Page 8 of Muddy Messy Love

“Hey, Liam?”

He looks up from the screen, brows high, and my gaze sinks to my feet. I kick my heel against the chunky bench leg, counting each strike. Asking this question will break a cardinal rule—my rule—and breach the silent understanding we have. We don’t talk about Slade. Period. And one simple question might rip open Pandora’s box, cursing me with details I needn’t hear. I shake my head. Too risky. “Never mind.”

Curiosity lingers in his gaze, but he lets it go. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, yeah? Jen’s finally outta quarantine.” Excitement fills his voice, but I take a moment to understand, and when I do, my eyes fall shut. Ah, Comet Park. The colourful land of crazy rides and suffocating crowds. I promised Jen we’d celebrate her first night free, but that was before. Before sunlight became my nemesis. Before my limbs turned to lead. Before my bed became my best friend. All I want to do is hide. Hide and sleep. But I’ve already let Jen down enough.

With a resolved breath, I glance up. “Guess I’ll see you then.”

Liam swings off the bench, drops to his feet, and manages to lob his empty water bottle into a bin three metres away. “Score!” he bellows. “The man’s a legend.” He fist-pumps, then slides keys from his pocket and saunters down the driveway with extra swagger. Smirking, I follow him. He’s such a dork.

He shuts the trailer’s tailgate and opens his car door, then stands his tall frame at attention and salutes me. I straighten myback and return the gesture with the optimal dose of sincerity. We do this often, in tribute to Jen’s drill-sergeant dad. Poor Jen. She may as well be eight for all the freedom eighteen affords her.

Liam climbs into his seat and shuts the door. The window rattles as he winds it down, and the engine buzzes to life, casting white smoke through the front yard. It hits my lungs, and I cough, swatting it away. “Damn it, Liam. That thing will kill someone.”

He grins at me, then turns back to the steering wheel, patting and stroking it with affection. “Don’t listen to her, Betsy. You can’t fix stupid.”

“You’d know,” I quip back.

Groaning, Liam clutches his chest as if hit by an arrow, then slumps dead over the steering wheel, pausing for effect, before making a miraculous recovery. Sheesh, he should be a drama major, not a carpenter.

Following him out, I trek along the driveway’s edge. The trailer jolts over the kerb, clanking and clattering like it might fall apart, and again over every bump up Beth’s street. Liam turns the corner with two chirps of his horn, and I sag with a heavy sigh. It’s over. My independence. All self-respect. Happy fucking Friday.

I dawdle back up the driveway, swipe the box cutter from my back pocket, and approach the mystery box with a stepladder. A familiar earthy scent fills the air once I slice the tape, and my stomach rolls as if it knows something I don’t. Frowning, I open the cardboard flaps but then stiffen.

Oh.Of course.

Herein lies my first love. Abandoned like a sick puppy after Christmas. Untouched since I first moved out.

Clear plastic tubs, full of studio treasures, sit stacked with modelling tools loose on top. Half-empty bags of terracotta clay lie slumped at the bottom, mouldy by now, no doubt. And myhardcover sketchbook stands tucked down one side. Everything is quiet and still, like a ghost town devoid of the life and meaning it once had.

Butterflies circle my belly as I slide out the book. Tools tumble into the nooks and crannies. I climb down the ladder, clutching it under one arm, and then lay it on the table. The front cover is decorated with hand-cut birds perched in trees and cherry blossoms made of silk, and as I run my fingertips down the trunk, Mrs. Donovan’s impassioned words return.You, my love, have the makings of a great. You’re the prodigy every art teacher dreams to find. Promise me you’ll never stop.

I swallow. This book once held every spark of my soul, so I flip through it tentatively, daring to hope I’ll feel…something.Anything. But the drawings of sculptures are foreign. The concepts dead. Inspiration doesn’t devour me like it would have just last year. There’s no frantic need to grab a pencil. No desire to feel wet clay slide under my fingers. To push and pull—to mould and create. It’s gone.

Like Mum. Like Dad. Like Slade.

Grimacing, I slam the cover shut. I never thought clay was just a high school fling. I thought it was my oxygen—my future—something I couldn’t live without, but how fast things can change. How fastI’vechanged.

“Avery Lee Masters?” A deep voice echoes through the garage, and I spin around with a gasp, clutching my chest. A police officer looms at the threshold, his hands hidden behind his back, face shadowed by the rim of his hat.

Oh no.

I hoped I’d be forgotten—simply vanish from the pile of paperwork at the station, never to be seen again. But as a large yellow envelope appears from behind his back, that hope splinters and nausea takes its place.

“Yes?” My voice comes wrapped in cotton, and heavy footsteps charge towards me.

Halting, he holds out the envelope. “You have been summonsed.” His droopy face is blank, his voice monotone—bored—as if he’s delivered a hundred envelopes today. I take it with trembling hands, and he nods once before stalking back to his car.

“Wait. That’s it?” I call out, chasing after him. No instructions or pep talk—a shoulder squeeze or “Don’t worry, you’ll be okay, love”?

Stray gravel grinds under his boots as he turns back to face me. “The details are outlined in the documents.” He talks like I imagine a zombie might. If he ever had excitement for his profession, it died many moons ago.

As he climbs into his neon-chequered car, I grumble my thanks to the grass, then watch as he disappears around the corner, swallowing before brushing my fingers over the perfect print of my name. This is really happening. It wasn’t a bad dream after all.

My body floats back to the garage while my head spins a manic web of doom. The panel door squeals against the tracks as it shudders to the ground, and my legs carry me to the kitchen island. I stare at the envelope, trying to evoke telekinetic flames. If it burns to ash, did it ever exist? But when that fails, I hold my breath, rip open one end, and free the papers.

I dart my eyes around the page, collecting random words, and my knees weaken. This is a mistake. It has to be. Shaking my head, I read it again, but the details don’t change. My court date is set for July 14.

July 14.

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