Page 6 of Crazy Love

Kali slams the door in my face, and I chuckle.

Damn. I like that woman.

I like her a lot.

3

KALI

I didn’t crywhen my dad died.

Not when I found out, nor when I realised, he was never coming home. I didn’t cry when I thought about how one minute he was here, and the next, he was gasping for his final breaths as his young heart betrayed him, leaving me and my mother alone to fend for ourselves. Not one single tear.

My therapist at the time said there could be a variety of reasons for that. She gave me three of her best educated guesses:

One, I was experiencing trauma, and my brain was protecting me by suppressing extreme emotions, choosing to numb the pain to help me survive.

Two, I was trying to be strong for my mother, who instantaneously changed the minute she heard the news, barely able to hold it together long enough to take her anti-depressants and finish a bottle of wine before noon.

Or three, her favourite of the options. The one where she’d tilt her head and give me a sympathetic smile, her eyes warm and understanding, and full ofpity. Number three, the gold standard option, was that I, seven-year-old Kalina Cooper, was angry.

I was angry at dad for leaving; angry at the world for taking him. I was angry at everyone who got to keep their fathers. Who got to share memories and achievements, Christmases and birthdays. But mostly, I was angry at my mother, who failed to act like one the minute she got the life-changing phone call.

I wouldn’t say I’m an angry personnow. I’ve done a lot of work to get to a good place. My Mimi has her doubts about that. She thinks I’m still suppressing anger, although she prefers to say I’m ‘passionate’ instead of angry.

“Are you still seeing that boy?” she asks through my earphones. “What’s his name …”

I scoop up my bag of belongings, shivering as I drape a small towel around my shoulders. The water’s still warm in April but getting out of the ocean when there’s a chill in the air sucks ass. “Which boy?”

“You know, lovely Meg’s cousin.”

“You mean, Alex?”

Alex and I had a few months of cute dates and great sex last year. I surprised myself with how much I let go of my carefree stance on relationships, to a degree. We were never official, but I loved spending time with him. You know that honeymoon, mad rush, endorphin-driven period? No wonder I’m not into monogamy. That initial rush is addictive as all hell. In the end, we fizzled to nothing. I’m not sure why.

That’s a lie.

After I started receiving gifts from Anthony, I got distracted. I thought about him too much. I imagined what he’d taste like and freaked myself out, because what you imagine in your brain is never as good as the real thing.

Ever since Friday night, I’ve thought about him even more. Almost obsessively. Thinking about the way he carries himself, re-living the jokes he told. Hischeekiness.He doesn’t mince his words, much like me.

I drag my thoughts back to the present. “Alex and I stopped seeing each other a while ago, Mimi.”

My grandmother hums to herself and I imagine her eyes narrowing. Mimi is no stranger to my dating of multiple men. She’s never been bothered by my dating habits, often putting it down to ‘a generation she doesn’t understand’.

“How is the other young man doing? The man who sends you gifts. Antony.”

My stomach does an involuntary lurch as I make my way up the sand dunes. “It’sAnthony.”

“I prefer Antony.”

I laugh. “I’ll let him know.”

“How is he doing?”

I smile on instinct before biting it back in annoyance. “Good. He’s moved here from Sydney, and I went out with him on Friday night. He’s funny, but obnoxious and doesn’t know where to draw the line.”

“Doesn’t sound familiar at all,” Mimi says.

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