wings before flying away. In my book, that’s a universal yes. “There’s stuff I need to tell you.” So I do. I tell Dad about the showdown with Sheila and apologise for estranging his one true love. I tell him about Cole—how quintessentially good he is. I tell him about Beth taking the legal world by storm—about Green Bird Gallery and my sell-out show. But then I address the elephant. I tell him about Thomas and my desperate need to know more.

No butterfly lands on my nose when I request Dad’s Google blessing. But no trees crack and fall—no thunder rumbles—so I take that as silent permission and suck in a deep breath. My phone shakes as I unlock it, and my thumbs fumble as they type in four pivotal words.Thomas Nilsen. Politician. Australia.

Strange faces swamp the image results, but one more so than the rest. A man in his fifties, dressed in a navy suit and lilac tie with short white hair, ice-blue eyes, and a dazzling smile. I scrutinise his features, and an eerie familiarity slides up myspine. No widow’s peak. Nordic pale. Chin cherry proud.My heart hammers. God, this is weird.

I blink a few times to re-water my eyes, then click on an image of Thomas in a tux, standing with his arm locked around a middle-aged brunette who looks gorgeous in gold. And then I tumble down a rabbit hole like Alice, learning all there is to know.

Thomas Nilsen—my sperm donor and biological father—is a well-known individual with power and wealth. One with an impeccable reputation for being forthright and fair. A proud family man, with a wife of twenty-three years, who grew up in Melbourne before moving to Canberra to pursue his career. He’s political dynamite and leader of the Australian Centrists. The first genuine threat to the two-party duopoly that’s doomed us to date. The guy is borderline famous.

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