Work on Friday was busy as hell. We had two cars booked in for a service. Mr Barese worked on one while I did the other, and we still had to man the petrol bowsers and the phone. But we worked well together; I did the work underneath the engines, Mr Barese did his work from the top. He claimed his body wasn’t up for getting on the creeper trolley anymore. Well, he said he could still get down and under ’em. It was the gettin’ back up that his body didn’t like too much.

But I didn’t mind. In fact, I loved it.

Changing oil and checking fuel pumps wasn’t exactly high-end stuff, but there was a method of precision, of steps that had to be taken to get each procedure done properly. And it was satisfying doing each job and doing it well.

It was even better to see the happy customers and an even happier Mr Barese. When knock-off time rolled around, we fell into our chairs in his office and sipped our cups of tea. Sure, most people probably sat around at five o’clock on a Friday afternoon with a beer, but not us. Mrs Barese brought over some fresh scones with cream and jam and even some for me to take home to Pops. He would love them, and I was grateful she’d thought of him.

“What’s your plans for this evening?” Mr Barese asked.

“Nothin’ much. Go home. Cook dinner. Dad’ll probably wanna watch the footy.”

“Thought you didn’t like the footy?” he asked.

“Don’t much. But there’ll be a movie on after it.”

He sipped his tea. “Not heading into town?”

“Nah.”

He paused for a second. “That Noah seems like a nice fella.”

Well, that came from nowhere. Just what was he getting at? What did he know? I shrugged, trying to act like I didn’t care either way. “Yeah. Seems okay.”

He thankfully left it alone. “You do your motorbike lesson tomorrow?”

It wasn’t really a lesson, more of a class with an instructor, but I didn’t see the point in correcting him. “Yep. First one tomorrow, second one next weekend, then I can sit for my licence.”

“Good, good,” he said, nodding. “Do you need a lift there?”

“Nah, she’ll be right. Thanks.”

I tried to hide my excitement. Not just at the riding course, but also at seeing Noah again. So I told Mr Barese how the motorbikes were provided for this course and joked that I would probably end up with a postie’s two-stroke bike that sounded like a lawnmower. He laughed at that. He took the empty teacups and I closed up roller doors, padlocking them shut. He wished me good luck and said goodbye, and I sat on my motorbike. But before I started it, I pulled out my phone and went to the messages like Noah had showed me.

There were no messages from him, not that I expected any, but I was still disappointed that I hadn’t heard from him. He was the tech-savvy one not me, and he could probably type out a long message in just a few seconds, like it was nothing at all. But I also told him that I couldn’t have my phone beeping in case my old man heard it. So maybe he was waiting to hear from me.

I looked at his earlier message to me, and it was easy enough to copy. It was just two letters, but even those took me a few seconds to find.

Hi

The cursor blinked at me, waiting for me to write something else or to hit Send. It was so ridiculous that I was nervous, but my palms were sweaty and I had butterflies in my stomach. I shook my head at myself and hit the damn Send button.

I waited for about five seconds but there was no reply. Maybe he was driving home, or maybe he called into a shop on the way home to grab some dinner, I told myself. He would reply when he could.

Jesus, CJ. Desperate, much?

Making sure the phone was still switched to silent, I pocketed it, kick-started my bike, and went home. I rode my bike in the shed, closed it up and went inside to find Pops in his recliner watching his soaps on TV.

“Hey, Pops. How’s life with the Forresters today? Oh, Mrs Barese gave me some scones to bring home for you.” The fire was going, the house was warm, and there was no sign of my father. “Where’s Dad?”

Pops sighed. “CJ, sit down. Got something to tell ya.”

Well, that didn’t sound good.

I sat on the sofa. “What is it?”

“He’s gone to town.”

“What? How? I didn’t see him catch the bus.” The bus stop was close to work, and I’m sure he would have asked me for money because he didn’t have any.

“No, he got a lift.” Pops frowned. “CJ, he sold your lawnmower.”

I blinked. “He what?”

