Page 108 of The Alice Equation (The Laws of Love 1)

Chapter Twenty-One

When the doorbell rang,Aaron was ready. Decked out in his running gear, he pressed the intercom button in the hallway.

“Hi, it’s me.” The voice, tinny through the speaker, was still unmistakably Carts.

“Come on up,” Aaron said.

His apartment was spotless. He’d spent the last few days cleaning. Everything was in its rightful place. Clothes folded, dishes washed and put away. Apart from the table that was scattered with photos. Family shots, going back to when he was a kid. Of him and Dad and Oliver—and Mum, her blue eyes shining, blonde hair tied into a ponytail, all of them at a ski resort somewhere in Japan. Of him, minus his front tooth, standing proudly grinning next to Mum on his first day of school. Of all of them with Gran and Gramps at the beach.

With Oliver’s help, Aaron was in the middle of putting together a photo board for Gran’s birthday. And the weird thing was that the more they sat and arranged photos, the more they snipped and smeared glue on the back and pasted, the more it seemed the muscles down Aaron’s spine uncoiled. And even weirder, as he and Oliver reminisced about Mum—the games she’d make up with them, the way she had of telling stories in so many different voices (Where the Wild Things Arehad been her speciality), the happier he felt.

When his vision had gone blurry, Aaron had felt his eyelashes. They were wet. He’d looked over at Oliver to see him wiping away a tear of his own and they’d both laughed, a gruff, look-at-us-grown-men kind of laugh.

And you know what? It had felt so fucking good to feel it all. Even the painful, difficult stuff. And after that, over a beer, they’d talked about Alice. Oliver heard him out about his seismic gaff, patiently helped him make sense of it all, and had given him some sound advice. Which was kind of why he’d invited Carts over this morning. To clear the air.

He couldn’t afford to lose his best mate because they’d both fallen for the same woman.

Rat-a-tat tat.

Aaron took a big breath and opened the door. He had to fight not to burst out laughing. Carts was decked out in a strange combo. Purple and black quick-dry shorts halfway up his long thigh bones, fluoro green runners. A one size too small T-shirt showed a strip of midriff, the classic image of Che Guevara emblazoned on the front. Purple sweat cuffs circled his wrists, another one round his head. He struck Aaron as a 1970s-tennis-pro-cum-Argentinian-revolutionary-inspired-cheerleader.

Carts grinned. “How do I look?”

“Interesting.”

“So where are we going?”

“Up to the lookout and back.”

Carts’ face turned dubious. “How far is that?”

“Well, if we go the short route, about 3 kms.”

“I’m not so sure about this fitness gig, after all.” Carts strolled into the living room. His eyes zoomed in on the dining table. “What’s this you’re working on?” His eyes narrowed as he got closer. “Can I?”

“Sure.”

Carts shuffled photos around. “Is that your mum?”

“Yep.”

“You’re the spitting image.”

Aaron felt the familiar tightening around his chest. Breathed through it. “So I’ve been told.”

“You’ve never really mentioned her,” Carts mused. “I guess it happened before we met you, so I never, we never…”

“Guess teenage boys don’t tend to talk about the difficult stuff.”

“Dan and me sort of knew it was a no-go zone.” Carts shrugged. “Something you didn’t mention.”

Aaron smiled. “Well, now I do.”

Carts nodded thoughtfully. “Good to know,” he said.

He took one more look at the photos. “She was beautiful.”

“Yes. Very.” Aaron’s throat knotted, and he said, “Maybe we’ll break in Mum conversations gradually.”

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