The woman who read for my test was nice enough. I told her I could read some, just not full pages of words and not tests that had time limits on answering questions. I even swallowed my pride and showed her how I could read the beginning of the test.

“You . . . have . . . forty . . . s-s-seconds . . . for . . . each?” She nodded. “Each . . . question.” It was embarrassing, but I could read. I just wasn’t great at it. Then she showed me a bunch of road sign images and asked me to identify them, even the ones with writing on them, but they were so much easier. “Stop. Give way. Bus stop. No parking. Transit lane. That one means Clearway. One-hour parking. Police cars only.”

She smiled after that and we started the actual test. I was nervous as hell and had to ask her to repeat the questions a couple of times but got through the computer part of the test pretty quick. Then she did the eye test, where I had to say each letter out loud on whichever line she asked for, and well, she didn’t say I got any wrong, she just smiled and told me to take a seat.

A minute or two later, she called me over and said, “Congratulations.”

I couldn’t believe it! I’d done it! A month ago, I would have said it was impossible. Hell, a month ago, it was impossible. But Noah . . . well, Noah helped me more than I could ever explain.

Sure, he helped with the mock tests and organising it all for me and helping me read through the booklet, but he also believed in me.

Another thing for my first list.

I had my photo taken, and two minutes later, I walked out of the RMS as a legitimate licenced motorbike rider. Well, a learner rider, and I’d have to use those lame-arse L-plates, but I didn’t even care.

I’d achieved something. And man, it felt good.

When Noah saw me, he was watching, waiting for me to say if I’d passed or failed, so I had to play with him a bit. I frowned and acted all sad, and his face fell, but his first reaction was to tell me it was okay, we’d just try again next weekend. He didn’t mock me, he didn’t tell me I was stupid, he didn’t laugh.

I could get used to that.

I pulled out my licence and his whole face changed, like he beamed pride for me or something. Then he hugged me. Right in front of the RMS, in front of whoever was there, he just threw his arms around me and almost lifted me off my feet.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispered in my ear.

And if I had any reservations about him touching me in public, I didn’t after that. He was proud of me. Me, CJ Davis.

“Thank you. I couldn’t have done this without you. I wouldn’t have even known how.”

He pulled away but kept his hands on my shoulders. “You did it. Not me.”

I took out my wallet and put my new licence in the card slot next to my ID card and my new bank card. God, he had no idea what he’d done for me. Before Noah, I was a nobody. A no-hoper with no paper proof I was even alive, except for the bills I had to pay. But now I had things, material proof with my name and photo, and responsible adult things that most people probably didn’t think twice about, but they were important to me.

“We should celebrate,” I said.

“What do you wanna do?” he asked brightly, starting to walk to his car. “Order food? Go out for dinner? To the movies? Shopping? How do you wanna celebrate?”

I grinned at him. “How about we go back to your place and decide there?”

He stopped walking. “Oh. That kind of celebrating?”

Now I laughed. “Well, no, I wasn’t thinking of that kind of celebrating. I was thinking you might wanna have a shower and get out of your stinky soccer clothes.”

He smelt his armpit, then narrowed his eyes at me. “Shut up. I’ll have you know, we won our match today.”

“Then we really do need to celebrate.”

“Yes. Yes, we do.”

* * *

As soon as we’d walked into Noah’s kitchen, he asked to see my licence. I handed it over and he smiled, nodding as he looked at it. “Great photo.”

“No it’s not. It’s crap.”

He took his licence from his wallet and showed it to me. “This is a crap photo.”

I took it and inspected it, trying not to smile, then trying not to laugh. “Jesus, did you pay the homeless man to stand in for you?”

He busted up laughing and snatched his licence back. “Well, it’s not that bad. But yours is a good photo.”

I took my licence back and looked over it again. “Still can’t believe it’s real. That I have a licence!”

Noah was smiling so hard his eyes were crinkled at the sides. “You deserve good things, CJ.”

I shrugged, trying to play it cool. “What happened to Clinton?”

He stepped right in close and pulled my chin between his finger and thumb. “Clinton.”

Jesus. Just hearing him say my name like that made my heart feel too big for my chest. Then he licked his bottom lip and I couldn’t help myself. I kissed him, hard. I could never get enough of him, and when he opened his mouth and slid his tongue against mine, it almost buckled my knees.

If he was fire, I was gasoline. As soon as we touched, we became something else. I couldn’t explain it⁠—I didn’t know the words⁠—but there were sparks, heat, fire; consuming, raging fire. I wanted him like I’d never wanted anyone, or anything, ever.

And from the way he held me and kissed me back, I was pretty sure he felt exactly the same. He pushed away from me and gasped for air. “God, CJ.” He was breathless, his chest heaving, his lips red and swollen.

