16. The Wild Child
16
The 'Wild Child'
Bre
“D oes my bum look big in these arseless Elf chaps?” Bre queried, peeking over her shoulder as she presented her posterior for his inspection. “I want to look good for Mum’s big dinner tonight.”
Wiping his hand down his face, he struggled – failing – to hide his wide smile. With a flash of white teeth, he loosed a booming laugh that rippled through her blood and made the sleeping babe in her belly startle, turning towards the sound.
“I know, right. My darling mother will adore them. Unfortunately, her reaction to any of my life choices is an expression of disappointment I’ve seen so often, I could probably mould it into a clay mask. Do you think Sharee, with all her talents, could make that into a viral Instagram product?” She sighed as Billy rose from the bed, where he was reading to her from What to Expect When You’re Expecting . Wrapping his arm around her, he drew her close, comforting and kissing her temple. Reaching up, she gripped his stump, dragging him closer, pulling him around her like a big, protective cape.
“Thanks, but no thanks. I can see you thinking about offering – again – to go with me. It’s fine. Seth will be there, and Dad.” She mustn’t forget her father, the barely-there ghost of Christmases past and present. “As we speak, Mum’s probably rushing him into the shower and, what did you call it – scurryfungle? Tidying the house in a mad rush just before guests arrive?” She chuckled. “You and your strange collection of words.”
Keep talking, she told herself, feeling the panic rise. Just keep talking, let it out, and breathe …
A yawn filled the room. Maybe her growing exhaustion would curse her with a thousand-year sleep, and she’d miss the year’s least-anticipated event altogether.
“Should you need me, Bre …” The depth of his tone, the softness she heard, made her heart twist in her chest.
“Your Spidey Senses will tingle, I’m sure. Plus –” She bent down, hoisting the pup from the floor, where it had been happily chewing on the edges of her discarded planner. Weird how the sight of tiny shreds of masticated paper made her happy. In fact, she was rather glad of that mess, and the relief it had brought. “Mr Pickles here will need you to stay and take him for a wee coddiwomple –” she air quoted the term, “– so he can wee anywhere that isn’t in my boots!”
Stepping into the warm, wet puddle this morning was not an experience she’d like to repeat. Ruffling his ears teasingly, she plopped the Australian Shepherd into the waiting crook of Billy’s arm. Heading for the door, Bre paused as he called her name.
Turning, she couldn’t help but smile at the sight before her. The pup was nibbling at the ends of Billy’s beard, his white button-down shirt open, exposing the tattoos she’d been slowly cataloguing over the past few weeks. Her eyes travelled down the flat plane of his stomach to his kilt, the smooth calves that emerged below, and the bare feet, surrounded by shredded plans. Her stomach rolled, heart beating faster, louder in her ears. Breathe.
“Good luck.” Even with his one arm full of puppy, he managed to flick something her way. She caught the little blur of grey, laughing when she realised what it was.
“Richard’s rabbit’s foot! Gee, thanks, Billy.”
“I mean it,” he said, placing the puppy on the ground so he could run that hand down his beard. “Good luck. You will need it if you go dressed as you are.”
“Right. The chaps.”
Changing quickly, she tried to ignore the heat in his eyes, the way his dark pupils seemed to eclipse the brilliant blue of his irises. With a not-so-silent prayer of thanks to Holly, she slid into the world’s most comfortable stretch pants and a halter that seemed to balance her out, the exposure of her white shoulders drawing attention from the roundness of everything south of her chin. At least, that’s what Sharee had claimed. Piers, oddly enough, had agreed in a rare moment of genuine and well-intentioned flattery, and as she looked in the mirror, Breanna had to agree.
“I actually look good,” she commented, tying her hair up and nodding to her reflection.
The heat in Billy’s gaze told her, Always.
