Chapter 6 Eli
SIX
ELI
The foreshore’s busy in that slow, ambling way Saturday afternoons get. Couples strolling with ice creams, families wrangling kids on scooters, a busker with a battered guitar chasing tips and shade in equal measure.
We walk side by side, the smell of salt and hot chips drifting in on the breeze.
The tide’s out, revealing long fingers of sandbank where a couple of pelicans are staking their claim among the gulls, and sure enough, just like I told Ant, one’s already glaring at a fisherman gutting bream on the cleaning table, head tilted in calculated offence.
“I think he’s judging his technique,” Ant says, nodding towards the bird.
“Looks that way,” I say. “I’ve never been into fishing. No patience for it.”
“You strike me as the patient type.”
“Not when I can buy it battered and wrapped in paper, no.”
That grin of his is trouble. Easy, but warm enough to stick. I’ve noticed it a dozen times in the past few weeks, especially the way it shows up when I’m not expecting it. I’ve also noticed that it’s always pointed straight at me.
He’s close enough now that our shoulders brush every few steps. I tell myself it’s just the path, but I know better. Everything about him is still that same quiet, dangerous kindness from before—like he’s a walking green flag and doesn’t even know it.
“You’ve got the weekend off?” he asks.
“Got a drawer to fix tomorrow, but that’s about it.”
“That for someone, or…?”
“My own hall table,” I say. “Built it years ago. One of the runners finally gave out. Thought I’d patch it before it becomes a bigger job.”
He glances at me like he’s filing that away. “Do you sell your pieces often?”
“A few, but not sure it’s regular enough to call often. I don’t want to turn it into work.”
“That’s fair.” He kicks at a pebble, sending it skittering ahead of us. “You’re lucky. You seem to have figured out how to live exactly how you want to.”
It’s not the first time someone’s said that to me, but it lands differently coming from him. Like he’s not saying it to flatter, but because he actually sees it. “Took me a while,” I say. “And a few wrong turns. But yeah… I’m pretty close.”
He nods, looking out towards the water. “That’s the dream.”
There’s an undertone in his words I can’t quite name. A wanting, maybe. I wonder if it’s about the move or about him.
We stop at the railing near the end of the path, watching the pelicans harass the fisherman in slow-motion intimidation. Ant rests his forearms on the wood, and I catch the faint scent of his soap—citrus, with a softer note beneath.
“You ever get the feeling,” he says quietly, “that you meet people at exactly the right time… and it’s kind of terrifying?”
I look at him then, properly. The curve of his mouth, the way his eyes don’t quite meet mine when he says it, as though he’s laying out a gift and waiting to see if I’ll accept.
“Yeah,” I say. “I get that.”
He finally looks up, and there’s no mistaking the charge between us now. It’s been building for weeks—sideways glances, shared jokes, the way neither of us ever quite leaves when we could. Now it’s here, sitting between us like a third presence.
I could let it pass. I could step back and joke about the pelicans. But I don’t.
Instead, I say, “I’ve been wondering something.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“If all these playdates were really just for the kids.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “You’re not the only one wondering that.”
The breeze lifts, ruffling his hair. My fingers itch to push it back, but I settle for leaning in, just enough so our shoulders press, deliberate this time.
“Good to know,” I murmur.
For a moment, we just stay there—watching the water, pretending we’re still paying attention to the pelicans, when really we’re both listening to the same quiet hum that’s been threading between us since that first soccer-ball incident.
He’s the one who breaks it, but not by much. “So… what now?”
I glance at him, and my smile’s easier than it should be. “Now? We keep walking. See where the path goes.”
He huffs a laugh, but he doesn’t move away. If anything, he leans into that shoulder press a fraction more.
By the time we peel away from the railing and fall back into step, the tide’s so far out that the sand flats are glittering with little puddles. Each one catches the last of the light. Kids are out there with buckets, chasing soldier crabs.
When we reach the kiosk at the end of the strip, I jerk my head towards it. “Drink?”
“Yeah,” Ant says. “Something cold.”
We join the short queue, the scent of coffee and frying batter curling out into the air.
He orders an iced latte; I go for a ginger beer.
We carry them across to a bench tucked into a patch of shade, half hidden behind a pandanus tree.
The noise from the foreshore dulls here—just the slap of water against the rocks and the rustle of fronds above us.
Ant stretches his legs out, crossing them at the ankles, and takes a long pull from his drink. “Bloody hell, that’s better.”
“Hot for early March,” I say.
“Not complaining. Canberra was already cooling down when we left. Mornings where you could see your breath.”
“You grew up there?”
“Yep. Stayed for uni. Then work. Never really thought about leaving until…” He pauses, then gives a small shrug. “Until it made sense to. Henry was handling the split better than I expected, but Owen moving overseas felt like the right moment to start over.”
I nod slowly. “Brave.”
He huffs a laugh. “It felt less brave and more like barely keeping my head above water at the time.”
“That’s still brave,” I say, and he gives me a look like he’s trying to decide if I mean it. Which I do.
He rests his drink on his knee. “What about you? We you born in Brisbane?”
“Nah. Born here,” I say. “I just moved to Brisbane for work in my twenties. Came back after Mel’s divorce. She needed help with the kids, and I was looking for an excuse to get out of the city. Thought it might be temporary, but… here I am, three years later.”
“You don’t miss Brisbane?”
“I miss the food sometimes. And live music. But not the traffic, not the pace. Here I can breathe.”
He studies me for a moment, then says, “I think that’s what I’m still figuring out—how to breathe properly again. Without feeling like I should be doing more, faster.”
I turn that over in my head. “Maybe it’s not about doing more. Maybe it’s about doing the right things slower.”
He smiles at that, like it’s worth keeping. And for a while, we just sip our drinks, watching the light shift on the water. The quiet between us isn’t awkward; it’s charged in a way that feels deliberate.
When I set my bottle down on the bench, my hand lands close to his. Not close enough to be an accident but not touching either. He glances at it, then at me, and I can feel the air between us narrow.
I could pull back. I don’t.
Instead, he shifts his fingers—barely, like testing the idea—and they brush mine. The touch is light, but it runs straight up my arm. I turn my hand, and he meets me halfway, our palms finding each other in the space between.
We don’t say anything. Just sit there with the leaves whispering overhead, the heat of his hand settling against mine, and the tension we’ve been circling for weeks finally humming in the open.
When I look over, he’s watching our joined hands with the faintest smile, like he’s not quite ready to look up yet.
“Come over,” I say quietly.
His eyes lift to mine, and I can see the flicker of surprise give way to warmth. “Now?”
“Now,” I confirm. “It’s close. We can be back before there’s any chance of a rescue call.”
He squeezes my hand once, then nods. “Okay.”
We stand, still connected, and head back towards the car. The path feels different now—not shorter, but inevitable.
The heat between us is steady, thrumming just under the skin, like a fuse waiting for the right moment to spark. I’m seriously hoping I’m reading Ant right—because if I am, then sooner or later, I’m going to kiss the hell out of him.