“It’s not just me, is it?” I asked, putting my hand to my heart. “You feel it too.”

He barked out a strained laugh. “Oh yeah.” Then he thought about what I’d said. “You feel the same?”

The same . . . Was he asking me if I felt the passion between us? Or if I felt the same things that I hoped to God he felt about me? I guessed it didn’t matter. My answer was one and the same.

“Um, yeah.”

He grinned then. “I’m glad. I really like you, Clinton. Maybe it’s more than that, I don’t know. But I want to see where this thing between us can go.”

“I really like you too.” Then I added what he did. “Or maybe it’s more than that, I don’t know.”

His smile went all shy-like and I’m sure I blushed a dozen shades of red, but he pulled me in for another hug. It wasn’t a passionate embrace, it was a bone-deep comfort thing. Well, it was for me, anyway. He stepped away and cleared his throat, then readjusted himself. “These damn soccer shorts. I’m going to go grab that shower.” He took another step backwards. I had to will myself not to look at his shorts. “Make yourself at home.”

“Is that your way of asking me to make you a toasted cheese sandwich?”

He laughed from the hallway. “I wouldn’t say no.”

I stood in his kitchen smiling. What a crazy-wonderful day. I couldn’t remember being this happy. I doubted I ever had been. First, I passed my rider course, then I got my rider licence, then got to make out with a super-hot, nicest-ever guy who, for reasons I’ll never understand, just told me he liked me.

Maybe it’s more than that.

That’s what he’d said. Could it be more than that? Did I, CJ Davis, get a shot at love? A month ago, I’d have laughed at the idea. Now, after Noah, I was hoping like all hell that’s what this was.

After Noah.

Maybe my list of firsts should be really be a Before Noah/After Noah list. It was one and the same thing to me.

Was I falling in love with him?

I didn’t need to answer that. I knew the answer already. So I went about making him a toasted cheese sandwich instead.

By the time Noah was showered and changed and we’d eaten our sandwiches, we found ourselves on his couch not really watching the footy. “What’s your idea of a celebration night?” he asked. “Is there something you’ve always wanted to do but thought it was too out of reach?”

“Well,” I shrugged. “You’ll probably laugh.”

“No I won’t.” His eyes bored into mine, and he was so sincere I couldn’t doubt him.

“Well, this.”

He looked around us. “What about this?”

“This. Like I told you before, bein’ here with you like this is something I never thought I’d ever have. People like me don’t get happy ever afters, Noah. So this, layin’ about on the sofa, wearing sweatpants in front of the heater, watching crap on TV, holding hands and making out, it’s like perfection for me.”

He took a second to answer, blinked a few times. “Oh.”

“I get that it’s not very exciting and you’ll probably get bored of it. If you want to do something adventurous like hiking or even just going out for dinner, I guess we could. I’m up for that too. But you asked what I thought was perfect or something I never thought I’d have⁠⁠—⁠”

“Clinton,” he murmured, stopping my rant. He slid closer, and there was something in his eyes that I couldn’t place. “This is kinda perfect for me too. I wasn’t joking when I told you the other weekend that I’m a homebody. I like just being at home, hanging out. And I especially like doing it with you.” He smirked. “But you’re wrong about one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You said that sitting here watching crap on TV, holding hands, and making out is your favourite thing.”

“So?”

“We’re not holding hands. Or making out.”

He put his hand, palm facing upwards, on my knee. I slid my hand over his and he was quick to thread our fingers.

“And the making out part?” he asked. He was being playful but there was a serious look to his eyes.

So I leaned back and pulled him down so he was on top of me. It wasn’t graceful, but from his smile and heated gaze, he didn’t seem to mind. I manoeuvred my legs and wriggled down a bit so I was more comfortable, then he kissed me, slow and deep. The fire was there, but it burned differently this time. It wasn’t a raging bushfire, consuming and sure to burn itself out. No, this was a smouldering, long burn. Still intense, still everything I never dreamed possible. Tender and loving, with slow mouths, slow hands, and gentle rocking hips.

He was everything I never knew I needed. He was everything I wanted, longed for, dreamed of, and never thought I could have.

Maybe it’s something more than that.

There was no maybe about it. There was no doubt in my mind.

I was in love with him.

That thing I’d seen in movies that made smart people do stupid things, that kind of love. The kind where they risk everything they’ve ever known, the kind that changes lives, that changes souls.

He kissed down my neck and I turned my head to give him more room. I pulled on the neck of his T-shirt so I could kiss his shoulder, and he hummed in the most delicious way. He liked that. I wanted to learn more.

“I want to know everything about you,” I whispered. “Your body. I want to know every part I have to kiss to make you make that sound.”

I felt his lips at my neck turn into a smile. “And you. What drives you crazy?”

