Patrick’s gut was tight with nerves when he detoured into Castlereagh on his way home from football training on Thursday night. He should have done this on Tuesday rather than leave it for days, but back then he’d been still reeling from Tash’s video.
He must have watched it twenty times now, pausing on bits like an internet stalker, listening to her musical voice over and over, studying her smile. Amazed at how she seemed to find fun in everything she did. As if the world was full of curiosities and miracles instead of tragedies and hurt, if only you’d look.
It made Patrick feel a bit grubby, but that didn’t stop him doing it.
Lights glowed from the flat’s bathroom and kitchen windows. For a moment, he left the engine running, then gave himself a mental thump and turned it off. No more brooding. He was jack of it, and he was pretty damn sure everyone else he knew was jack of it too. It had been two years since Maddy’s accident and it was about time he grew up and stopped being a selfish prick.
Patrick hadn’t realised how badly he’d been treating people until his mum had lost it at him on Monday night. She’d been talking about Tash, her thoughtfulness, and how he needed to thank her in person for the gingerbread. He hadn’t known about the video then but his mum had, and when he said he’d do it later she had slammed down the spoon she was holding and turned on him furiously.
‘What is wrong with you? Five minutes is all it’d take. Five.’ She held up her fingers in Patrick’s face.
Alarmed, Patrick had taken a step back. ‘I’m busy.’
‘Busy? Doing what? Sulking in your room like a teenager?’ Annette crowded in on him, eyes blazing. ‘You have people who care about you, people who love you. People like Tash who try to do nice things for you and you don’t even care.’ She’d started to cry properly then, her fury drowned by anguish. ‘We’re worried sick and you don’t care.’
Patrick had rushed to hold her. ‘I do, Mum. I do. It’s just …’ Heat prickled his own eyes as he clutched her to his chest. ‘I’m sorry.’
His soul felt blistered by his mum’s words and hot tears. Patrick had no idea it had been that bad for her, or that she’d felt he didn’t care. He did care. He cared too much, that was his problem. Love had brought him to where he was, and now it had shattered and he didn’t know what to do with the fragments. So he kept it inside, but it was like trying to hold shards of glass, when all the while the splinters were cutting him slowly to death.
He was too upset to sleep and had opened his laptop to check what Tash had been up to, and comfort himself with some of her brightness. The video had been at the top of his Facebook feed. One view and he understood. Tash with her wisdom on love and friendship and life, had reminded his mum of what he’d become: someone whose head was so stuck up his own arse he believed himself alone with his own suffering.
Not anymore.
It was a promise not so easily kept. Embarrassment over his behaviour with Tash followed by her rejection smarted with papercut intensity. For two days Patrick struggled to find the courage to face her. He wasn’t normally a coward, but he’d let too much time pass without speaking to Tash and an apology felt too late.
In the end he’d given himself a mental smack and told himself to stop being such a princess. She’d made him a present. A present with meaning. She’d even made a video, and he’d memorised her words by heart: What matters is that they know they’re not alone and that they’re cherished. They weren’t the words of someone who held a grudge.
And he liked the word cherished. A lot. It was a perfect Tash word: round, sweet and with an undercurrent of promise.
Patrick parked behind Tash’s little hatch and cut the engine. He picked up the clean gingerbread container and stepped out into the cold night.
‘Patrick,’ she said, sliding open the door. He’d imagined a few different reactions but not a smile this joyful. ‘Come in, come in.’ She stood aside for him, still smiling, and quickly slid the door closed behind him.
The flat was steamy and smelled of something savoury. A large pot was on the stove but the bench was clear of anything cooking related. Instead a laptop sat open with a notepad and pen alongside, and several hardback books scattered around.
‘I can come back another time if you’re working,’ he said. ‘I was just on my way home from footy, saw your light.’
‘Don’t be silly. I’m pleased you called in.’ She nodded at the container. ‘Is that mine?’
‘Yeah, sorry.’ He held it out. ‘The gingerbread was great. Really good. Dad didn’t get much though.’ He shoved his hands into his pockets and regarded her sheepishly from under his lashes. ‘I ate most of them.’
Tash’s face, already pink from the heat, pinked even more. Her fingers fluttered to her throat and stroked the skin there. For a couple of heartbeats she could only stare at him, then she blinked and seemed to rouse.
‘I’m glad you liked it. I was hoping you would.’ She headed for the pantry and stowed the container on an upper shelf. The movement caused her short red tunic to ride up and Patrick couldn’t help staring at her legging-clad thighs. ‘I’ll make you some more, if you like.’