“I told him he had no right. I told him it was yours and you bought it with your own money. But he didn’t care. Some guy from Maitland paid a hundred bucks for it, and he got a lift back to town with him.”

I couldn’t believe it. “He sold my lawnmower?”

Pops nodded. “I tried to stop him.”

My hands started to shake; anger and rage flared in my belly and my blood. I clenched my teeth and made fists, trying to breathe calm as I could. “He sold my lawnmower? For a hundred bucks? I paid two hundred for it!”

His frown deepened. “I know.”

“One hundred dollars. To him, that’s just a packet of smokes and a dozen schooners.” It wasn’t even five thirty. “He’s probably already spent it.”

Pops nodded solemnly. “He was in a foul mood all day. Searched the house for money, looking for anything he could hock.”

I felt the blood run from my face. “Oh no.” I ran to my room and shoved the wardrobe from the wall. I stuck my hand in the hole, and for a moment of panic, I couldn’t feel the Weet-Bix box. But then I reached in further, and thankfully, there it was. I carefully pulled it out and took it to my bed just as Pops walked into my room. With a lump of dread in my throat, I opened the lid.

God, I almost didn’t want to know.

“Is it all there?” Pops asked.

I let out an almighty breath. There, just as I left it, was my pile of money. “Looks like it.”

Pops visibly sagged with relief. “Thank God.”

“Can you count it for me?” I asked him. I could do it, but he was quicker at it than me.

He shuffled in and sat on my bed and proceeded to count out loud every note. “One hundred and eighty dollars,” he said, looking at me like it was a question.

I nodded. “I had to use sixty dollars the other day to help pay for the rider course I’m doing tomorrow. So that’s right, isn’t it?”

Pops let out a wheezy sigh. “Oh, thank heavens.”

The relief was immediate, but it still didn’t fix the fact that the bastard had sold my lawnmower. I packed the money away, hid the box back in the wall, and put the wardrobe back in its place. We went back out to the kitchen, and I made the pot of tea, put the scones in the microwave so they were good and warm, and slathered on some butter. Just how Pops liked it.

“I should report my mower as stolen,” I said.

Pops nodded seriously. “You should.”

“Don’t know where it will get me. He’ll just tell the cops I told him he could sell it, and the minute they walked out the door, he’d give me another black eye.”

He frowned. “I thought he would’ve been back in jail by now.”

“I did too.” Pops patted my hand. “It’ll get better, son.”

“When?”

He didn’t have an answer for that.

* * *

After an early dinner with Pops, I went out to the shed. I hadn’t even realised when I parked my bike that the lawnmower was gone. But yeah, it definitely was. That son of a bitch. I was a lot of things: angry, hurt, betrayed. But I wasn’t surprised.

Just when I thought he couldn’t sink any lower.

I considered putting a padlock on the shed door but then realised he would only smash it, or break down the doors to get in. And I wondered if I had left my bike at home today, would he have sold it instead?

I was definitely going to say something. I didn’t care that it would end up with me copping another black eye, more than likely, but I wouldn’t let this go. Because fuck him.

I lit up a cigarette and sat on my bike, wondering what on earth I was going to say to my old man. I couldn’t very well ask him to move out. It was his house after all. And I certainly couldn’t afford to move. I remembered Noah offering to report him so he would go back to jail, and for a brief moment, I considered it.

Should I? Could I?

As much as I wanted my old man out of my life, I just wasn’t sure I could be the one to do it.

Thinking about Noah, I took out my phone to see if he’d replied, and my heart sank when I realised he hadn’t. He said he would reply, and I didn’t take him to be no liar. He was genuine, wasn’t he?

Did I send the message wrong? Did I not send it at all? What if he didn’t get it and was still waiting for me to text first?

So I typed out another one, a little quicker this time.

Hi

And I waited. Then I waited some more. Nothing, no reply. Stupid phone.

Stupid hope.

I finished my cigarette and flicked the butt outside, trying not to overthink it. Him, he and me together, the promises he made, the look in his eyes, the way he would hug me and make everything in the world feel right.

