Chapter 5 Ant #2
“He is,” she replies, then adds in a tone so mild, it might as well be a billboard, “and he likes company that doesn’t make life complicated.”
I chuckle. “Subtlety is not your strong suit, Mel.”
“Not when I like someone for my brother,” she fires back. “I have taste.”
I pretend to consider this. “Jury’s out.”
She laughs, and it’s easy between us again. We move to the table with our coffees. She flips open a plastic container of cut-up fruit and pushes it closer to me. “Eat. You look like someone who forgot lunch.”
I spear a piece of pineapple with a fork, found conveniently in the fruit container because Mel is a woman who plans ahead, and try to ignore how seen I feel.
“How’s Henry with sleepovers?” she asks. “We’ve got the mattresses in the lounge. They’ll make a fort by 8:00 p.m., guaranteed.”
“He’s good,” I say. “Excited. A little anxious because it’s the first one since we moved, but he and Noah are thick as thieves. He’ll be fine once they start plotting world domination.”
“Mm.” She smiles into her mug. “Noah hasn’t stopped talking about him. Says Henry’s got ‘elite handball skills,’ whatever that means.”
“It means he can talk trash while pretending he isn’t,” I say. “He comes by it honestly.”
“And you?” she asks, almost idly. “How’re you settling?”
“Good days and tired days,” I say. “But it feels right. Work’s a decent bunch. I’ll switch to more remote again soon, which will help. And the weekends… well. They’re starting to look like something I want to keep.”
“Good answer,” she says, and I can feel her filing my words somewhere under Big Tick.
There’s a crash and a chorus of “We’re okay!” from the back room.
Mel doesn’t even flinch. “If no one’s crying, it doesn’t count,” she says and tops up her mug with a splash of hot water.
We wander out to the verandah while the kids argue about who gets the blue controller. The shade under the poinciana feels ten degrees cooler, and a magpie warbles from the neighbour’s aerial like it’s showing off. A southerly nips the sweat off the back of my neck.
“I like your place,” I say. “Feels… held.”
“Thanks,” she says. “This house is stubborn. It keeps standing up even when life doesn’t cooperate.”
We lean on the railing, companions in the kind of quiet that doesn’t need patching. I’m content to just breathe here. To let the ease of the past few weeks be what it is without pushing it into a shape.
Still, I can’t help asking, “You seeing your brother at all this weekend?”
“Yep. He was busy doing chores this morning. Said he had to duck to the op-shop to drop off some books and then to the men’s shed to grab a clamp he left behind. Might’ve mentioned a drawer runner that’s misbehaving too.”
“Furniture stuff?”
“Always,” she says fondly. “He finished a coffee table the other night that made me angry it wasn’t mine.”
“Dangerous talent,” I say and swallow down the warm curl of anticipation that sneaks up my throat. The thought of seeing him—just him, no bell, no gate, no gardening gloves—lands like a clean chord.
We talk about nothing for a while—weekend markets, the cursed roundabout near the main drag, which beach has better rock pools.
She tells me Ava’s friend is a chatterbox with a lisp and a vendetta against broccoli.
I tell her Henry’s decided the school library is his new religion and he’s converting me.
“You’ll fit,” she says, like it’s a fact.
“I hope so,” I say, and realise it’s the truest thing I’ve said today.
Car tyres crunch on the gravel out front. A moment later, the screen door squeaks and thwacks shut. I don’t have to turn to know it’s him; the air shifts—some combination of light footsteps, the faint smell of sawdust and lemon soap, and the easy way he calls, “Anybody home?”
Mel grins at me over her mug, eyes dancing. “Speak of the devil.”
I school my face into a mask of calm as Eli steps onto the verandah, sun at his back, a small cardboard box tucked under one arm and a clamp dangling from his hand like a prop.
“Hey,” he says, and that one word does ridiculous things to my heartbeat. “All good here? I would have been here earlier to check in on the miscreants, but the op-shop lady wanted to tell me the entire history of a teapot.”
“We are indeed. And you love a teapot origin story,” Mel says.
“Only when it involves pirates,” he counters, then turns to me, smile easy and warm. “Ant. Good to see you.”
“You too,” I say, hoping like hell that what’s in my voice reads as friendly and not completely gone.
His gaze flicks towards the hallway where the kids are plotting chaos, then back to me. “It means you won’t miss out. I brought muffins as a bribe.”
Mel snorts. “He means for you.”
“Also for the kids,” he says solemnly, then winks.
It’s small, almost nothing, but it still stirs my gut—makes it bubble and fizz in a way that’s becoming the norm around him.
He grabs himself a mug from the open shelf above the kettle, pours coffee like he’s done it a thousand times in this kitchen, then joins us at the table. “Help yourself.”
He nudges the box towards me. Inside, eight muffins—golden-topped, still faintly warm. I pick one with a sunburst crack in the middle and peel back the paper. Lemon hits first, sharp and clean, with a hint of sugar.
“Good?” he asks, already biting into his own.
I swallow and nod. “Better than good. Dangerous.”
He smiles, pleased, and takes another bite. Across the table, Mel raises an eyebrow, clearly clocking the moment, before she stands, scooping up the rest of the muffins.
“I’ll take these to the troops,” she says. “And check they haven’t dismantled the Xbox.”
“Tell them one muffin each,” Eli calls after her.
She snorts on her way out. “You tell them.”
And then it’s just us, the hum of the fridge and the distant kid-noise filling the space between.
He leans back in his chair, mug cradled in both hands. “So,” he says, “got plans for the rest of the day?”
I hesitate, aware of how lame this is going to sound, but decide not to spin anything. “Nothing,” I admit. “First night Henry’s been on a sleepover since we moved, so I don’t want to get too far away in case he needs me. Figured I’d just hang around, maybe watch something at home.”
There’s no flicker of judgement in his face, just a slow nod, like he understands exactly where I’m coming from. “Makes sense,” he says. “First one’s always a bit… unsettling, I’m sure. For the parent, I mean. Kids are usually too busy having a blast to remember they’ve got our number.”
I laugh quietly. “Yeah, but if he does call, I don’t want to be halfway to Brisbane.”
He takes a sip of coffee, eyes still on me over the rim of the mug. “I’m not doing much either,” he says after a beat. “Got a drawer to fix for the hall table, and I was going to head down to the foreshore later. Grab a coffee, watch the pelicans harass the fishermen.”
Something about the image—the slow water, the sun off the bay, Eli standing there with his hands in his pockets—pulls at me. “Sounds… good,” I say.
“It is,” he replies. Then, casual but not careless, he suggests, “You could come along, if you wanted. It’s only ten minutes away. We can be back long before there’s any chance of a panic call.”
The offer lands in the space between us like a pebble in a pond, rippling outwards. I can feel the edges of awareness between us stretching, testing.
“You sure?” I ask, because even though I want to say yes, I still remember how to be cautious.
His mouth tilts in that small, crooked way that’s started to feel like it’s for me alone. “I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”
And that’s when I realise we’ve both been doing this dance for weeks—hovering near, finding excuses to be in the same space while the kids do their thing. This is the first time it’s been just… about us.
I break eye contact first, peeling another strip of paper from my muffin. “Yeah,” I say, quieter than I meant to. “I’d like that.”
When I look up again, he’s still watching me, steadiness and warmth threading through his unreadable gaze. And suddenly the kitchen feels just a little smaller.