Chapter 8 MAEVYN
I flick on the kettle, then take a slice of pizza from the fridge, inhaling it as I double-check the front and back doors.
Once the water’s finished boiling, I pour it into a mug and add a spoonful of coffee and one spoon of Milo, then quietly make my way upstairs.
It’s just after twelve, my calves are killing me from my set at the club tonight, and I just want to get into a steaming hot shower and put on my pyjamas.
I poke my head into Aurora’s bedroom, finding her fast asleep.
She sent regular updates to the bartenders at The Matchbox while I was working.
All night, I was getting thumbs up from the girls checking the club phone.
They knew I’d be stressed the first time I left Aurora alone, but when I checked my phone at the end of my shift, she’d sent me a message saying she felt totally safe and spent most of the night talking to her new friend, Ever.
And she finished crocheting an axolotl. Whatever that is.
She even got invited over for a sleepover next Saturday.
I pull her bedroom door closed, then heave a sigh as I step into my room.
Dumping my bag in the closet, I kneel down on the carpet and open the middle drawer.
I carefully push all my T-shirts aside so I can lift the false bottom and add tonight’s earnings to the piles I hide away.
Putting everything back in place, I kick off my Ugg boots and head into the bathroom.
Turning on the hot water, I remove my makeup while I wait for it to reach scalding, then strip down.
My muscles instantly loosen under the heat as glitter swirls down the drain.
I quickly wash my hair, scrub my whole body of oil and sparkles, then deep clean my face.
Once I’m a new woman, I lather myself in cocoa butter and pull on my favourite holey T-shirt, a pair of booty shorts, and some long socks.
I have two hands protectively gripping the hot mug, my body slipping into relax-mode as I step onto my balcony. The stars are calling my name, and I can’t wait to sit in silence, getting lost in their—
“Hello again.”
I pull up short with the interruption of that deep, gravelly voice. Slowly, my head turns to the left, and I see Westley relaxing shirtless on a daybed. Book in one hand, mug in another, and Patch passed out beside him.
“Isn’t it a little late to be reading?” And aren’t you a little hot to be real?
“Isn’t it a little late to be stargazing?”
I step further onto the balcony, biting my lip to stop the smile. “Actually, it’s the perfect time. The sky is dark, and the rest of the city is sleeping.”
“The same could be said about reading,” he fires back.
My eyes drop from his, down to that broad chest that’s dusted with hair, and I can see the tattoo that sits high on his ribs. I hate that I want to know what it is.
Instead, I feign disinterest and take a seat in front of my telescope, open my stargazing app, then move the eyepiece towards me.
“What are you looking for?”
I feel my shoulders drop. There goes my peace and quiet. “You know, this is usually a quiet activity.”
“My apologies,” he says, the words teasing. “I’ll be quiet so you can see better.”
I blow out a steadying breath, then move back to the eyepiece. We sit in silence, but I’m still highly aware of his presence. I pause to pick up my mocha, humming over a mouthful of chocolate and caffeine.
“Anything good?”
I close my eyes, inhaling patience. “I thought we established this was quiet time.” And if you talk, I can’t forget that you’re out here. Wondering if you’re looking at me. Hating that I kinda want you to. My own thief in the night.
“Sorry,” he says, and I can hear the smile he’s wearing.
I sigh and place my mug down on the table beside me, giving him my full attention. “It’s just that I worked all night, and my brain needs to power down. This is normally how I do it, but instead, you have to be out here looking like that and talking.”
Westley puts his book down and slides off the daybed.
When he stands at full height, the effect of his presence has me heating in places I shouldn’t.
He moves across the balcony, mug still clutched in his hands as he leans his forearms over the railing, and I can perfectly imagine what it would be like to be wrapped up in those arms, maybe pressed into a mattress with the weight of his body on top of mine.
“I thought the salon closed at five?”
I wipe the drool off my mouth before I answer. “What?”
“You said you worked all night. Parlour Tricks closes at five.” I forgot he worked on Claire’s salon build, and for her boyfriend.
“I dance at a club on weekends.”
His brow furrows. “I can’t tell if you’re being serious or joking.”
I smile without saying anything more. I think I’ll let him sweat over it.
“Was Aurora home by herself?” he asks. “I can watch out for her if you need.”
The offer rolls off his tongue like honey. They sure do make them sweet in Heart City.
For twelve years, I’ve managed being a single parent, content to handle things on my own, relying only on myself, because that’s as far as my trust extends. I play the part in acting that’s how I like it, when in reality, I had no choice.
“She’s going to a friend’s house next week. We just hadn’t organised anything because of the move.” It’s partly true.
Westley holds up his hands in surrender. “No worries. The offer still stands. If you need anything, I’m always happy to help.”
He backs away from the railing, resigned to the end of the conversation.
“Never had a neighbour like you.” I lean back, propping a foot up on the chair, and see his eyes track the movement. “You should be careful. A girl could get used to it,” I tease.
“You should get used to it.” Westley picks up his book again, then gets comfortable on the daybed, one foot against the mattress so his knee’s bent, and sipping his drink.
Pull yourself together, Maevyn. The man’s just reading a book.
“What are you reading?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. This is usually a quiet activity,” he says, peering over the pages.