And then I got to thinking, what if something was wrong? Is that why he hadn’t replied? Maybe he was sick, maybe there’d been some trouble at work. Figuring my dad was gone and Pops wouldn’t hear me, I pressed on Noah’s name, then on the telephone button to call him.

It rang, and kept ringing. Then it cut off and I got his voicemail. “You’ve reached Noah Huxley. Please leave a short message. I’ll get back to you when I can.”

I wasn’t prepared to leave a message. Just hearing his voice threw me off and I stammered, “Uh yeah, it’s um, me. CJ. Sorry, I didn’t mean to . . . fucking hell.”

I hit the End Call button as fast as I could. My heart was pounding. I felt like an idiot. God, was there a way to delete a voice message? I let my head fall back and I groaned. I was so, so stupid.

Trying to put it out of my mind, I had another ciggie, then went inside. Pops and I watched a movie, though I barely paid attention. I checked my phone every now and then, but there was nothing.

“What’s got you so worried, CJ?” Pops asked. God knows how long he was watching me.

“Nothing.” I shrugged. “Just this motorbike course tomorrow.”

“You’ve been riding motorbikes since you were a kid. You got nothing to worry about.”

I couldn’t very well tell him the truth. It wasn’t the course so much; it was doing it without Noah that had me worried. He said he would meet me afterwards, but if he wasn’t answering his phone . . .

Of course Pops saw through me. “What are you really worried about, CJ? You worried about what your dad will say about the mower?”

I’d forgotten about that, and remembering now made me sigh. “Nah. There’s no point in losing sleep over him. Learned that a long time ago.” I turned the phone over in my hand and figured I owed Pops the truth. “Noah said he would take me there, and I sent him a text and left a message, but he hasn’t replied.”

Pops frowned. “Doesn’t sound like him to give up on you. Maybe he’s busy, or maybe he’s out on a date or something.”

I shot him a look, not really meaning to, but I couldn’t help my reaction. A date? No, surely not. “Yeah, maybe.” The thought of him with someone else made my stomach turn.

Shit.

This was getting far too complicated. And this, this, was the reason I never got attached to anyone in the first place.

“I’m just gonna head out for one last ciggie before bed,” I said to Pops, walking out of the house and into the shed. I pulled out my smokes, lit one up, and then took out my phone. There was still nothing from Noah. And before, I had been keen to hear from him, just for the sake of hearing from him. Now, I needed to know if he was still taking me to this stupid rider licence course in the morning or if I should catch a bus. I shouldn’t ride my bike because the teacher would see me pull up on it and know I didn’t have a licence and would most likely report me. But I also didn’t want to leave my bike here in case my arsehole father decided to hock it for a quick buck.

God, I hated being reliant on other people. I hated it.

I really needed to speak to him, but if I left another message for him now, I’d just look desperate. My finger hovered over Noah’s number, and my pride decided for me that I’d just make my own bloody way there in the morning. I didn’t need Noah. I didn’t need anyone. Then, like he somehow knew, my phone buzzed in my hand and Noah’s name came up on the screen.

With a hammering heart and ridiculous smile, I hit Answer.

Didn’t need him? Yeah, right.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he replied. There was a rustling sound like he dropped the phone. “Didn’t know if it was okay to call.”

He sounded drunk. “Yeah, it’s fine. My old man’s not here. Have you been drinking?”

“Maybe.”

Yeah. He definitely had. “Wondered why you didn’t reply earlier. Thought I fucked up the message somehow.”

“No, I got it, but I just got home.

He sounded different. Colder, somehow.

“Right. Um, yeah, I was just wondering if you were still picking me up in the morning. If not, I can catch the bus. It’s no big deal.”

“I said I would. So I’ll be there.”

I frowned at the lit end of my cigarette. “Um, can you pick me up from Mr Barese’s shop? If that’s okay. I don’t want to leave my bike at home.” Then, because his distant replies were confusing, I added, “Or I can just ride to your place. Or I can just catch the bus into town. It’s no problem. How about I do that, yeah? I’ll get there, it’s fine.”

