25. Braxton
Chapter 25
Braxton
“ Y ou made me breakfast?” Jemma asks with surprise the next morning as she climbs the back steps onto the deck.
When I dropped her off yesterday, after visiting my dad, she said she would probably see me this morning after her run. So, I took the chance and bought a few of her favourite things, just in case.
I set the table the way she used to like it. I miss sharing life with her … even the mundane things I once took for granted. The nights are the hardest; I still have trouble sleeping without her beside me.
“I sure did. Muesli, yoghurt and fresh fruit. The breakfast of champions is what you used to call it.”
“Wow. I never eat like this at Christine’s. She usually makes me toast and eggs.”
“Occasionally we’d have bacon and eggs on the weekend, but you were the one to cook them.” I pull out her chair for her.
“It looks delicious. And really healthy.”
“You were always the healthy one in this family.”
“I don’t doubt that,” she says, laughing. “I know all about your sweet tooth, Mr Spencer.”
“Guilty as charged,” I reply, smiling.
“How do you stay so … umm … trim?” I see a slight blush cross her cheeks as she speaks.
“Weights. I usually work out most days. I use the gym I set up in the garage.” A grin tugs at her lips as she stares down at the food in front of her. “You used to love pouring the yoghurt over your muesli, but I can grab you some milk if you prefer.”
“No. The yoghurt sounds good.”
“Well, eat up. I’ll just go grab the coffee.”
I watch her through the kitchen window as I wait for the coffee to brew. There’s a sweet smile on her pretty face as she takes a slice of melon and a few strawberries off the platter, placing them on the small plate beside her cereal.
I want to pretend for the next half-hour that nothing has changed between us, and things are the way they’ve always been—her loving me just as much as I love her.
“Thank you,” she says when I place the coffee down in front of her a few minutes later. “This is delicious.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it. I’d be happy to make breakfast for you every day if you wanted me to.”
“That’s sweet, but I wouldn’t expect you to go to all this trouble.”
“You’re worth it,” is all I say, taking the seat opposite her.
I lather my toast in butter and strawberry jam, and when I look up I find her watching me. “What? Jam is healthy—it’s made from strawberries.”
“And a tonne of sugar too, I bet,” she says, laughing in the way that always makes me smile.
Shrugging, I take a bite. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, has Rachel said anything to you about Lucas?”
“No, why?”
“Never mind.”
“Oh my god. You can’t just say that and not tell me, Braxton!”
My smile widens. She was always nosy; I could never keep a secret from her. “It was just something Lucas said the other night.”
“What did he say?” She leans forward in her chair as she awaits my reply.
“I think something was going on between them behind our backs.”
Her eyes widen with shock. “No way . Really? Why would you think that? Rachel hasn’t even mentioned him to me.”
“You might not have noticed, but he’s been quite aggressive towards her lately. It’s totally out of character for him. They always got on well.”
“And?”
“And, when I called him out on it the other night, he confessed to being in love with her.”
“Get out .”
The way she says that makes me chuckle. “He said she didn’t feel the same.”
“I’m going to ask her. She’s coming over for a farewell dinner tomorrow night.”
“A farewell dinner?” Her comment surprises me.
“Yes. She’s going back to New York.”
I can tell by her expression that she’s saddened by this. She always got a little low when Rachel came home for the holidays and then left again. She hated her being so far away, but she also understood that New York was where Rachel needed to be for her career.
“Don’t tell her what I told you though. Jesus, Lucas would kill me if he knew.”
“I won’t, but I’ll see what I can find out. Women have a way with things like that.”
“Don’t I know it,” I say with a snicker.
As I clear away the breakfast dishes and stack the dishwasher, I slide my next letter into my back pocket, to give her when I drop her off. I was inspired to write it after our conversation in the car yesterday morning. I ducked out yesterday when I was at work, picking up a tiny car charm to accompany it.
Letter ten …
Dearest Jemma,
Late August, 2005. I’m not sure of the exact date, but this was the month you got your learner’s permit. It was a time when I not only worried for your safety, but that of everyone else on the road … including the pedestrians. Okay, that may be a slight exaggeration, but let’s just say you didn’t get off to the best start.
We both sat on your front steps as you waited for your dad to arrive home from work. You and I had caught the bus into town after school so you could sit your theory test at the motor registry. You hadn’t expected to pass on your first attempt, but you did. As we would find out later that day, the actual driving wasn’t so easy.
The moment your father pulled into the driveway, you leapt up and ran to him. “I got my learner’s!” you screamed, waving your L-plates around in the air.
“That’s wonderful, pumpkin,” he said, pulling you into an embrace and kissing your forehead. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Can you take me for a drive … please?” You held your hands up in a prayer position for added effect.
He laughed at your antics. “After dinner.”
“Oh please, Daddy,” you begged. Like me, your father was powerless to your pleas. “Just one lap around the block.”
“Okay, one lap.”
“I love you, Daddy,” you squealed, leaping into his arms.
He went inside to drop off his briefcase and say hello to your mum before showing you how to secure your L-plates to the front and back of the vehicle.
“Come on, Brax,” you called out when it was time to get into the car.
We sat in the driveway for a good twenty minutes while your father went over all the gadgets with you. Finally, you turned the key in the ignition and shrieked with excitement as the car roared to life.