I have to clench my jaw to fight the laughter at him throwing my own words back at me. Slowly, I return to my telescope and get back to what I actually came here for.
“It’s a retelling of Romeo and Juliet.” Westley’s voice carries through the quiet night.
The unexpected confession has my head turning. “You’re reading a romance book?”
“Theirs wasn’t romance; no happily ever after.” He holds his book up. “This is a dark romance version.”
Stargazing forgotten, I turn in my chair, pick up my mocha and criss-cross my legs, facing him. “Do you always read romance?”
He looks up at me over the pages, pops a bookmark in his place, then closes the book.
“I do prefer when there’s at least a romance sub-plot.”
“Really? Why?” I feel desperate for the answer.
He shrugs. “I like the idea of finding the person you’re meant for, even when the world’s against you.”
“A truly mind-boggling fun fact about you that I wasn’t expecting.”
“That’s what happens when you ask questions. You learn things about people.”
“Oh, really? Is that what happens?”
“Yeah, you should give me something now. Then we might actually have what we call a conversation.”
It happens. The laugh slips out. Just barely, but he hears it.
I rub a hand up and down my arm, feeling the goose bumps that rise on the surface, more from his attention than anything to do with the night air.
“Do your tattoos mean anything?” he asks.
I look down my arm, at the intricate lines of a full moon, joined by a sea of clouds and stars.
“A long time ago…” My stomach is already aching with reminders, the discomfort of the past. “I was starting over, and I didn’t know what to do.
I drove and drove, with no destination in mind, only the moon and stars as my company.
After hours, distance, I had a thought that I couldn’t be the only one looking at the stars, wishing for something better, or different.
Less shitty. For a little while, I let that keep me company. ”
“Is that why you still look at the stars? Company for when you’re feeling down?”
I shake my head. “It’s no use wishing on a star for something better.
If you want things to change, you have to make them.
So, when I come out here every night, that’s what I’m looking for.
All the ways I’m changing the stars. I look at them and reflect on all the things I’ve done to make sure I’m not in the same place I was before. ”
Westley smiles. “I like that. What about your other one?”
“What other one?”
“On your…” He points up and down on his own stomach. “Under your, um—”
“You been checking out me, Mr Romance Reader?” I smirk and see him squeeze the back of his neck.
“You wear a lot of cropped tops.” He’s so flustered. It’s kinda cute. “Besides, I see you looking at mine.”
“Touché. It’s an archer. My star sign is Sagittarius.” I lift my eyebrows and nod to his tattoo, inviting him to answer the same question.
“Phoenix on my thigh, that’s rebirth and renewal. And on my ribs, it’s the date my parents adopted me.”
I find myself pushing off the lounge and wandering over to the balcony edge. “How old were you when you were adopted?”
Westley does the same, meeting me at his railing. We’re only a few meters away from each other now, but I swear I can still smell the faint traces of apple from his cologne.
“Six weeks.”
My eyes practically bug out of my head. “Six weeks?”
He nods. “I was left at the hospital where my mother had me. I never found out who she was, but I found a little about my dad a few years back.”
“But you don’t have a relationship with him?”
“No. I have the best parents anyone could hope for. They’re the only ones I’ve ever known. He made no effort to find me, nor I him. It was actually my half-sister who found me.”
“When did you find out you were adopted?”
Westley hums in thought. “I was quite young. My dad being Jamaican was kinda a giveaway. But I became more aware when kids at school pointed it out. I’d never really questioned it because I never felt out of place at home. To me, family isn’t blood, it’s who you’d bleed for.”
His words settle something inside of me. A thought I’ve wrestled with many times over the years.
“You truly don’t wish your birth parents raised you?” I ask, the idea hitting so close to home.
“I think I ended up exactly where I was meant to be.”
The moment catches us both in a spell. One where the questions of my own upbringing and all the choices I’ve made to get to where I am spin in a vortex of unease.
Always asking the same thing. Did I do the right thing?
Am I doing enough? Could I have made a difference before it all went to hell?
If I had the chance to do it all over again, what would I change, or would I make the same choices?
“Are you also a crazy person who can drink coffee at any time of night?” Westley gestures to the mug in my hands.
“This is a mocha. I’m not sure if that’s better or worse.” I shrug. “A habit left over from being up all night with a newborn.”
“There are worse habits,” he says. “A little chocolate and caffeine before bed is hardly something to lose sleep over.” Don’t I know it.
I chuckle. “Unless you’re someone who actually can’t sleep after sugar and coffee.”
He raises his own mug to me in cheers. “Thankfully, I’m not one of those people.”
“Me neither.”
Something unfamiliar settles in my chest as he looks at me.
Sharing in this moment. That’s the trouble when you do everything alone, refusing to let anyone get close.
You’re missing that person in your life who’s there to help share the load.
A person to confide everything to. Who knows everything you’ve been through, everything that challenges you, and they still choose to stay.
Not only to hold your hand through the hard times, but to be proud of you.
Of course, not all stories end with a happily ever after. Sometimes, the person you think is the one to walk beside you ends up being the one to drag you down. That’s why I am the way I am. I refuse to be anyone’s rock bottom. I’m aiming for the stars.