I stilled. “I don’t know. No one’s ever tried. No one’s ever wanted to know before.”

He pulled back and looked down at me, his lips red and swollen, his pupils blown out. “Then I promise you, Clinton, I will find every single one. I will map out every inch of your body.”

Holy shit.

His words just about set my blood on fire.

He smiled. “Okay, so it’s safe for me to assume you like a little bit of dirty talk?”

Before I could answer, a phone rang, and it took a second for me to realise it was my phone.

Oh no.

Noah got up off me and I scrambled to sit up, reaching for my phone on the coffee table. “You and Pops are the only ones who have my number.” And Pops had said he’d only ever call if it was an emergency. I heard his breathing first. A sound I’d know anywhere. “Hello?”

“Pops?”

“Yeah, CJ. Sorry.” He sounded like he was trying to whisper, but he also sounded worse than normal.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s your dad. He’s gone off the rails and he was going through your room, looking for money. He reckons you’re holding out on him. He’s gone out to the shed looking for it, so I thought I best call you. You’d better come home. I tried to stop him . . .”

“I’m on my way.”

I didn’t even have to ask. Noah was already up, grabbing his wallet and keys. “I’ll drive you. What happened? Is Pops okay?”

“I dunno. He sounded worse but said my old man’s in a mood and he’s going through everything looking for my money.”

“Your money?”

I put my jacket on. “The money hidden in my room⁠—it’s just a hundred and eighty bucks but I keep it in case Pops needs extra pills⁠—but I didn’t think he knew about it. Maybe he’s guessing, I dunno. He’s just pissed off because I’m not there. Probably out of smokes and beer and that’ll be my fault.”

Noah fumed, his jaw clenched and he shook his head. “You know what? Fuck him.”

I snorted and walked to the back door. “Oh yeah. I’m so fucking done with his shit.”

* * *

I hadn’t realised it’d gotten so late. It was getting dark, the clouds were low and looked set in, the wind had turned cold. I’d bet any money Dad had let the fire go out and God only knows what damage he’d done to the shed so far.

Noah and I didn’t say much on the drive to Ten Mile Creek. I guess there wasn’t much to say. “Not how I wanted to celebrate tonight, sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he said quickly. “Don’t apologise because of him.”

God, I hated my old man. “I wish he’d go back to jail.”

Noah reached over and squeezed my hand. “I know.”

When we got to Davis Road, he turned down instead of stopping. “You can just drop me here,” I said.

“I’ll come in with you.”

“No,” I said quickly. “It’ll just make everything worse.”

He slowed to a stop, maybe a hundred metres from my house but out of sight, thanks to the long grass and overgrown trees. “CJ, you don’t have to go in there alone. I can help you.”

“You already help me, more than you know,” I whispered.

His face fell but he squeezed my hand. “You promise you’ll call me if you need anything. I can be back here in ten minutes.”

I nodded and went to get out of the car.

“Clinton,” he said, stopping me. He waited for me to look at him. “Be careful.”

“Always am.”

I got out of the car and jogged down the rest of the dirt road to my house. By the time I came to the fence, Noah had turned around and was heading away, thankfully. As much as I would’ve liked him by my side, there was no need for him to go through this.

From the outside, the house looked quiet, peaceful. But the storm clouds that rolled above it were a pretty good indication of what was going on inside. I could hear my old man banging and cursing at the shed at the side of the house, so I went in the front door to check on Pops first.

“Oh CJ,” he said, wheezing. “Sorry I called you, son. But I didn’t want your dad to take your bike. Not after how hard you worked for it.”

“How are you?” I asked, walking over to his recliner. The fire was out, like I knew it would be. “Let me get this fire going first, huh?”

He nodded and frowned, worry and apology ingrained in every line on his face.

I threw some kindling on the almost-out embers, added some old newspaper, and flipped the lid on my zippo to restart the fire. The orange flames took hold and I closed the door, and knowing I had to go out and face my father, I stood up.

Only I didn’t go looking for him. He came looking for me. The front door banged loud enough to sound like a gun, and he stomped into the living room. If the clouds outside looked like a storm, it had nothing on him. His eyes were dark, his face a tempest: rage and fury, uncontained.

I’d seen that look before.

I knew what was coming.

I was even happier now that Noah wasn’t here.

Except all the times before, I’d borne the brunt of his anger. Well, not anymore and never again.

“Where the fuck’ve you been?” he spat, glowering and shaking with rage. He’d also been drinking. I could smell bourbon from across the room.

“I told you I’d be out all day. What’s your problem?”

“My problem?” His eyes sparked with disbelief that I’d speak to him like that. “My problem is you. I’m stuck here all fuckin’ day, no money, no smokes, and you just fuck off for the day.”

