Page 33 of Open Water

LUKAS: Yeah, and stalk me. It’s called Tinder for you straights. You should try it. You might find something else to do.

TOM: I like stalking you.

He’s not ready to address the other thing. Doesn’t know how to say it without coming off as an idiot.

LUKAS: So, you admit that is what you are doing?

TOM: I’m only trying to talk to you. Be nice. Have a conversation. That is what friends do, Lukas.

LUKAS: We are NOT friends, Tom.

TOM: Yes, we are. We have texted back and forth several times now and you have still not blocked me. We are friends.

LUKAS: Fuck You.

TOM: What are you drinking?

LUKAS: Shut up, arsehole. It’s like we are sixteen again and you sound like my Mum.

TOM: Max and I went to The Outlet Mall today and I’m on an Australian Red from Wolf Blass. Shiraz.

LUKAS: I went to Simon’s BBQ. I’m drinking Tuborg. Happy now?

TOM: Ecstatic.

LUKAS: You didn’t send me any shit today. I was almost disappointed.

TOM: See? We’re friends. Friends send each other shit to make each other happy.

LUKAS: Fuck you, Tom. I’m going to bed. Have a good life.

TOM: I will happily send you more things. I just don’t have your address. You are safe. For now.

LUKAS: Is that a threat?

TOM: No, Lukas. Do I send it to Verdandivägen, Bergsterassen, Trollebergsvägen, Storsjövägen or Fruängsstigen?

There is nothing. No reply, and Tom takes a gulp of wine thinking maybe he has overstepped the line. Maybe that was just a little too much. Maybe he is actually a little bit frightening now, behaving a little too much like a proper stalker.

He waits. Waits until it’s pretty much obvious that there won’t be any more replies from Lukas. That he has actually done it. Blocked him.

TOM: I’m sorry, Lukas. I’m not going to turn up on your doorstep or something. You might have a family that I know nothing about and I don’t want to ruin anything. I just want to be able to talk to you, if you will let me.

LUKAS: Good. Night. Tom.

Thank God. Not blocked.

He brings the phone with him outside and stands in the doorway leading onto the patio, having a last cigarette. It’s raining heavily now, the air thick with the smells of soil and grass. Rain and air. Thick droplets falling against the wooden planks, splashing water onto the threshold.

The phone remains silent, not unsurprisingly so. Tom needs a new tactic. He needs to find some kind of common ground where they can talk. Discuss something mundane enough that it won’t cause them to hurl abuse and behave like children. Again.

The sound of the doorbell makes him jump out of his skin. They aren’t expecting anyone. Nobody ever visits. Unless Max has sleepwalked out of his room and gone outside without him noticing. Sleepwalking can be a side-effect of the medication he takes. Tom should have checked on him. He should have kept an eye on his son instead of trying to impress some bloke who obviously has zero interest in him.

His heart is beating far too fast as he yanks the door open to Max’s room, only to find his son fully clothed on the bed with his headphones on. Fast asleep. Snoring with the lights on full as always.

Yet the doorbell rings again.

TOM

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