Meet Me in Tahiti

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Finn might have decided he was going to think about Zoe, and wonder about her, and remember her, but back in Sydney, Zoe—made of sterner stuff—resolutely blocked every memory of him.

She got on with her life for one full week, working out harder than ever at the gym, getting the physiotherapist in for an extra session, cleaning the house, sending the emails she owed and investigating her next travel destination with a vengeance. The only thing she didn’t do was write her Poerava story, but she was certain she’d be mentally ready to make a start on that within two weeks. She had time. Plenty of time.

Her second week at home, the journals from under her old bedroom floorboards arrived by courier.

Zoe immediately emailed her parents to ask why they’d sent them; she hadn’t asked for them. They responded with a question about when her Poerava story was being published. No mention of the journals.

Zoe thought about going back to them and pointing out that they hadn’t actually answered her but she was so tired from her too-hard gym workouts she decided it wasn’t worth the effort. She put the unopened journals in her storage cupboard and left them there.

The next day she received an email from Matilda asking about her Poerava story and mentioning that she and Daniel were scheduled on the same junket to Doherty Berne’s Langkawi resort. Zoe responded that she’d send a link when her story was up, then took to her bed for the day telling herself she was suffering from delayed jet lag.

A week after taking to her bed, she got a call from Wanderlust Wheels asking when they could expect the Poerava story. At that point, Zoe knew the universe was against her and she was going to have to write the bloody thing. It had been three weeks, and she hadn’t thought about him once in all that time.

And so she wrote it.

Mistake.

Big mistake.

She cried for a solid hour.

Which made her think of Finn saying to her: Zoe, you were in my arms last night, crying. Doesn’t that tell you something?

She cried for another hour.

And that night, the dream happened.

No, not a dream. A nightmare.

Scenes. Snatches. Memories. Reality.

The accident.

Coming to with something covering her mouth, someone pumping on her chest. Pain. Her head. Her head, oh God. One arm.

Lights, but also darkness. A siren.

Outside, she was outside.

Then she was inside. On her back. The feeling of rushing although she was still.

Eyes closing, then opening. Bright lights. Terse voices. Serious, looming faces. The knowledge that something was wrong without knowing what.

Panicking at hearing Victoria’s name. V. What’s happened to V?

Hospital. She was in hospital but how had she got there? And where was V? Malie? Lily?

Trying to speak, trying to ask, What happened, but the words wouldn’t come out. Seeing Malie and Lily against a white background. Hugging each other. Crying. Why wasn’t she with them? She needed to get to them. Ask about Victoria. But no. Not possible. Fury, agitation. Why couldn’t she move? Disorientation. Being lifted. OK, she was hurt. Was Victoria hurt, too?

Mum. Dad. Crying. Trying to tell them she’d be OK. Wanting to ask if Victoria was all right? But the words still wouldn’t emerge.

And then...knowing.

She woke with a start, her breaths heaving, tears falling.

Checked the clock on the bedside table.

Morning.

Time to get up.

But she didn’t have the strength or the will to move, because the nightmare was over but she was reliving it, the memory intact at last.

Resuscitation. Twice they’d brought her back. The race into surgery. Her parents’ faces when she’d come to in recovery.

This was no longer what people had told her. This was visceral. She knew, she saw, she heard, she felt. Harsh lights, antiseptic smells, whizzing walls, voices sometimes urgent and sharp, sometimes steady and soft and kind, beeping machines, weeping, pain, panic, confusion, the enveloping grief of her parents as they stared at her with swollen eyes.

She’d asked groggily about Victoria, remembered the head-spinning relief at the news that V was alive... The next time she dragged herself out of unconsciousness someone in her room was talking in hushed tones about Claudia being dead, and Zoe had been bewildered because Claudia hadn’t been in the car with them.

And then—when? When? She didn’t know, only felt the shock of trying to get out of bed. One moment she was simply in a hospital bed recovering from an operation, and the next she knew, and a dull heavy ache suffused her chest, like wet concrete being poured, and poured, and poured, unstoppable, filling the cavity until there was no room for anything else, and somehow still pouring even though there was no more room, and it would not dry.

