Adrift Without You

Chapter 1

Kyle

Now

Ispend a lot of time wondering how I ended up here—in this life.

To the outside world, it looks like white picket fence perfection—a loving partner of seventeen years, a beautiful daughter, a lavish house overlooking the bay…

Yeah, you get the picture. It may seem like I’m living a dream life, but truth be told, I’m hollow and empty, like a carcass picked clean.

Sometimes I try to pinpoint the exact moment when I ceased being a piece of white trash from the Pines and became an uppity beachside prick.

But it’s all a blur once you’re on that slippery slope.

Once upon a time I appreciated shoes without holes, and now I’m that guy who complains at five-star restaurants.

Staring out the window of my top-of-the-line Range Rover, I have a clear view of the netball court.

My fifteen-year-old daughter, Lucinda, has just finished her training session, and is slipping on her designer sports jacket as the girls around her hang off her every word.

She’s the princess, the golden girl, and there’s the smallest part of me, squashed down deep inside, that is embarrassed by her.

Ashamed even. If I’m being honest, she is a spoilt brat.

The product of a life too easy. James has already promised her a brand-new BMW for her sixteenth birthday, and, once she has her license, it will be bye-bye Daddy.

I won’t be needed anymore, long forgotten, discarded like last season’s fashion.

Honestly, I’m not needed now, except for chauffeuring her and her friends around.

I’ve come to understand why some women don’t have any interest in staying home to raise kids.

Parenting can be such a god-awful, thankless task.

I’d even label myself as a feminist at this point.

I loved being a dad the first five years; that precious time when your child looks at you like you are the sun, the moon, and all the stars in the universe.

With cute, chubby fingers gripping onto your hand for dear life, sloppy kisses, and heart eyes staring up at you like you can do no wrong.

But then they go to school, and life becomes a mundane routine: cleaning the house, shopping, school runs, activities, playdates, and, before you know it, they’re teenagers, judging you for every damn thing they know absolutely fuck all about.

A call comes through the Bluetooth, and I tap accept.

“Hey, honey,” I say flatly.

“Hi, darling. Are you on your way home yet?” James’s pompous voice fills the car with a sickly sweetness that further sours my mood. I can’t believe I once thought it was sexy.

“Just waiting for Lu to finish netball practice.”

“Could you pick up my dry cleaning on the way home? I believe it was ready last Friday.”

That’s true—it was ready last Friday. Like I give a fuck. But James can’t pick up his own dry cleaning because he’s too busy being a hotshot lawyer.

“Yeah, sure thing,” I say, barely masking my annoyance. “See you at home.”

I hang up without waiting for my husband’s reply. Maybe I’m the asshole. Maybe I need my meds adjusted. Maybe I should stop blaming everything on my mental illness.

I lean back against the headrest, closing my eyes.

Brendan.

His name lingers, both bitter and sweet on my tongue, just as it does every single day. Too grievous to speak aloud and yet impossible to swallow down.

Lucinda opens the passenger door, jolting me back to reality.

“Hey Dad.”

“Hey Lu. How was practice?”

“Fine.” Lucinda dramatically rolls her eyes as only a teen can. “What do you care, anyway?”

And she’s off. I sigh. “Just interested, pumpkin,” I say, trying to hold it together. “Papa needs me to pick up his dry cleaning on the way home.”

“Come on, Dad. I have homework to do,” she whines.

“It will only take five minutes. And stop complaining. You sound like an entitled little brat.”

“Jesus, Dad, why don’t you get a fucking job and stop acting like a bored tradwife?”

“Watch your language,” I warn, glaring at her, but already regretting my harsh words.

Lu pushes her AirPods into her ears and cranks the music up so loudly that I can hear the song lyrics.

The entire drive to the dry cleaners—then all the way home—makes me want to scream bloody murder.

But I don’t. I just occasionally glance at Lu’s iPhone screen, catching glimpses of what she’s looking at. TikTok. Snapchat. The usual.

What she said hit a nerve because I am the equivalent of a bored housewife. Recently, I’ve wanted to return to work again, but every time I’ve brought it up with James, he’s shot me down.

You’ve been out of the workforce too long; no one will hire you.

Who will run the house and get Lucinda to all her activities?

It will put too much strain on your mental health, and we can’t have that now, can we?

