8. Scarlett
CHAPTER 8
Scarlett
H opefully, removing Ryan from the onslaught of Christmas in our house will give him some space to breathe and ground himself. The way his shoulders had tensed and the palpable tension radiating from his posture gave me a sneak peek into the turmoil of what this time brings for him. The pain in his eyes spoke volumes, but it was his visible relief when I guided him away that suggests there’s more than just a stubborn grinchiness hidden behind that handsome veneer.
‘Thank you.’ His voice is barely a whisper above the gentle rustle of the leaves.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say at the same time, placing the lantern on the rustic table Dad made from an old jetty plank. ‘I didn’t … shouldn’t?—’
‘What are you apologising for? You weren’t to know I’d …’ A huge sigh escapes him, and he shakes his head as if to clear the image.
‘I just don’t want you to think I did that on purpose … as a joke.’
‘No, no. It’s okay. I’m good.’
There’s no further discussion on the matter, and we settle on the swing. The well-worn rope is smooth against my palms. There’s a distant bleating from the sheep. As I tuck my feet up on the seat, Ryan keeps his down and uses them to sway us back and forth, creating a gentle rock.
The silence is comfortable, surprisingly, even though there’s a massive elephant in the room. I have so many questions, but I get a vibe from Ryan that he’s processing. Hopefully, the quiet will allow him the space to do it.
‘Here you go, love.’ Mum wanders over to the swing, and I take the plastic jug and cups from the top of the box before they topple off. Ryan takes the box and settles it between us on the seat.
After thanking her and pouring us a drink, I lift the box lid, take out the wad of letters and hand them to Ryan. It might be a bit petty, but I need him to see the letters returned, to see that I held up my end of the deal and he didn’t. Maybe I just need to show him I was right and justified in my anger.
‘What are these?’ There’s an adorable crinkle around his eyes as he unties the ribbon, clearly trying to decipher what I’ve given him. It’s almost my undoing. He taps the top letter. ‘This is my handwriting.’ The start of a smile shifts his lips. ‘You kept them all?’
When he looks at me, his eyes are full of wonder. My stomach drops. Something isn’t adding up. The anger that was simmering about these bloody letters starts to dissipate.
‘All of them?’ There’s a hint of unintentional snide in my tone. ‘I kept the one and only letter you sent. That one there on the top of the pile. Look at the others.’
His eyes quickly shift their focus back to the others in the pile. He transfers the first one to his left hand and sees my handwriting with ‘return to sender’ in red ink across the envelope, then he shuffles through the rest and blanches. When his hands start shaking, my heart squeezes. His jaw clenches; his shoulders stiffen. Then his hands grip the letters. Almost like he’s trying to screw them up.
I drop the box to the ground and shuffle closer, laying my hands over his, willing them to relax, open. Now is not the time for me to get on my high horse about his lack of letter writing. I expected a tonne of excuses or for him to laugh off my over-the-top reaction, but what I get in return is an overwhelming display of raw emotions. Anger? Frustration? Defeat? They all play out in his facial expressions, his body language. There’s more at play here. More than just a whirlwind of emotions from a brief summer romance and making promises to be pen pals.
‘Talk to me, Ryan. What’s going on?’ I gently slide my finger along his rough jawline, hoping to ease the strain that lingers.
‘I can’t believe they did it.’ His voice is tight, controlled. Finally, he releases the tension in his hands and gently flattens the envelopes on his lap.
‘They? Who? Did what?’ My mind races with countless scenarios, but I struggle to find a single plausible conclusion.
‘My parents. They sent them all back to you.’ He holds up the one addressed to me. ‘Is this the only one you received?’
Confused and not sure what his parents have to do with this, I pinch my lips together and nod.
‘It all makes sense now.’ Despite growling the words out, there’s a hint of sadness and acceptance in his tone.
‘What makes sense? I’m not following.’ I rest my palm on his forearm. ‘Tell me what this is about, Ryan. Help me understand. Does this have something to do with your grinchiness?’
There’s half a smile. ‘Is that a made-up word?’
‘It is, but let’s get back on topic.’
He looks at the stars and releases the biggest sigh, then shuffles the letters. ‘It’s a long story. Have you got time?’
‘Sure. Nowhere to be until choir practice tomorrow morning.’
He pushes again with one foot, and the swing gently sways forwards and backwards. ‘My parents—who were my foster parents at the time—owned a post office. And it seems they intercepted your letters and returned them to you. It seems they also never sent the ones I gave them to post to you. Six months’ worth. There’s nothing worse than being lied to.’