She could feel the weight of it now. The stifling, overflowing, oozing squeeze.

It had stayed, that feeling, through her entire month in that hospital and two more months in the spinal cord center, the manic, ever-present, overly cheerful encouragement of her parents that slowly hardened the concrete until her chest felt like a solidified scream she couldn’t let escape because she had to be brave for everyone else. And all the while the scream stayed trapped, her head was filling with a sluggish lassitude. Almost disinterest. How strange to want to scream with one part of her while the rest of her couldn’t seem to care about anything.

It had been there, that apathy, the night Brad had come to break up with her. He’d come most evenings, each time a little more distraught, asking if he could fetch her this, get her that, do X, Y or Z for her, and she’d pasted on her smile but felt...nothing. She hadn’t even noticed that he never got close enough to touch her.

It was the look on her mother’s face that night that woke her up to what was happening. The sheen of tears as she’d said, in a voice that faltered, that she and Zoe’s father were stepping out for a cup of coffee and would be just down the corridor in the visitors’ lounge so if she called out, they’d hear.

They were giving them privacy, Zoe had realized with an odd sense of detachment, and it did not hurt and she did not care, she just wanted it done.

She’d waited for Brad to come to the point, but he hadn’t been able to get the words out so she’d done it for him. He’d cried and left and then—before she’d had a chance to process what had happened—there was Finn.

And the strange lethargy had been wrenched right out of her head.

“I’ll kill him, Zoe!” he’d raged.

Thoughts had tangled in her head, memories of that summer when she’d felt he belonged to her, the two years when she would have done anything to belong to him only to be spurned over and over, the fact he hadn’t bothered to visit her, not once, since the accident. And yet he thought he could come in like a knight in shining armor and save her?

“That’s what you’ve got to say to me?” she’d said, outraged. “He’s done nothing wrong. If all you want to do is play the thug, just go. Go!”

She covered her face in her hands now, remembering that. A thug, she’d called him a thug.

And he’d started stammering out all those things, begging her to listen, insisting she could still be anything she wanted to be, do whatever she wanted to do, and he’d look after her. He’d promised to look after her with his dying breath. They could travel and she could write, if only she’d let him “make it happen” for her he’d make it happen, he promised, he did.

“Stop!” she’d yelled, actually yelled at him. “How are you planning on doing that, stuck in Hawke’s Cove?”

And he’d held out his hands—no longer the cool, edgy bad boy of Hawke’s Cove—and stammered out more things, about being strong enough, about finding a way, about how long he’d been waiting for her.

And it hurt to think about it now, it hurt, because she’d meant to hurt him when she’d laughed and said no thanks, no thank you, as if, and told him he should go back to his mother.

No! No, that wasn’t what she’d said. She’d said: If you need a pity project, go back to your mother.

And he’d sucked in a breath; she could hear it right now, the sound he’d made. And there was a moment of absolute silence, like a storm was about to break. Airless, dreadful calm. He’d gone white.

Do you mean that, Zoe?

Yes, Finn, I do.

Only she hadn’t meant it. She hadn’t.

What she’d meant, in her deepest heart, was that she didn’t want to be a burden. She wanted to be her whole self. She wanted, for that flashing moment—when Finn had told her she could be his whole world—to die, because if he hadn’t wanted her during that magical summer when they’d been more than friends, they’d been soulmates, and he hadn’t wanted her since, how could he want her now? He was only twenty! He’d been tied to his sick mother ever since she’d known him. How could she tie him to her, too?

No, she hadn’t meant it, she’d lied, lied, then she’d called out to her parents, and when they’d come rushing in, she’d told them to get him out of there, to call security if they had to.

The look on his face! Shock. Pain. Fire in his eyes, and then ice.

And then the worst thing of all: acceptance.

That’s what had hurt the most. It was as though by accepting everything she’d said, he was also accepting that he’d been wrong about her, that she wasn’t the person he’d imagined her to be.