He sighed into the phone and it sounded like he ran his hand over his face. “Why?”

“So you don’t have to worry about it. I’m not your responsibility. I’ve been looking after myself long enough⁠—”

“No, why don’t you wanna leave your bike at home?”

I took a long drag of my cigarette and blew the smoke out slowly. “My dad sold my lawnmower today. It’s why he’s not here. He took the money and is pissing it up the wall at some shithole pub in town as I speak.”

“Oh, CJ . . .”

“I bought that with my own money. I used to mow Mr Barese’s lawn for him . . . Now I can’t do that anymore.”

“Why would he do that? It wasn’t his to sell.”

“Because he’s an arsehole, and he doesn’t give a fuck who he hurts. He just thinks about himself, no one else.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Me too.” I drew back on the cigarette and sighed. “I’m so sick of his bullshit.”

He didn’t say anything for a while and I looked at the phone to see if we were still connected. “So, tomorrow?”

“I said I’ll come pick you up.” His voice was quiet. “From the shop, at half-past eight, okay?”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks. If it’s a pain in the arse⁠—”

“CJ, it’s fine. See you then.”

The call cut off and I stared at the phone. What the fuck was up with him? This version of Noah was someone I didn’t know and was someone I wasn’t sure I liked too much. If he was gonna be a dick to me every time he had a bad day, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a part of that. If he had a problem with me, then he could damn well fess up and tell me.

Confused, I pocketed my phone, took a last drag of my cigarette, and flicked the butt into the dirt. I closed the shed up and went inside.

“Get it sorted?” Pops asked. The movie was almost done and he’d made himself a cup of tea. “Want a cup. Kettle just boiled.”

“Nah, I’m good. Just gonna have a shower and head to bed. I’ll be leaving by eight-ish in the morning. Noah’s gonna pick me up from the shop. I’ll leave my bike there.”

Pops nodded. “Probably for the best.”

Yeah, I think so too. “See you in the morning, ’kay?”

“Sure thing, CJ.”

I was pretty sure Pops knew something was bothering me, but he knew I wouldn’t talk about it if I didn’t want to, and he also knew not to push me. And talking about this would probably be a good idea if my issue wasn’t about a guy. How could I say I was confused about mixed messages with a guy? How could I tell him I thought I had feelings for someone but then lie to him about who it was? I wouldn’t lie to him. I couldn’t.

So, instead of sitting down and asking for some perspective, I just said, “Night,” and left him to it.

* * *

Despite my hesitation about seeing Noah, I couldn’t deny the butterflies when his car came into view. I took one last drag of my cigarette and butted it out just as he pulled up. I had no idea what to expect from him, but I’d hoped his weird mood had passed and things were back to normal between us.

Not that I really knew what normal was for us. Snark and banter, lingering looks, and anticipation of what might happen when I was off parole.

One more week.

I got into the car and pulled on my seatbelt. The smell of his deodorant washed over me, making me smile. God, he smelt good. “Morning.”

There was something wrong with his smile. “Morning.”

Okay then. “Thanks again for coming to get me.”

“Where’s your bike?”

“Mr Barese let me lock it in his workshop.”

Noah nodded. “Okay, good.”

He drove us out of Ten Mile Creek, back out onto the highway, pressing buttons on his stereo, clearly not happy with the radio station’s choices of music.

“Wow,” I said, nodding to the new estate development. “They’re really moving ahead with that.” Bulldozers had cleared what looked like a road and housing blocks. There were surveyor pegs everywhere and heavy machinery and trucks. It was just a bare paddock a week ago.

“Yeah, they’re not mucking around,” Noah mumbled.

And that was about it for conversation.

I had no idea what I’d done or what had happened for the change in him. Had he met someone else? Or did he just realise the truth? That he was starting a career in corrections and I was a Davis.