As soon as we’re in the front door, Lu escapes to her bedroom and I head into the kitchen to start dinner. Standing at the sink, I stare out across the bay, which is unusually rough today, the white peaks of the waves in sharp contrast to the indigo water. It’s both violent and beautiful.

Leaning back against the kitchen counter, my focus slowly settles on the backyard.

The landscaped gardens are showy and indulgent, with sunloungers and a dining setting, a fully stocked bar, and an outdoor kitchen.

The pool is beyond that, light reflecting off the crystal blue water like a photograph in a pretentious lifestyle magazine.

Our house is on the coveted Earimil Drive in Mount Eliza, overlooking Port Phillip Bay, and worth millions. It's a far cry from where I grew up in the Pines estate—the roughest part of Frankston back in the day—in a government commission home that still stands less than fifteen kilometres away.

A little over a year ago, at my request, James bought this house after I’d grown exhausted of inner-city Melbourne and the bitchy Karens of South Yarra.

James had been unusually supportive, selling up our ultra-modern designer home and purchasing this one, along with a penthouse apartment in the city for weekend getaways, or when he is snowed under at work.

I’d hoped it would be better for Lu, away from the spoilt upper-class rich kids, but there are plenty of those right here in Mount Eliza too.

Part of me had also felt a pull towards my childhood; I’m not sure why, because I make no effort to see my family, just as they make no effort to see me.

I blink, and a tear slides down my cheek. Over the last five years, I’ve pretty much cried myself out. Regret and resentment will do that.

Brushing away the tear, I push off the counter and open the fridge, staring at the fully stocked shelves. What the hell will I cook for dinner?

As I pull out ingredients, my thoughts return to Brendan, wondering what he’s doing right now. Where is he? How long has he been out of prison? Fuck, what if he didn’t make it out?

No, I shouldn’t think like that, and I’m not going down that path tonight.

I hope he’s found happiness. I truly do. He always deserved better.

Later in the evening, after an almost silent dinner, Lu returns to her room while James and I settle in front of the TV.

We watch some random Netflix show, but I can’t concentrate, the dialogue is as clear as a foreign film without the subtitles.

I’m almost at breaking point; alternating between days when I’m anxious and agitated and others where I feel numb and lifeless.

I know I can’t go on like this, but I have no idea how to change.

I just know I can’t keep going. Lately, I’ve considered stopping my meds, but then I immediately hate myself for thinking it.

“James.” I wait to see if my husband will look at me. He doesn’t. “James, I’m going to look into updating my paramedic qualifications so I can return to work.”

He speaks without taking his eyes off the screen. “Darling, we’ve talked about this before. Many times. You need to be home to run the house and look after Lucinda.” He condescendingly pats my thigh before continuing. “I need to get a couple of hours of work in before bed. I’ll see you up there.”

He plants a mindless peck on my cheek, then stands and walks towards the study.

I should yell or cry or explode in anger—anything to get him to understand that I’m dead inside—but I don’t. I just sit there and take it, like I always do.

But I wasn’t always like this.

“Oh darling, I almost forgot,” James says, turning around right before he leaves the room.

“I’ve hired someone to start the bathroom renovation.

The man is coming tomorrow at 9:00 to measure and finalise the quote, but I’ve set the budget at thirty thousand.

I’ve already told him what we want, but you can handle it from now on.

It’ll give you something to occupy yourself with. ”

I frown. Couldn’t he have told me this earlier? What if I had plans? “What’s the name of the place? I thought we were going to decide together?”

“Trent recommended them. The business is called…ah, Beautiful Bathrooms, I believe. He said the owner is very involved and the work was done to perfection. I’ve left all the details on the kitchen bench for you.”

“Okay,” I mumble, my mind already moving onto my plans for the evening. My choices are few—go to bed and fall asleep before James gets there or stay up late until I’m certain he’s asleep.

We haven’t had sex in weeks, and soon he’ll become a needy bitch, then turn into an aggressive, insistent prick if he doesn’t get what he wants.

It’s been going in cycles like this for years—I avoid sex for as long as possible, usually a month or more, then James will become demanding until I cave and perform my husbandly duties.

Once upon a time I had a ferocious sex drive, but it seems to have disappeared, along with my personality and any shred of interest in life.