“You win, I’m leaving,” he’d said, and he’d smiled but it wasn’t his real smile, his endearing, crooked, rueful smile. It was a bitter twist. “But if you think my mother’s a pity project? My mother has lived her life to the hilt no matter what’s been thrown at her. She might not live in a mansion but she’s a queen, and a queen beats a pampered princess any day of the week. You lie there, like a wilted flower, but my mother never wilted in her life! Better get your parents to repot you, Zoe, because you clearly don’t have the guts to repot yourself. You’re worse than pathetic, you’re lost, Zoe, and you don’t even know it, do you? Poor lost Zoe.”

And as Zoe had lain there, choking back tears because she was never going to cry in front of anyone, ever, the security guards arrived...but Finn was already gone.

She wasn’t choking back tears now, she couldn’t stop them. She was remembering his reaction, that night over dinner in his bungalow, when she’d said she knew he didn’t care what people thought and he never had, and he’d said, Proving that you didn’t know me as well as you thought you did. Or any other teenage boy for that matter. We all care, Zoe.

And at last, at last, she understood. He’d only been two years older than her for all that he’d seemed a thousand years beyond her reach. The grief in him was the same as the grief in her, the rage too. Things out of their control holding them back from the lives they were supposed to live. She’d been consumed by the knowledge that she’d never walk again, and she’d had no idea what to do, and she’d just been dumped, and her parents would not let up about taking her away to find a cure and “fix” her. And Finn? That scene had had nothing to do with the one summer they’d spent together and the ensuing two hideous years. He’d been exhausted—she could see him, crumpled, smelling of beer, desperate for a purpose. He’d been working so many jobs, caring for his mother and getting nowhere because his mother was dying, and he knew it. The anguish had been too much for him to play the bad boy. And so he’d tried to give her a piece of himself. And in return she’d given him...nothing.

Talk about life-defining moments!

Everything she’d done in the years since that night had been about proving she could make everything she wanted happen for herself.

She wiped her eyes with her hands and dragged herself out of bed thinking of what Finn had said about his mother. You lie there, like a wilted flower, but my mother never wilted in her life! Better get your parents to repot you, Zoe, because you clearly don’t have the guts to repot yourself.

Well, she had repotted herself.

And now, at the very least, she could force herself to face the day.

But when she grabbed her phone to check her messages and saw an email waiting for her from her parents with FINN DOHERTY in the subject line, she thought for a moment she was imagining it as some kind of extra punishment for her soul and wondered if she should go back to bed.

But no. Once that subject line was seen it couldn’t be unseen.

Besides, she was suddenly ravenous for news of him, even if it came from people who hated his guts.

She opened it with some trepidation, read it, and then sat there with her mouth hanging open staring at the words:

By now you’ll know that your old friend Finn Doherty has bought the old manor house outside the village. Jocasta Whittaker spread that news like wildfire. Of course when she mentioned it to me I told her you’d spent a most agreeable week with Finn at his resort, Poerava, in French Polynesia. Couldn’t let her have the last word.

We thought you’d like to know that we had coffee with Finn today and he told us he’s also bought Sir Gaden Baxter’s house here in Hawke’s Cove. Top secret, mind! The only other person who knows is Marion Atwell. You know how close Marion and Margaret were, and Finn has recruited her to help with renovations. Not a word to Lily! Marion tells me Lily is still feeling the loss of Blake Hawkesbury quite deeply as well as driving herself into the ground over Victoria’s wedding—when she hears that Finn is redesigning Sir Gaden’s house she’s going to want to help and she does not have the capacity to take on one more thing. Finn tells us he’s renaming the house Merrow’s Rest. Apparently “merrow” is Irish for mermaid. Which is possibly why he’s named the beach there Mermaid’s Kiss? Some mermaid theme, anyway. We thought that would appeal to you because you were always so interested in that mermaid legend. Our private opinion is that he bought the house for you, since he’s brought that nice architect Jed Grierson over from Australia to fix it up.

Zoe, we so enjoyed your emails from Tiare Island. It was like our old Zoe, full of fun and stories. But one thing we really want to raise. It’s all very well leaving us to google these things—yes, we saw the photos of you and Finn on that lovely girl Matilda’s blog—but we do wish you’d have been more forthcoming about what—no, who—had made you so happy again.

Have you reread those journals we sent you? The one with the Z and the F in a heart on the front, perhaps?

And when is that Poerava article coming out? We want to make sure Jocasta Whittaker reads it.