He opened his mouth to tell her not to bother and changed his mind. ‘That’d be great,’ he said, and was rewarded with a delighted beam.
She returned to the bench, pulled out a stool for him and began closing the books. Most were cookbooks, with stains on their pages and notes in the margins, but a notebook sat alongside and Patrick caught a glimpse of loopy writing and a few heart-shaped doodles before Tash snapped it shut and shoved it to the bottom of the pile.
‘How was training?’
‘Okay except for Clip thinking he was Cazaly and trying to take a screamer over the top of me.’ He lifted his jumper to show her the scrape on his lower back.
‘Oh.’ She reached out to touch the angry red and purple marks but stopped short. ‘Is it painful? Do you need antiseptic or anything?’
Patrick dropped his top. ‘It’s fine. Nothing I haven’t had before.’
Tash kept frowning at the spot. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah. I’m tough, I can take the agony.’
She laughed. ‘I’m sure. Have you had dinner?
‘Not yet, but Mum usually keeps me a plate.’
She fairly clapped at the news. ‘But that’ll be ages away and you must be starving.’
‘I’ll survive.’
‘Please, Patrick, let me get you something. I have so much food and you’d be doing me a huge favour.’ She joined her hands prayer-like and wiggled them for emphasis. ‘Huge!’
She sounded too desperate to say no to, and while his mum was a pretty good cook, Tash was in another league. ‘All right.’
‘Thank you!’
He’d expected her to dish up whatever was bubbling on the stove but that turned out to be chicken stock. What she served him was a steamy bowl of thick, vegetable-laden lamb and butterbean soup, and homemade crusty bread with proper butter. It was simple, hearty and perfect for warming his footy-frozen bones.
Tash sat alongside him while he ate, relating all she’d been up to and her plans for the coming weeks. If she’d had any worries about what happened, she showed no sign. Patrick ate, listened, nodded in the right spots and occasionally added a few comments, but mostly he let her talk. If anyone could inspire a more positive outlook, it was Tash. Listening to her enthusiasm was as nourishing as his meal. Patrick wished he could eat here every night.
‘Good?’ she asked.
‘Very,’ he said, using the last of his bread to mop the bowl. ‘Had some sort of herb in it?’
‘Thyme. It’s mum’s recipe. Well, her aunt’s actually. I’m thinking of including it in my cookbook but I’m worried it’s a bit too old-fashioned and boring.’
‘Doesn’t taste boring, and what’s wrong with old-fashioned?’
‘Nothing. I like old-fashioned and who doesn’t love lamb shanks? Not everyone likes beans but at least they’re good for you, and more honest than all those trendy ingredients everyone likes to evangelise about but no one actually cooks. But I’m worried my publisher is looking for something more modern. Dessert?’ she asked, cleaning up his bowl and cutlery. ‘It’s pie.’
‘Hard to say no.’
‘Good, because if you don’t eat it I will and I’ve been gobbling far too much lately.’
She bent to get a plate from a cupboard, treating Patrick to a good look at her bum. If she were doing anything other than organising food, he’d think it was on purpose, but Tash had a one-track mind in the kitchen. Mostly. He wasn’t a complete idiot and hadn’t forgotten her momentary sway of longing the night he’d tried to kiss her.
‘I saw your video. The friendship one. It was nice.’ He cringed at the word. Nice. How weak could you get? There was a lot to be said for being broody. At least a bloke didn’t make dorkish ‘nice’ comments. He cleared his throat, determined for her to understand his appreciation. ‘I mean, it meant a lot.’
She stilled, a funny wobble affecting her mouth, then slowly placed the plate on the bench. When she finally smiled properly it made him feel weird, like she’d stroked him behind the ribs.
‘Thank you.’ The pink in her cheeks had deepened again. ‘After the party, when I didn’t see you, I got worried. But I didn’t know if you were avoiding me on purpose or you were just busy. I thought maybe if I did a video you might see it and know that I was …’ Her gaze darted away. ‘… thinking of you. I’ll just …’ She pointed at the fridge. ‘Pie.’ She opened the door and bent to dig inside.
Not facing her gave Patrick the balls to tell the truth. ‘I was embarrassed.’
She turned around with a tart tin. ‘You had nothing to be embarrassed about.’
‘Yeah, I did. But it won’t happen again.’