“Now, be good boys.” She playfully patted both Mr Pickles and Billy on the head. “Mumma’s gotta go speak to the witch in the woods. Slay dragons. Build a rocket to the moon, shaped like a 1943 Ford Utility who is going to be on national TV in a few days! You know, all the usual damsel in distress stuff.”
“Later.” Billy nodded, his expression full of adoration that had her chest tightening.
Later … She really needed to tell him. Get it over with. She wasn’t a damsel, and he refused to be a white knight. She could tell him about the father of her baby, and Billy wouldn’t feel obligated to change anything about their relationship. He wouldn’t feel trapped by the child, not when they’d mutually agreed that their friendship had outgrown its rules and boundaries and had become something More.
“Later.” She nodded, exiting before her eyes decided to leak all over again.
So much had changed. So much was still in the process of changing. But Billy and Bre, they were solid. Which was fortunate, because as she crossed the scorched boundary line between the Carmichael and Henderson properties, she’d need that strength to survive this dinner.
“We’re glad you could come. Both of you.” Elanor’s clipped tone didn’t sound glad. Not at all. Breanna and her brother exchanged a glance.
The oppressive heat of the day barely stirred in the oppressive little dining room as the ceiling fan struggled around in wobbly rotations. Elanor had attempted a festive scene, a twiggy 20-year-old plastic tree propped in the corner, shedding fine, dark-green tinsel shards on the floor that looked like it hadn’t been vacuumed in years. Cheap bon-bons sat at the head of each place setting, above mismatched cutlery, and ancient, chipped plates.
“Thanks for having us, Mum.” Seth tried a smile; it looked as though three-year-old Leo Carmichael had drawn a line on his face. It was the exact look Elanor had given Seth when he arrived, still in his workwear – heavy duty shorts and a shirt made of Carmichael tartan. Bre was glad that he’d at least forgone the traditional kilt. Having her brother’s junk hanging free at yet another dining table was something she’d rather not have thought about.
“We’re glad you agreed to bring the dinner forward by a few days,” Seth continued, “so we could still attend the Carmichaels’–”
Elanor’s sharp glance had his lips pressing tight.
At the head of the table, their father dutifully chewed his peas, eyes glued to the plate. Despite the summer heat, Elanor had insisted on cooking a roast meal – a turkey so small and dry it scraped like sandpaper on Bre’s tongue. The potatoes were charred to crispy black mounds that grated like charcoal between her teeth. Fresh peas, overcooked to mush, were spotted around the plate under a slathering of thick gravy that tasted to Bre like a burnt concoction of beef stock and vinegar – too salty and tangy for the lacklustre meal.
“Yes. Well. We will take any time you offer us.” Her smile was brief and tight-lipped. “And it was time we all sat down to talk.”
“You mean we as in you and me, right, Mum?” said Bre.
“If you decide to finally talk like a civilised young lady, I’ll listen,” Elanor said.
Seth’s face said Here we go . “Mum …”
Her eyes remained firmly on Breanna. “Don’t you look lovely tonight, Breanna,” she said, her voice flat.
“She does, actually, right Dad?” Seth found no allies. “And she’s doing really well–”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“C’mon, Mum.”
Breathe, just breathe.
“Your sister clearly doesn’t know how to pick up the phone and call her mother. She does, however , know how to flirt her days away with that Revv-Head Ryder, heavily pregnant and completely unmarried, and on national television no less!”
“That’s not a crime,” Bre managed between clenched teeth. “At least, not since the eighteenth century.”
“There you go with that reckless, uncouth attitude. You didn’t even deny it! I saw the trailers, young lady! The way you throw yourself at that man–”
“Mum, you’re being unfair,” Seth interjected. “I’m equally single and older than Bre, and Revv’s been a bit of a jerk, but he’s mostly kept to himself these past few weeks, since the boys all–”
Bre’s eyebrows rose. “Since the boys all what ?”
Colour bloomed in Seth’s cheeks, blurring the spray of freckles that had multiplied recently. “Since we … threatened to yabby-pump him if he kept his attitude up.”