Of course that sent Zoe tearing off to get the journals, and yep, there was one with a Z and F in a heart on the cover.

With a thumping heart she opened it and started reading:

Today, I met Finn Doherty, and when I smiled at him, he smiled back. Finn! Doherty!!!! I almost swooned. Wait until Malie hears about it! She thinks he’s superhot!!!!!!

At six o’clock, when Zoe answered her phone, she still had a journal on her lap and had no idea who was calling or why she was answering.

“Yay we’re all on! Happy birthday, V!” Malie.

“Happy, happy birthday, bride-to-be.” Lily.

“Um... Zoe?” That was Malie.

Zoe gave her head a get-it-together shake. “Sorry. Happy birthday, Malie, no, Lily! Sorry! Happy birthday, Victoria. Whew. Did you get my measurements? For the dress, I mean.”

“Hmm,” Victoria said. “I got a set of measurements, but unless you’ve turned into eight hundred grams of tuna they’re not yours.”

“What?”

“You sent me a recipe for poisson cru.”

“That was meant for Lily.”

“Who got your measurements,” Lily chimed in.

Zoe shook her head again, trying to clear the fog. “So did you forward my measurements to V?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Good.”

Silence.

And then Malie: “Zo?”

Zoe looked for her on the screen, found her face, and blinked at her. “Huh?”

“What happened to your hair?”

She raised an automatic hand, felt the tangled mess, but let her hand drop, impatient because her hair wasn’t important. “Who cares?”

“Um...you!” Victoria said. “I haven’t seen you without a hair clip or band or something in your hair since we were seven. And as for the state of it? We’ve spoken to you at midnight, at two in the morning, at five in the morning, and it’s never looked like that at...what? Six o’clock in the evening?”

“Six o’clock,” Zoe repeated. “Does that mean it’s midnight in Hawke’s Cove?”

“Nooo,” Lily ventured. “You know international time zones better than anyone.”

“So when is it midnight?”

“Why do you care?” Victoria asked.

But Zoe just shook her head. All she could think about was Finn on Sir Gaden’s beach looking at the moon and waiting for a mermaid.

The mermaid.

His mermaid.

Her.

He was waiting for her to save him, and he wasn’t worried about her drowning him while she did it because he wasn’t drownable, he was too strong a swimmer. Except it had been twelve years—he’d been waiting for twelve years, and he wasn’t going to wait anymore.

I’m done waiting for you to see yourself the way I see you, and I’m done waiting for you to see me any way at all. I’m not fighting the big battle anymore, not by myself. If you want me, come find me. If you don’t...then I guess you don’t.

The stories, their stories, were all in that journal with the Z and F in a heart on the cover. The legends. The fairy tales. The novels she was going to write. The adventures they wanted to have. Hopes and dreams and princes and princesses saving each other.

Only she wasn’t a princess, she was a mermaid, and Finn wasn’t a prince, he was her man, and she wasn’t lost, she was found, and he was waiting for her to find him. He’d been waiting twelve years for her and she hadn’t even looked him up online because she’d been playing it safe—and yet he was waiting for her still!

“I can’t brush my hair or calculate time zones, I’m too busy staging an intervention.”

Malie burst out laughing. “Again? Who’s the lucky lady?”

“Me.”

“Hang on.” V, always the orderly one. “You’re staging your own intervention?”

“I’m only kick-starting it. I need Lily to help me finish it. Well, Lily and Mr. Michaels. He loves you, Lily. Can you call him and tell him I need him? And Gina, I need to set her straight. And I need sequins. I think I have those. Yes, that cerulean blue dress, the color of his eyes. I’m going to need my mum and dad to get my wheelchair there if I’m going by boat. I need Google because it’s time to know everything. And I need to scream. All those things. Not necessarily in that order.”

“What is going on?” Victoria asked.

“I had sex with Finn Doherty on Tiare Island. But that’s not important. The important thing is I’m going to give him a mermaid at midnight on Sir Gaden’s beach.”

Malie whooped loud enough to raise the dead. “What did I tell you, girls? Lils, V, you each owe me five pounds. Suck it, sisters! Our girl’s in love!”