Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
CADENCE
Mum called out to let me know she’d be out in the garden area, sunbathing. I nod and smile and the moment my bedroom door closes, every muscle in my body shakes. I cross to the window seat, hugging my knees to my chest while I stare blankly at the view I found so compelling yesterday.
Grief wells inside me for the glorious future that’s altered so abruptly.
I don’t want to fear living in this glorious mansion. Not when I thought it was an escape from all our worries. If my mother turns Arnold’s affection into aggravation over long months of erratic behaviour, that’s expected. But this?
Never in my worst nightmares had I considered this a possibility. Instead of a friendly companion across the hallway, I have the one person who scares me.
Scares me. And more.
My hands tremble as I lift the hem of my T-shirt to see the marks he wrote. They were frightening when I thought I did them. Now my head swims with alternate pictures of how they got there.
Drake must have arrived home after I went to sleep. He must have snuck across the hallway to enter my room, pulling down the blankets, unbuttoning my shirt.
Goosebumps flare across my skin and I let the collar snap into position. It’s just the cold that has my nipples tightening. Dread that causes my stomach to shrink into a tight ball, to make my thigh muscles clench.
I hug my knees tighter, willing the confusion of signals to fade, trying to find points of reassurance to assuage my fear.
Points like… when he had me helpless in bed, he didn’t hurt me, just wrote in marker on my chest. Not even across my tits—the words are along my sternum.
Psychologically damaging, yes, but he couldn’t anticipate I’d freak out and think I did it to myself. He could have meant it as gentle ribbing. The equivalent to drawing a dick and balls on a friends face when they’re out of it at a party.
Not malice but teasing.
And what about the landing just now? Are you going to pretend he didn’t grab you by the throat?
Stomach churning, I walk into the bathroom, forcing myself to look in the mirror. His grip on my neck had been threatening, but the only visible reminder is a slight redness to my skin, not deep enough to blossom into bruises.
But I don’t want to think about the brutality of his hands and the softness of his breath as he confronted me. The revelation is hard enough to process without remembering how my pulse beat against his fingers, the way I’d tilted my head back to better feel the punishing grip against my tender skin.
Instead, I put myself in his shoes. After all, I did give Harriet pills I had no business handing her. Twisted with grief over his mother, he overreacted, sure, but boot camp probably wasn’t the cosy correctional option the right-wing politicians make it out to be.
And Drake used to be different.
The older my memories of him, the better. We often wound up at the same places by virtue of our mothers shouldering the burden of parenthood alone… and being broke.
From the ages of eight through thirteen, that translated into community programs during the holidays. The local churches held a round robin of childminding duties, each taking their turn until the new school term started.
The activities were bland, but Drake could make anything fun, cracking jokes, doing hilarious impressions. He had a penchant for turning any activity into an adventure by creating elaborate back stories for the staff and the equipment.
All of it accompanied with an infectious grin a mile wide.
As we grew older, the activities became more gendered, and we spent less time together. By high school, we’d outgrown the programs. During the holidays, we took care of ourselves.
It’s hard to reconcile the joyful eight-year-old who snuck under the raised stage, risking a thunderbolt from God to score a full bottle of gold glitter with the bitter man who confronted me at the top of the stairs.
But the friendly neighbourhood kid must still hide inside him somewhere.
And his eyes might be cold, but his hands are hot, hot, hot.
I bite my lip, clamping down on that thought before my heart hammers again. I cross to the bed and feel under the pillow for my phone and pills. My device is there, but the small bottle isn’t.
A quick search tells me it’s not in or under my bed and my scalp crawls with anxiety. Now I know they’re not responsible for some weird fugue state, the medication has resumed its previous role—the only way to sleep when my fears play an orchestral movement on my nerves.
Drake must have taken them.
They’re probably in his room right now.
I go to my door, pulling it slightly ajar, head tilted as I listen for movement. He said he was going to the beach, but I haven’t been concentrating since our confrontation; I have no idea if he actually went.
The indecision makes me shift from foot to foot. Dare I go into his room?
He might be in there. He might be seconds away from returning.
I force myself to tiptoe along the short hallway to his door, finding it ajar. My heart beats so hard I can see the pulse in my eyes as I step closer, gaze trained on the narrow opening.
Drake sits on his bed, a lighter in his hand. He spins the wheel, the scratching noise like fingernails on bone, followed by a small phumph sound as the spark catches. The moment it does, his eyes come to life, staring at the flame with a reverence that borders on hypnosis.
The opposite hand lowers, getting nearer and nearer until I cringe back from the sight, palm itching with sympathetic heat.
As he holds it steady, my muscles tighten, tighten, tighten, then I turn, scampering back to the safety of my room, softly closing the door.
There’s no lock.
If I don’t have my pills, I need a lock. Otherwise, I’ll never feel secure.
I take the chair from beneath the desk and prop it beneath the doorhandle. The slatted back is sturdy, but I worry it won’t hold fast so test it on the bathroom door, leaving enough of a gap to slip through. It wedges solidly against the floor and putting my shoulder to the door makes the chair stick harder.
With a pleased smile, I wedge it under my main door, testing the angles to find one that works best.
A hassle but better than waking in the middle of the night to see Drake’s face looming above me.
When I take the chair away, there’s a tiny graze on the hardwood floor but it disappears when I rub my sock over it.
If I’m going to do it every night, I’ll find something to go underneath; perhaps a few coasters from the bar in the dining room will work. If not, I can probably use a wad of tissues as protectors.
