Page 73 of Summer, in Between
‘We were talking about the renovation, Mick,’ says Mum.‘What’s left?’
‘Just all the plumbing, and then we can hang the sheets.’
‘That’s right, let me grab Cavey.’Paul gestures behind him.I turn, and there’s the Neanderthals leaning against the far end of the bar.Cavey raises his beer in hello, then crosses the pub.
‘Hey, Cat,’ he says to me before Paul introduces him to my parents.‘How you going?’
‘We’re going good.’Dad shakes his hand.‘I hear you’re a plasterer.’
‘Have a seat,’ says Mum.
‘Aren’t you guys going now?’I round my eyes at Mum.
‘Calm down, cowgirl,’ says Dad, ‘Cavey, is it?What were you saying?’Ugh.They launch into construction chit chat as tables are cleared all around us and more and more people pour into the pub.
‘Mum...’The house lights turn down leaving the pub in a hazy darkness, the remnants of the sunset filtering through the windows facing the beach, the coastal bush absorbing the twilight.
‘We’re going, we’re going.’Mum rises from her seat.‘Mick, you ready?Boys, time to go.’
‘What about Cat?’whines Tommy.‘How come she gets to stay?’
‘I swear to God...’I mutter.
‘Cat.Do not walk yourself home, you hear me?’Dad stares directly at Paul.
‘I’ve got her,’ says Paul.
‘Make sure you do,’ Dad says, ‘and have her home by midnight.’
‘What am I, a pumpkin?’
‘Mick, don’t start,’ says Mum.‘One thirty, guys.Cat, come here.’She pulls me aside and in Italian tells me to keep myself nice.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘No more than one drink.You’re still underage, remember?And any sign of fighting just leave.There’s far too much testosterone floating around.Especially this one.It’s coming off him in waves.’She tilts her eyes towards Cavey.‘He’s a walking ad for toxic masculinity.’
My parents usher my brothers out the door and leave with a final wave as Ant walks in.
‘Hey, Cat!Paulie, Cavey.How’s it going?’He sidles up to the table to stand next to me.
‘Babe, I’m grabbing a beer.You want one?’says Paul.
‘God, yes.Thank you.’
‘Cavey?Scampo?’
‘Yeah, thanks, mate,’ says Cavey.
‘Jump up, Cat,’ says Ant.
Two guys approach our table.They’re dressed in the pub uniform of black jeans and polo shirts with the pub’s logo.Neither are locals, or none that I recognise anyway.I realise our table’s the last one standing in the whole pub.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say.
‘All good, little surfer girl.’One winks at me, staring just a little too long as he carries the table out the back door.
‘Look at you, making friends everywhere you go,’ says Ant.