For a half-second Tash paused, then levered a slice of pie from the tin and placed it on the plate. ‘I’m going to have to zap it to heat it up, sorry. The pastry will probably go a bit soggy.’
‘What sort is it?’ Whatever it was it looked unreal.
‘Apple and strawberry.’ She loosely covered the plate with a layer of cling film and placed it in the microwave. ‘Cream or ice-cream?’
‘Cream, thanks.’
‘Okay. You can try my ice-cream another night. Did you want anything to drink? Tea, coffee, wine? One of Pa’s beers?’
Patrick still had half a glass of the water she’d poured for him earlier. ‘Water’s fine.’
‘I’m going to have a glass of red. Are you sure you don’t want one?’ When he hesitated, she smiled. ‘I’ll pour you a small one.’
The pie was even better than the soup, oozing sweet juice, buttery pastry melting in his mouth. Patrick could have gone back for seconds but didn’t want to ask. Tash cut the rest of the pie into slices and placed them in a container for him anyway. ‘Make sure your mum and dad get some this time.’
‘I didn’t eat all the gingerbread.’ He grinned. ‘Only most of it. Can I help with the dishes?’
‘The dishwasher has it under control. I’ll do the tart tin in the morning with the stock pot. Speaking of which …’ She lifted the lid on the pot, blasting the kitchen with chicken-scented steam. A few stirs and a sip later she declared another half hour wouldn’t hurt and replaced the lid.
With dinner over, Patrick felt the onset of awkwardness. He had wine to play with but nothing he could think of to say, and Tash had already told him about her week. His had been dull—monitoring calving cattle mostly, feeding out hay, a bit of spraying, other routine chores … hours spent visiting Maddy. But he didn’t want to go into that.
Tash solved the problem for him. ‘Can I show you something?’
‘Sure.’
She brought up her Facebook page on her laptop and scrolled through her posts, pointing out the comments left by Ceci. ‘Notice anything?’
He frowned and peered closer and shook his head. Ceci’s comments appeared perfectly normal to him. A few of the others gave him pause though, especially one from some moron called Dave, who claimed he grew turkeys on the New South Wales central coast, asking Tash if she’d like to visit his gobblers. Yeah right. Dirty sod.
Tash pointed again. ‘See?’
And this time Patrick did see. Below every comment Ceci had made, someone had replied with a love heart. Sometimes more than one.
‘Brandon Seymour. Is that her boyfriend?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘Don’t you think that’s a bit weird?’
Now that Patrick considered it, leaving love hearts was a bit pathetic. Not that he was one to talk. His Farmer Fred alias mightn’t have left love hearts but he’d still made some sappy comment about Tash being wonderful. He really needed to delete that profile. And the others. ‘I suppose.’
Tash stared at the screen, chewing on the side of her lip. ‘I always liked him. He seemed really decent, good job—he’s a council surveyor—good humoured, no bad habits. Just a normal twenty-something like the rest of us. He seemed really into Ceci, calling and texting all the time.’ She glanced at Patrick. ‘Thom and I teased her about it all weekend when they came.’
‘And now?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe I’m fretting over nothing, but on every site Ceci comments on, he’s there too, leaving love hearts. Every site. Every comment.’ She screwed her nose up. ‘It’s creepy.’
‘Have you talked to her about it?’
Tash waved a hand. ‘She just laughs it off.’
‘It’s probably fine then.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
Patrick didn’t like the way she kept staring at the screen and chewing her lip. ‘Love makes people do weird shit, Tash.’
‘I guess.’ She sighed. ‘I might ask Thom to keep an eye out though. Just in case.’
She closed the lid of her computer, and Patrick took it as a hint that it was time for him to go. He finished his wine and took the glass to the sink to rinse it, trying not to think of the last time he’d stood there, wiping dishes. Trying not to think of Tash’s flushed skin and parted lips. ‘I’d better leave you to it. Thanks for dinner.’
‘Come back again?’
Patrick shrugged. ‘Sure.’
‘I mean, soon.’ She indicated the fridge. ‘I have so much food. Tossing it out makes me feel horribly guilty. You could drop by after training, help me get through it. I’m sure your mum wouldn’t mind.’
Patrick wasn’t convinced about the idea. He was struggling as it was to keep their friendship on an even keel.
She made a puppy face. ‘A favour? For a friend?’
‘All right.’
Her grin made him want to kiss her. Hard and long and breathlessly.
Shit.
This had the potential to be even more bruising than footy training.