After splashing cold water on my face, I head downstairs to join my mother, smiling as I hear her tuneless voice outside, singing along to a song on the radio.
My heart still beats in a wary rhythm, but I will turn the other cheek and hope, in time, Drake will do the same. Until then, I’ll trust my makeshift lock to keep me safe.
The rest of Sunday passes without incident and I get the strong sense that Drake avoids me as much as I avoid him.
Mum and I borrow Drake’s car to spend the afternoon window shopping, and the moment we return home, he says a few desultory pleasantries before disappearing into his room. The only time I see him after is when he pops his head into the lounge to tell Arnold he’s organised a meal out with friends, and he’ll be late home.
It's probably bollocks, but it feels like I manifested a considerate Drake just by refusing to let the situation get me down.
Either way, I wake on Monday morning with a resurgence of hope.
The hope that this will last. That this will make a difference. That not everything is set in stone and just because life’s been hard for Mum and me, doesn’t mean it always has to be that way.
“Is Drake not here?” I ask when I walk into the kitchen to find his chair empty.
“He went for an early-morning swim,” Mum says, leaning over to give me a one-armed hug.
Arnold places the pill organiser in front of her plate, and she obediently takes them with a sip of tea, looking for his smile of approval once she’s done.
I’m relieved Arnold has taken that responsibility from me, and mouth, “thank you,” at him, tears prickling with renewed joy.
“Could you fetch him?” Arnold asks. “Just a wave from the top of the path should do.” His eyes cut to the wall clock. “Otherwise, you’ll be cutting it fine to get to class.”
“Sure.” I jump to my feet, not relishing the task but happy to repay his continuing generosity.
Outside, it’s shaping up to be a beautifully sunny day. The sort of day that makes me want to skip school altogether, although new girl jitters might also play a part.
From the top of the path, I stare as Drake cuts smoothly through the water. He’s so streamlined, I can’t detect when he takes a breath as he swims to the platform, resting his palm on the side for stability as he pauses there.
I give a vigorous two-armed wave like I’m trying to land a plane, and he raises a hand to let me know he’s seen me. A pair of fantail flirt with each other in the kowhai trees beside the path and I follow their gravity defying swoops along to the first bend, watching as Drake makes the swim back to land.
“Did you forget your towel?” I ask as he reaches me, seawater streaming down his body.
Aside from a deep frown, he doesn’t answer, waving me to walk ahead of him.
“Do you always go for a swim in the mornings?”
I expect him to ignore me again, then he answers in a gruff voice, “I enjoy swimming when there’s no one else about.”
A statement that feels like a dig, but I try again. Needing to connect, to stop that prickle of imminent disaster I felt when I first saw him. “It must’ve been weird to find out your dad’s bonkers rich. Didn’t your mum ever say anything about him?”
“Don’t talk about my mother,” he snaps.
Pain underpins his anger, and I immediately feel guilty. “Sorry.” Then I stop, moving to the cliff side of the path to leave room for him to walk alongside me. “You know, I didn’t really mean what I said that day. I hate myself for saying it.”
His eyes blaze as they meet mine and I curse myself for starting this conversation. As he draws level, I step even further to the side, the loose shale at the edge of the path giving way underfoot.
In an instant, my arms pinwheel for balance, my foot now inches below where it should be, my other foot sliding.
I look down.
The large rocks at the edge of the beach are ten metres below. There’s nothing between to cushion my fall.
In sudden panic, I try to push up with my lower foot, but the added force sends it skidding into thin air.
My balance tips further. Both feet sliding.
Then muscular arms are around my waist. Jerking me back from danger. Lifting me to safety.
I gasp as Drake’s fingers splay across my cheek, cradling me to his chest. In a few steps, my back is against the cliff face, his body forming a protective fence between me and the terrifying slip.
My heart stutters, blood roaring in my ears, head clogged with panic.
For a long moment, I’m paralysed, nothing in the world except for the steady thump of my pulse, the cold water contrasting with his warm skin, the huff of his breath against my cheek.
I close my eyes, letting the safety of his strong grip wash away the burst of terror. Overjoyed to feel the seawater drip down his chest and soak into my white blouse.
Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.
For all the dumb mistakes I’ve made in my life so far, accidentally walking off the side of a cliff ranks at the top.
I try to laugh but a whimper emerges instead, and Drake’s hands clasp me tighter, becoming painful as he hauls me up the path, pushing me away once we reach the solid concrete of the viewing platform at the top, like he can’t stand for me to be near him.
My hands clutch the protective iron railing while my brain struggles to convince my body I’m safe.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” His fingertips dig into my upper arm as he reaches out to shake me. “You nearly fell.”
“Don’t yell at me,” I scream as my fear makes the easy conversion into anger. “I didn’t know the path would collapse underneath me.”
“You weren’t on the path.”
He twists my head, pointing back to where there’s a small landslide.
And he’s right. I veered farther off to the side than I thought—more than a foot past the marked edge—too worried about him drawing level to pay attention.
“Do me a favour.” His strong fingers clutch my chin, forcing me to read the ferocity in his gaze. “If you’re going to throw yourself onto the rocks to die, please choose a time when I’m not walking right next to you. I’ve got enough problems to deal with without having your death wish pinned on me as murder.”
He flicks my arm away, lips twisting like he stuck his hand in something rotten, then stalks towards the house, grabbing the towel he left hung over a chair on the back patio on the way past.
And once again, he leaves me shaking.
The outline of his wet body marked on mine.