“Place your foot down firmly on the brake pedal,” your dad said, “and release the handbrake. Good girl. Leave your foot on the brake, and move the gearstick into reverse … Right, now remove your foot from the brake and place it down lightly on the accelerator.”
I’m not sure if you didn’t hear the light part, or whether you had lead in your shoes that day, but the car went flying backwards so fast it catapulted our bodies forward. Luckily we were buckled in, or I’m certain we all would have flown through the windscreen.
“Braaake! Jesus Christ! I said lightly,” your father scolded.
You did as he asked, but you slammed your foot down on the brake so hard that we were all pushed back into our seats.
“I’m sorry, Daddy.”
Your father pinched the bridge of his nose while releasing a long, drawn-out breath. “It’s okay, pumpkin. Let’s try this again. Put the car in reverse and ease out gently. Gently!” He stressed the word ‘gently’ this time. “Use the mirrors to guide you.”
The car moved about a metre, and then jerked when you put your foot back on the brake. You did this all the way down the driveway. By this stage I was pretty certain I was going to end up with whiplash.
“Watch the letterbox,” your father warned, but it was too late. There was a sickening crunch as you ran straight over the top of it.
“Shit,” you said as you continued backward. I placed my hand over my mouth to muffle my laugh.
You missed the driveway completely, and our bodies were thrown around when the car drove over the gutter one wheel at a time. From the street, I could now see the poor flattened letterbox in a crumpled mess on the footpath.
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” you said again. I’m pretty sure you muttered those exact words a hundred times over the coming days.
“I hated that letterbox anyway,” he replied, but you could tell by the tone of his voice he wasn’t impressed. Your mum had bought it at a craft fair. It was shaped like a bird house, and had fake birds sitting on top. “Go back a little further,” he instructed. “Then straighten up.”
You went back further all right, but a little too much. It was garbage night and bins lined the footpath on both sides of the street. You reversed straight into Mr Drake’s bin, knocking it over and spilling rubbish all over the place.
“Put the car in park,” your father said with frustration, before removing his seatbelt and exiting the vehicle. You and I both followed. “I think that’s enough driving for one day.” I again had to stifle my laugh, but I immediately felt bad for finding this situation humorous when I saw you were on the verge of tears. “We need to clean this mess up.”
The following afternoon, your father let you have another crack at it. He was a braver man than me, because I was already thinking of excuses to get out of coming. But in the end, I decided I’d risk my life if it meant supporting you. Love can make you do crazy things sometimes.
“I’ve just got to duck home and grab something,” I said as you placed your L-plates on the car.
When you saw my bike helmet on my head, your eyes widened before narrowing into slits. “Very funny, arsehole,” you snapped, playfully punching me in the arm.
Your dad laughed as I climbed into the back seat. “Smart man,” he whispered before you reached the driver’s side.
This time it was impossible for you to take out the letterbox, because it was gone. My fingers dug painfully into the leather lining in the back seat as the car jolted down the street, but I relaxed a little when I noticed you could actually drive okay in a straight line. It didn’t last long, though.
“Put your right indicator on,” your father said as we neared the end of the street. “Brake slightly,” which was more of a sudden jerk, “then turn the wheel to the right as you round the corner.”
You didn’t turn it enough, and we mounted the kerb and almost ran down a pedestrian, and the small dog she was walking.
It’s safe to say that after one trip around the block with you, your father and I were a collective nervous wreck. “I’m going to need to invest in one of those helmets,” your father whispered to me while you removed the L-plates from the car.
When we entered the house, you looked completely deflated and headed straight for your bedroom.
“You two are as white as ghosts,” your mother said when we walked into the kitchen.
“She’s definitely your daughter,” your father replied with a sigh, as he headed straight for the fridge to grab a beer. I was nearly seventeen, and underage, but boy could I have done with one of them as well.
For the interim, your dad banned you from driving on the road. Instead, for the next four weeks he took you to the local oval, or at night to an empty car park. It wasn’t until he was certain you were fit to drive on the road again that the proper lessons recommenced.
The more you drove, the more confident you became, and before long we were all comfortable getting in the car when you were behind the wheel.
A year later, on the eleventh of August 2006, it was time for you to take your driving exam. Your father was unaware you’d booked in for it; you told me you feared letting him down if you didn’t pass. He had dedicated so much time to making sure your driving was up to scratch.
I came with you, and I saw how badly your hands shook when the instructor called your name. “Good luck, Jem,” I said, hugging you briefly. “You’ve got this in the bag.”
I paced back and forth in the motor registry as I awaited your return. Thirty minutes later you walked through the door with a huge smile on your face.
“I passed!” you said, leaping into my arms.
“I’m so proud of you.” Your happiness was infectious. I lifted you off the ground, swinging you around in a circle.
That night, your parents took us out to dinner to celebrate. They let you drive. You couldn’t have wiped the smile off your father’s face if you tried. He was so proud of his little girl.
The following Saturday morning, you woke to find a small red second-hand car sitting in your driveway. It was a 1999 Ford Laser, wrapped in a huge white bow.
“Be safe,” your father said, handing you the keys. “Always remember everything I taught you.”
“I promise, Daddy,” you replied, wiping a tear from your eye.
That weekend, we drove anywhere and everywhere. You even let me drive sometimes. My father couldn’t afford to buy me a car, but I was okay with that.
I didn’t need one now anyway—wherever you went, I was right beside you. Just the way it had always been.
What we had is far too beautiful to be forgotten.
Yours always,
Braxton