Page 97 of Summer, in Between
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‘CAT, I’m tryingreally hard here.I don’t want to be a dick about this, I know you say you’re just friends and all that, but the way he looks at you?Calling you gorgeous all the time?Baby girl?His hands all over you?That doesn’t look like friends.’
‘For someone trying not to be a dick that’s pretty much all that’s coming across,’ I say.‘JB and I are friends.Justfriends.I don’t know why it’s such a difficult concept for you to understand.Maybe because you constantly have girls throwing themselves at you that you have no idea what it’s like to connect with someone on a different level.’My fingers tap against the window of Paul’s car as he drives along the coast road.My legs crossed, my chest tight, the air between us feels like a snarly rabid dog.‘Anyway, I don’t care what it looks like to you or to anyone else.JB’s been there from the start, he’s like a brother to me.He’ll always be there for me.’
‘So, you’re telling me you’ve never gone there.’
‘Are you kidding me?Even if I had, would it matter?Could you be any more hypocritical?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that you said yourself that you’ve been with more girls than you can count.Everywhere we go you have Isabel Dillon all over you.And you think it’s okay to question me and JB?’Ugh, here we go.My throat scratches as I feel the telltale prickle of tears behind my eyes.I jam my fists into my sockets and take a deep breath.‘I’m not in the mood for the night market anymore.Let’s just forget it.’My voice breaks.
He pulls onto the shoulder of the road and I clutch the grab handle to stop from sliding off the car seat, feet now firmly planted on the floor.
Paul pulls the handbrake up and turns to me.‘I’m so sorry, Cat.I feel like such a dick, please don’t cry.’His Adam’s apple shifts slowly up and down his throat.
‘I’m not crying.’A tear snakes its way down my cheek.
‘What’s this then?’He holds it aloft on his thumb.It glistens in the late afternoon sun streaming through the window, a tiny rainbow prism within.He sighs.‘I’m sorry, this is my shit, not yours.’
‘What does that even mean?’
‘It means I shouldn’t have put all that on you like that.I felt like I was third wheeling there and JB?He’s from your world, babe.His mother is friends with yours.He’s the private school, golden boy, rich kid, he’s your future in the city, he’s more you than...’He chokes on the last word.
‘Stop,’ I interrupt.‘The private school, golden boy, rich kid?This jealous thing you’ve got going on is one thing, and let me tell you, it’s doing absolutely nothing for me, but having a crack at JB?He has shit going on that you couldn’t even imagine.’
‘I’m just saying, I wouldn’t blame you.’He looks down at his interlocked fingers, then opens his palms, shrugging.‘He’s a good one.’
‘You’re my good one, don’t you get it?’I unclick my seatbelt to hurl myself across the seat.My hands over his ears, I lift his head to look me in the eye.‘You hear me?’
‘I hear you,’ Paul says, ‘they can hear you in the city.’He kisses me.‘I really am sorry.Seriously, there’s no words for how sorry I am.You want me to take you home?’
‘No way.’I wriggle my way onto his lap, my legs stretched across the seat, the window hot against my back, my body twisted against his.‘I’m sorry I yelled.But if you want to go do your own thing it’s all good.’
‘My own thing?’His finger traces its way across my face and my neck.‘I just want to be wherever you are.’
A car horn honks in passing and my body jerks, the steering wheel jamming me right in the sweet spot between my ribs.I wince.‘Then let’s not be here, hey?Night market?’
‘Sounds like a plan.’He turns his indicator on.Ten minutes later we’re parking in town.
‘How good is summer?’I say.The jetty is packed, the parkland adjacent crammed with market stalls selling everything from scented candles through to wind catchers, preserves and chutneys, and framed prints.As we wander past the stalls, I pause in front of a glass cabinet filled with jewellery.A kaleidoscope of green, amber and aquamarine glints in the late afternoon sun, luminous.‘Do you make these?’I smile at the woman behind the table.‘They’re beautiful.’
‘I do,’ she says.‘I live a couple of hours up the coast, and every morning I walk on the beach collecting sea glass, then every afternoon I turn them into these pieces.Are you visiting from the city?’
‘No, I live in the next town.I collect sea glass too.I’ve never seen aquas like yours.’
‘This is going to sound super woo-woo, but I feel like I made this piece just for you,’ the woman says.She unlocks the cabinet and holds a necklace towards me.‘The aquamarine would look stunning against your beautiful tan.’It’s an off-center long oval, wider at the top than the bottom, like a lopsided heart.It’s half the length of my thumb, connected to a silver chain with a casing that’s so delicate it almost disappears against the vibrance of the glass.She places a mirror on the cabinet, and I hold it against my chest.‘It even goes with your shell,’ she nods at my fishing line and shell necklace.
