Page 77 of Summer, in Between
‘What about Cavey?’
‘What about him?’
‘About him telling you to stay?Telling the bouncers to let you back in?And what’s with him being such a racist?’The sky is almost mauve above us in the twilight, the path ahead dark.I stop to kick off my sandals, my hand on Paul’s bicep for balance.I scrunch my toes into the gravel of the path.It’s almost soothing the way it scratches.
‘Yeah, that was weird, all of it.As if I’d rather hang out in the pub.Actually, I’d rather be back on the North Shore of Hawaii, but I’d want you there too.’
Two kids run along the path towards us, trailing sparklers and screaming, two women following them.One gives Paul a slow look up and down and smiles at me.
‘Enjoy,’ she says as they pass.They both barely conceal their smirks.
‘Thanks?’I say haltingly.
‘You’re home early,’ says Mum as we open the sliding door.
‘We’re going to watch music videos.Is that okay?’
‘Of course, just keep it down.’Mum kisses me goodnight.‘Not too late, please Paul.’
Mum’s footsteps recede downstairs and her bedroom door closes.I pull my doona and pillows off my bed.I turn off all the lights, and we lie on the floor in the television’s glow.I’m a human blanket sprawled across Paul, my cheek on his chest, his chin resting on my head, my doona over us, his hand on the bare skin of my hip, my fingers tracing his biceps.He smells so good, and I have it on good authority that tomorrow, and the next day and the next day I’ll be hugging my pillow to my face, breathing him in.
‘Find that song,’ I say, ‘the dream come true one, the one you sang to me when we were dancing.’
His chest and shoulder move against my face as he works the remote.
‘You like it?That’s now officially our song.’
‘I love it.’
The song floats over and around us, his fingers grip my hair, pulling my mouth up to his.
33
‘ILOVE it here.’Ilook up at Paul through my eyelashes, my head resting on my forearms.We’re lying on a giant beach towel in a sand dune crater.The sand is soft, and the wind whistles high above us.The king tide woke me before sunrise, as if the waves were belting into the house, yet here, cocooned in the dune’s protection, the waves barely make a murmur.It’s hard to believe that if I stood, I’d either be blown out to sea or would die of frostbite, whichever came first.Paul’s lying on his side next to me, the stem and frond of a bunny tail in his teeth.We’re surrounded by them, our hollow oasis amongst plumes upon plumes of bunny tails that wave in the wind.He’s threaded some through my hair, and he’s using another to draw on my back, bare except for my bikini, willowy bristles as soft as cotton wool.‘You make me want to purr.What are you drawing?’
‘Nothing,’ he says.‘I’m writing.’
