Chapter 32 #2
Unzipping the bag, we find what we need.
“There's something you should know about showering in west Queensland.”
“Oh?”
Clothes scatter onto the floor.
“Gotta save water by showering with your boyfriend.”
“I do, huh?”
“Just in case there's a spontaneous drought.”
My expression is solemn.
“I'm willing to do my part, for the sake of the planet.”
“Thought you might.”
Dimming the lights, I follow behind him.
Lathering body wash in my hands, I soap his back and shoulders.
He keeps one arm out of the water.
He’s still trying to preserve his inky stars as long as possible.
“That rough unshaved look is doing things to me,” I confess.
I stroke a hand across his jaw.
“It is?”
His eyes are playful.
Bodies slippery and warm, we fold into each other.
Rinsing the dust and sweat from our hair, water curls around the drain.
There’s no such thing as flaccid when I shower with this man.
Still… I choose to behave, because we’re well within earshot.
He might not feel like a guest, but I do.
We should at least wait until after dinner.
Until the lights go out.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Marco has other ideas.
He teases a line across my pelvis with his cock.
I can’t pretend I don’t like it.
We let ourselves hover as close as possible to the edge of temptation.
No need to succumb. Not yet.
But he loves to flirt.
And I let him.
Drying off, he rubs a towel slowly between my legs just enough to…
Nice try. I’m not falling for that twice in one day.
“Wicked boy…”
A rogue hand caresses as far as I allow.
“Ohhh…”
He holds a finger to his lips, hushing me.
With an impish smile, he bends over to reach for his pants.
That luscious ass is right there for the taking.
He backs into me, and I thumb the rim lightly.
Be good, I scold myself.
Look the other way.
My mind takes a detour.
Fuck looking the other way.
I dress quickly to rein it in.
“Hungry?” he murmurs in my ear.
“Mmm,” is all I can say.
Seductive minx.
◆◆◆
We stumble down the hallway.
“Perfect timing, boys.”
Beth’s mitted hands carry a porcelain dish from the oven to the table.
“Grab that jug of gravy on the bench, will ya?”
The chicken pie is still steaming when it hits the plate.
Pastry gives way under my fork, crispy and golden at the edges.
She nudges a small woven basket toward us, removing the tea towel that covers it.
Softly knotted bread rolls with herbed butter.
Roast potatoes with gravy, and caramelised onions in the bowl beside it.
I dare to admit that it rivals my mum's cooking, and that’s saying something.
Just when I can’t possibly fit another bite, she slides a hot plum cobbler from the oven.
Fruit bubbles at the edges, dark and jammy beneath a blanket of crumble.
A scoop of vanilla bean ice cream crowns each serving of pudding.
It oozes over the side, melting into a puddle.
She adds a thin sparkler candle to Marco's dessert, striking a match to light it.
We sing him happy birthday, much to his horror and delight.
◆◆◆
Tummies full and dishes done, the three of us cosy up on the couch.
“Beth, if you're trying to get us to move in with you, it's working,” he sighs.
I’m so on board with this.
“Yeah, you're gonna have to adopt us both, I'm sorry.”
“Well, as my honourary sons, I look forward to having you visit more often. Now that you're able to,” she grins. “And there's plenty of food left to take with you tomorrow. I'll freeze it overnight so it stays cold while you drive.”
He takes her by the hand.
His eyes convey all that can’t be expressed in words.
“Wait right here,” he says, sprinting back to the bedroom.
We hear a jangle of keys, as Marco dashes out to the truck in bare feet.
Soon he returns with a paper bundle in one hand.
It’s the parcel his mum gave him.
Photos of when he was little, before Beth and I ever knew him.
One by one, we pass the prints between us.
And there he is.
Baby Mark.
Little Mark.
And eventually, teen Mark.
Beth recognises the fifteen year old boy from the last image.
She traces across the glossy paper with her pinky finger.
He has those same eyes, but with a tinge of sadness.
The smile we know so well, but without the confidence.
Awkward haircut, but that wasn't his fault.
Nor were the bruises and cuts, obviously.
Neither of us dare mention them.
It’s a punch to the gut to see him like that.
So small and innocent.
Stained clothes and a dirty face.
But still our Marco.
I want to reach inside each photograph and protect him from every shadow.
And I can see it in Beth's eyes too.
So much tenderness.
So much heartache for everything he's been through.
Louise loved Marco fiercely inside a battlefield.
One that she didn’t know how to escape.
That love and fear are both apparent in these photos.
Both in her twenties when her son was born, and the years beyond.
But Beth loves him too.
She’s a mum of a different sort.
She’s been his refuge for almost half his life.
She offered the first roof over his head where he could truly breathe.
This is the woman who gave him a ladder out of the nightmare.
Sitting on either side of him, we turn to look at each other, as if to say:
He may have been through hell.
But we can love him now.
We can be his anchor.
That's the one thing we can do.