Page 21 of Just Come Over
“No,” she said. “I didn’t know where.” She was wriggling. “I have to go really bad.”
“Easy-peasy,” he said, then stood up and opened the door. “Here you are.” He should have taken her, he guessed. No, hedefinitelyshould have taken her. What had he been thinking? About having his dinner, that was what, and feeling virtuous for turning down the second dinner tray offered by Ilona, who appeared to think he was still playing and needed the calories. About finally getting to work, and about how good that glass of Pinot Noir was tasting, especially after Ilona topped it up.
Never mind. He was here now. Except she wasn’t going in. And she was wriggling worse, her face screwing up in concentration.
He was in trouble.
“Go on,” he said, waggling the door. “It’s empty, see? Nobody in there but you. All yours.”
She went inside, and he pulled the door closed with relief. He’d barely done it when he saw the handle shake. He opened it again and asked, “What?”
She said, “I opened up the toilet, and there was a very loud noise. I think the nairplane has a hole in it. I think you can fall down. Can I go in a regular bathroom? Please?”
He said, “You can’t fall down. It’s a bit loud, that’s all. It’s safe.”
Her shoulders heaved, and her face crumpled. He was still holding the door open, and she was yanking on her jeans, her other hand fumbling to open the toilet seat. Dancing up and down on her toes in her stockinged feet, and, finally, starting to cry. He swore, stepped inside, and lifted her onto the seat just as she got her trousers down.
And still, she cried. Both hands clutching the seat, her jeans around her knees, her shoulders shaking, her eyes squeezed closed, and the tears streaming down her face. It was pathetic. Ithurt.
He crouched down, put his hands on her skinny shoulders, and said, “It’s OK. Don’t cry. It’s OK now.” A lame response from a bloody clueless fella, because all she did was cry harder. Still nearly silently, shaking with sobs.
He tried to think what to do. He couldn’t. He wished with all his heart for a flight attendant. A friendly mum.Somebody.There was nobody here but the two of them, though, so he did the only thing he could think of. He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her head into his chest, and waited for her to cry herself out. And tried to tell himself that he could handle this.
When she was dressed again, and he’d helped her wash her hands and face and blow her nose, wishing once again that he knew what to do about her hair, he felt a bit better. It wasn’t rocket science. It was one little girl who’d had to use the toilet. All he had to do was pay more attention. He’d be fine.
He said, “Better?”
She nodded, not looking up for once. Well, everybody had their low times, in the middle of the night, when the bad thoughts came. She said, “Except my feet are sticky.”
Oh, bloodyhell.This floor was disgusting. He got one of her socks off, then the other, stuffed them in the rubbish, and said, “Good job we didn’t buy the pink sloth ones. You’d have been sad to see those go.”
She said, still sniffling some, “But now my feet areverysticky.”
“I reckon they are, but we can fix that.” He picked her up, propped her against his shoulder, and stuck her feet into the sink, then pushed the button to turn on the tap.
She said, wiggling her toes, “You’re not supposed to wash yourfeetin thesink.”
“We won’t tell.” He grinned at her in the mirror. She smiled back, first tentatively, then wider. Her nose was red, her cheeks were still tear-stained, and still, she smiled.
Something inside him wentClick,like a locked door sliding open. Something small, but, at the same time, like he’d just been driven back in the tackle by a South African. Both things couldn’t be true, but they were.
She looked so much like him, but it was more than that. It was that shefeltlike him. Even though she wasn’t his. She hadn’t cried once, and then, finally, she had. If she had to do that, he had to hold her.
He dried her feet, then mopped up her face some more and said, “I’m going to carry you out of here, so you don’t get disgusting again.”
She put her arm around his neck and said, “Because you’re Maui.” Then she rested her head against his shoulder and asked, “Do I have to sleep on a nairplane every night?”
“No,” he said. “Just tonight. I have a regular bedroom for you at home. You’ll see.” She closed her eyes, and he smiled, opened the door, and ceded the space to an older, solidly built fella who muttered, “About time.”
“Sorry, mate,” Rhys said.
The man gave him a second look. A sharper one. “Aren’t you Rhys Fletcher?”
“Yeh.”
He had his mouth open to say, “See ya,” but the man beat him to it. “I see you’ve got your hands full,” he said. “Good luck at the Blues. See if you can keep any more of those fellas from heading overseas, will you?”
“Yeh,” Rhys said. “Cheers, mate.” He headed back to Casey’s seat, but when he would have set her down on her bed, she hung on tighter.