“I’m an adult. If I need to go to town for the day, I don’t need no one’s permission,” I said, trying to keep my tone neutral. His knuckles were white, his fists clenched. “If you need cigarettes or more alcohol, you could try asking.”

He took a step closer, his jaw ticked, and he spoke through his teeth. “Or you could try showin’ me some respect, boy.”

I glared right back at him. “You could try earning it.”

He rushed at me, drunkenly, but still, there wasn’t much room. He came in swinging his fist but I shouldered him and shoved him off me into the wall. By the time he righted himself, I was ready. I didn’t want to hit him, but I would.

“Please don’t fight,” Pops said weakly from the kitchen door.

Dad never took his eyes off me. “Shut up, old man.” He charged at me again, this time tackling me into the recliner, head-butting me on the way down. Well, it was more of a clash of heads, but he got me on my left temple.

I saw stars.

He seemed unaffected; alcohol gave him an injury buffer. He wouldn’t feel any pain tonight. He reared back and came back at me with his full strength behind his fist, connecting with my eye.

More stars.

There was yelling and more shuffling and his weight was gone while the room around me spun to a slow stop. I got to my feet and turned around. That’s when I saw him.

Dad had Pops pinned against the wall.

And my never-hit, never-resort-to-violence, don’t-be-like-him policy dissolved. I saw red. I tasted blood, and I wanted to kill him.

No one hurt Pops.

I ran to him, and with strength I didn’t know I had, I pulled Dad around and he let go of Pops. He was off balance for a moment and I took my chance; I closed my fist, and with all the rage I could summon, I hit him.

He sprawled backward and fell through the front screen door, landing on his arse half out the threshold. I stood over him, my fists shaking. “Stay the fuck down, arsehole. Touch him again, and I will knock you on your arse every time.”

He gripped the doorframe and tried to get up, stumbling and struggling. I turned to Pops. “Are you okay?”

He nodded, but he looked scared and pale. He was breathing hard, too hard for my liking. “I’m fine.”

My father somehow managed to get to his feet, fuelled by rage alone, and half-staggered, half-fell forward, aiming his clumsy weight at me. But this time he gripped my jacket in one hand, my face in his other, and we fell. I fell heavy on my shoulder, but my father’s fingers tightened on my face, in my eye and scratching down my cheek.

I kneed him as hard as I could, and his breath left him in a harsh woof. So I kneed him again, the last time I connected with his balls and it was all over.

He groaned and recoiled, a dead weight, and I shoved him off me. I clambered to my feet and looked down at him writhing, holding his junk, groaning on the floor. My adrenaline was pumping, fuelled by my anger at the piece of shit on the ground. I wanted to kick him again.

I wanted to.

For the time he broke my arm, for when he put a cigarette out on my just-a-kid body. For every time he hit me, yelled at me, laughed at me. Stole from me, told me I was a worthless son of a whore, refused to feed me. For every time he failed me.

Pops stood beside me and put his hand on my arm. He looked down at my father, and with a look of total disgust⁠—or maybe for every reason I just named⁠—Pops spat at him. His frail voice shook with anger but he spoke loud and clear. “You never deserved him.”

My father groaned. “Get the fuck out of my house.” He rolled over and got to all fours, and bellowed, “I said, get the fuck out of my house!”

I had two choices: I could pick this piece of shit up by the scruff of his shirt, throw him outside and lock the door behind him, and he’d no doubt break the door down or smash windows to get back inside. Or Pops and I could leave. We didn’t exactly have anywhere to go, but we could walk out right now because we deserved better.

I turned to Pops. “Grab your things. We’re leaving.”

My father slowly got to his feet, standing to his full height, though still in obvious pain. Part of me smiled in satisfaction. He glowered at me, pure disgust on his face. “You’re not taking a damn thing. Get out now.”

“He will grab his medication,” I said, gritting my teeth. I didn’t care about anything of my own, but Pops needed his pills. I took a step toward my old man, fists clenched and ready. Pops disappeared into the hall while my father and I stared each other down. I despised this man. Loathed everything about him.

Then Pops was behind me with a black rucksack in his hand. He looked between us, scared of the hatred that crackled in the air. “Come on, CJ. Let’s go.”

I walked to the front door and stopped, turning to take in one last look. The room was wrecked; the recliner was on its side, cushions on the floor. There was a dent in the wall, the TV was pushed back, and there was my father, standing in the middle of it.

I wondered what to say. What could I possibly say to mark this night or for any of the shit he’d given me over the last twenty-four years? I could tell him he was a failure, a good-for-nothing, piece-of-shit father. I could tell him I hated him. But I was done. I was done expending energy on him. In the end, he simply wasn’t worth it.

So without a word, I followed Pops out the front door, and together we walked away.