Our gazes meet. Anger is simmering deep in my gut. Who would do that? And lies … ‘Oh, Ryan.’
There’s so much pain and sorrow in his eyes that it makes my heart squeeze.
He slowly shakes his head; his chin drops to his chest. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you were getting my letters but not replying. So eventually, I stopped writing.’
‘And I assumed after this letter’—I tap the one he sent that’s sitting on his leg—‘even though you said to keep writing, that you were just leading me on. I was so angry at you when my next letter came back.’
It’s my turn to suck in a deep breath and release it. Despite the passage of time, the anger and pain still linger within me. At the time, I’d thought we had a great relationship, albeit a long-distance one. As people would say nowadays: we had a ‘connection’.
‘I apologise for having a go at you earlier today.’ For some reason, I don’t want to remove my hand from his arm. The skin-on-skin connection is sending lovely little tingles through my fingers.
‘And I apologise, too, for jumping to conclusions.’
‘Seems your parents have some explaining to do.’ I mean, who does that?
Ryan lets out a disgruntled huff. ‘Not likely.’ When his shoulders relent and slump, he continues, ‘I was born on Christmas Day … the same day I became a ward of the state.’
I suck in a sharp breath and hold it. When he gives me a sad smile, I release my breath. The smile is so familiar, and it makes me think back to the few smiles he gave me all those summers ago. He wasn’t happy then either. My heart breaks a little more.
‘My childhood wasn’t that great. My foster parents weren’t perfect, to say the least. I was yelled at often, sometimes hit, bullied. I had a few different homes. My birthday was always forgotten or overlooked because of Christmas. And Christmases were hard. My parents were strict. As I got older and found out they weren’t my real parents, it was easier to despise them. When I look back, I can see they were self-absorbed. They made me think they were doing everything for me, but they were just doing things to stroke their egos.
‘After that summer, I spent one more year at home, then, as soon as I turned eighteen, I left, and it’s been just me ever since. I put myself through uni and have worked in Darwin and Perth to be away from the bad memories. And then I jumped at the chance to come back to Point Perry as there were good memories from here, even if at the time I was still pissy you didn’t write.’
I press one hand against my heart, the other still on his arm, now squeezing. ‘Thank you for trusting me with your story. That’s some big and heavy stuff you’ve had to deal with, and there’s so much to unpack. So many things I want to ask.’
Thump, thump goes my heart.
I scoot closer still. Ryan grounds his foot in the lawn, and the swing comes to a halt. My hands move instinctively to his cheeks; our eyes connect, then Ryan’s dip and linger on my lips. A surge of longing for the carefree summer days builds deep in my stomach.
I’m unsure who makes the first move. A mere split second passes before our lips come into contact, lightly grazing and then pressing together. Heat flushes my cheeks, my core. His lips are soft before opening. My teeth scrape along his bottom lip. His stubble roughs my chin, sends tingles down my spine. A groan fills the still night. From me or him, I’m not sure.
Our chests collide, his breathing heavy, mine mirroring his rhythm. One of Ryan’s hands slides under my top, up my spine to rest at the nape of my neck; the other tucks into the back waistband of my shorts.
I pull his head closer, running my fingers through his hair. Our tongues dance, slide and twirl. And his smell, salty from the wind and sweet from the bombardment of the baking in the kitchen. Home.
Home . But this isn’t home. My life’s in Adelaide, even though I no longer have a job. I have a career I need to keep building, unfinished business, obligations.
Abruptly, I pull away, my hands falling to my lap. I slide back to the edge of the swing, creating much-needed distance between us.
‘I’m sorry, Ryan. That wasn’t meant to happen. Shit.’ At his stunned and somewhat confused look, I continue, ‘I’m only back for a few days. It’s not fair on either of us to start something that can’t be finished, so to speak.’
Ryan stands and straightens his scrubs. ‘Yeah, sure. No worries. I have to get back to work anyway and let Lilac know the folder has been handed over safely.’ He tosses the envelopes onto the top of the box. ‘I’ll catch you around, then.’
I reach for his hand, but he shrugs away. ‘Wait, please.’
As Ryan walks back to his car, the honey biscuits I scoffed earlier threaten to reappear. I’m such a shitty person for doing that. He trusted me with his story, and then I turned him away. I’m just another person who’s disappointed him. And it doesn’t sit well at all.
Ryan deserves someone who’s going to stick around for the long haul, and that’s not me.