“Yabby pump?” Elanor’s nose screwed up.
“Hold him down. Punch up and down, like what your hand does when you’re pumping for yabbies,” Bre explained with a casual wave of her hand. “I can fight my own fights, Seth. Billy can, too.”
“Breanna!”
“What? I wasn’t the one who threatened to do it!”
“Seth is different,” Elanor snapped. “He wouldn’t actually do it. But it sounds like you know too much about this violence, young lady. You are the wild one.”
“THE WILD ONE?” Bre was on her feet, palms planted on the table. Her father kept chewing, eyes downcast. “For knowing how to throw a punch? Or for becoming a mechanic instead of a wife? I know you’ve always wished I was more like you.”
“Being a wife, or a mother , for that matter, isn’t a terrible career choice, Breanna.” Her sharp glance cut down to Bre’s bulging stomach.
She felt sick. Weak. Dizzy.
Breathe .
“Do you know who the father is?” Elanor addressed the question to Seth, whose mouth opened to reply, then froze. Her pitch grew higher. “Do you ?” Elanor asked her daughter.
“Yes. I do. Because despite the several horrible dates you insisted on organising for me, mother, in this weird quest to find me a suitable husband, only one man showed up at The Pope who was decent enough to ever consider. Only one man in that whole tavern gave a shit about me and what I actually wanted!”
“And who was that?” Elanor demanded curtly, her mouth and eyes pinched.
“NONE OF YOUR DAMNED BUSINESS!” Breanna swayed with the sudden explosion of her voice. “Mum, no offence, but you and me? We’re done. Okay? I love you, but I don’t understand you, and the way you make me feel …” She shuddered, and then Seth was standing beside her, his hand around her back, supporting her. “I’m about to have a baby. It should be the happiest time of my life. But you make it so stressful that I feel physically ill. I thought it was the food but …” She shook her head as her mother’s jaw dropped, eyes darting to the husband who was still pushing mushy peas around his plate, his own eyes downcast. “And it isn’t worth it to be here. I’m not tiptoeing around it anymore. It’s not worth another panic attack–”
“Another?”
“See you have no idea, Mum. No idea who I am and what’s going on with me. It’s okay. We’re just different. I don’t hate you, but this … this isn’t working.” Turning to Seth, she said, “I need to leave.”
Straightening to her full height, she cast weary eyes on her father, who was still refusing to engage in the conversation, and her mother, who demanded the whole world centre around her.
“There’s no use pretending we have anything in common, other than a few genes.” Her hand roamed her stomach, and the growing baby housed there. “I’m going to be a damned good mother. With a present husband.” Her eyes watered and she forced herself not to look at her father. “In a home full of laughter and teasing and love.” Her tongue stumbled on the word; her brain filled with visions of Billy and the baby. “And I might not have it now, or even two years from now, but I’ll have it all, eventually, because I deserve it.”
“Breanna.” Elanor followed them to the door. “Seth! Wait!” She dropped back as they exited the house, like she was too scared to step beyond the doorway, watching them stalk off.
“Bre, I’m so sorry.” Seth whispered at Bre’s back, voice thick.
“It’s fine.” She sniffled, slowing. “Nothing unexpected. I need …”
He nodded, understanding. Space. Quiet .
“Take an ATV. Go for a ride. I’ll let Billy know. Hey …” Safely on the Carmichael side of the burned boundary, Seth took his sister’s shoulders. “Mum was way out of line. I can’t believe she spoke to you like that.”
Bre sighed. “She wants what she thinks is best. I just wish she saw me, for me.”
“We see you, Bruce.”
“I know.”
“Can I ask ...”
Breathe . She nodded weakly, ready, finally, to just let the cat out of the bag.
“Is Billy the father?”
The look she gave him answered everything.
“Oh, Bruce. Go on, go for a ride. See you at later? We’re all going to watch Die Hard …”
With a shrug, she threw a leg over an ATV, turned the key, and rode off.