He pulled up at the high school, where the course was to take place. And there, in the car park, was a guy wearing a high-vis vest with five motorbikes in a neat row. There were traffic cones set out and two other people standing nearby, clearly waiting for class to start.

“Well, this is it,” I said.

Noah gripped the steering wheel so tight, his knuckles were white. “Good luck.”

I looked at him, trying to figure out what the hell was wrong, but he wouldn’t look at me. “Is there something wrong?” I asked.

“Nope.” He gave me a tight smile. He couldn’t lie for shit. “You better go. Don’t want to be late.”

I opened the door but didn’t get out. I knew when I wasn’t wanted, and I sure as hell wasn’t waiting around for the insults that usually followed. “Have fun at soccer. You don’t have to worry about picking me up. I’ll find my own way home. Thanks for the lift.”

His eyes shot to mine, full of something that looked like indignation and resentment. “I said I’d pick you up.”

“Well, I’m not a fucking obligation.” I didn’t give a shit if that was abrupt. I’d done nothing to deserve the attitude he was spraying all over me. “Thanks for the lift, but I’ll be fine.”

I got out and slammed the door⁠—because fuck him too⁠—and as I walked away, I could have sworn I heard him cussing and banging his hands on his steering wheel.

I didn’t turn around.

I walked over to the riding instructor and tried to shake off my mood. I needed to get through the next few hours. I could worry about Noah fucking Huxley later.

The instructor’s name was Nigel. He was a big burly man with a grey moustache and a wide smile. If I was expecting some high school science teacher, I couldn’t have been more wrong. He was just like a guy I’d expect to find at a Harley Motorbike convention. And twenty minutes into our initiation, he quickly recognised that I knew motorbikes better than anyone else there, probably just as well as he did. And he liked me after that. Well, maybe not liked, but he respected me. Or respected that I wasn’t some smartarse kid like he might have assumed.

Two others in the class knew the basics of motorbikes, and the other two would have been lucky to know how to put fuel in one, so Nigel probably liked having someone who knew their way around a bike.

After that, the course was easy. When we were having a break, I stood near the school fence and lit up a smoke, and Nigel came over to me. “So, you’re a mechanic?”

“Not quite. I’m going to be. I’ve been working as one for years but just need the piece of paper to prove it.”

He nodded but seemed confused. “Why so late? I mean, you’re what? Twenty-three?”

“Twenty-four. But yeah, well, me and school didn’t exactly get on.”

He laughed like something made sense. “I hated school too.”

I took a drag of my cigarette and thought now might be a good time to bring this up. “I uh, I have trouble with reading and I don’t write so good.” I blew out the smoke. “I can read traffic signs and all that, so that’s no problem. Just don’t give me a book and expect an essay on it.”

He rocked back on his heels and nodded slowly, like he was assessing me and what he should say. “There’s nothing wrong with that, Clinton.”

“CJ,” I corrected him. “People call me CJ.”

“Well, CJ,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong with not reading or writing too well. Lots of people can’t. Thanks for telling me though.”

“Is there a test for this?” I asked. “This course, I mean? I know I have to do the computer test at the RMS, but I mean for this, with you?” I took another drag of my cigarette, trying to quell my nerves. “Because if there is, if you read the questions to me, I’ll be able to answer ’em. Anything you ask: road signs, traffic rules, anything mechanical.”

He clapped his hand on my shoulder and smiled. “I can do that.”

* * *

When the course was over, I was feeling pretty good. There would be a small test at the end of next week’s course, but Nigel said he could read it for me. And I knew, as much as I didn’t want to admit it, that if it weren’t for Noah, I never would have had the balls to ask Nigel for help.

Let alone done the course at all.

And as we all went out the gates to go our separate ways, Noah was standing, leaning against his car. He was wearing his soccer clothes and he had his arms crossed.

I considered walking in the opposite direction, but then I saw he was wearing his soccer socks and those stupid slides on his feet. “Cool slippers.”

He tried not to smile. “Fuck you.”

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “I said I could find my own way home.”

His jaw ticked, his eyes bore into mine. “We need to talk.”