22
Curtis clears his throat as he holds the phone to his ear. Even with the help of Google Translate, he’s not confident in his word choice or pronunciation. What he’s trying to express is not simple, even in English.
“Did my friend come in about a week ago and try to order a fuel pump for his van? Or is he a liar and a fake?”
A man answers on the fourth ring, his Spanish so quick and fluid that Curtis doesn’t even recognize the name of the garage.
It’s the second place he’s called. The first mechanic had no memory of an Aussie trying to order a part—or at least that’s what it sounded like to Curtis.
Maybe the man didn’t understand Curtis’s convoluted query?
Or his terrible accent? It’s possible that the mechanic he spoke to wasn’t working that day, that someone else assisted Damian.
Or maybe Damian was never there. Because his van is perfectly fine.
“Hola,” Curtis begins. “Tengo una pregunta…” I have a question.
Curtis reads the translation he’d jotted down on the pad of paper resting on the kitchen counter.
He’s not confident in the Catalonian translation, so he uses basic Spanish, enunciates carefully.
“Hizo mi amigo Australiano…” Did my Australian friend…
The mechanic cuts him off in his rapid language, sounding frustrated, even annoyed.
He calls out in Spanish, hopefully summoning someone who speaks English.
Curtis waits, listening to the banter in the background.
He strains to recognize a single word in their discourse, but he gets nothing.
They could have forgotten he’s on hold, could be discussing what they’re having for lunch for all he knows. And then he hears a noise outside.
Curtis pulls the phone away from his ear and listens.
It’s quiet now, but it was there, he’s sure of it.
A scuffling on the gravel, a rock displaced.
It could have been an animal; they’ve seen deer in the area and have heard there are mountain goats.
There are smaller creatures too, like marmots.
It’s nothing to worry about. He returns to the call, the distant debating in Spanish.
“?Hola!” he calls into the device, hoping to recapture some attention.
“Hola.” The response comes from inside the house.
Curtis bursts from the kitchen, heading for the front door. Damian stands in the hallway drenched in sweat. His smile is bright but cold, and Curtis’s chest tightens. His eyes dart to the big man’s hands for the machete, but they’re empty. If Damian is armed, he’s hiding it well.
“What are you doing back here?” Curtis’s voice is high-pitched. He tries to act cool, but his hand trembles as he hangs up the call, shoves the phone into his pocket.
“I was worried about you,” Damian says, moving into the living room. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine. Better. Where are the girls?”
“They went swimming.” Damian flops on the sofa, puts his feet on the ottoman. “Who were you talking to?”
“No one. A friend back home.” He changes the subject. “How did you get here?”
“I hiked up the trail from town. It’s a bloody workout. I could use a beer.”
“Sure.” Curtis moves into the kitchen, grabs two bottles and removes the caps. He returns, hands his guest a beer, then perches on the ottoman facing him.
Damian takes a long swallow before he speaks. “I lied to you,” he says. “About the farmer.”
“Oh?”
“He’d never seen the machete or gloves before. I just didn’t want the girls to freak out.”
Curtis raises his eyebrows in feigned surprise. He can’t let on that he’s been peering inside the van, that he spotted the handle under the stack of bins. He takes a drink. The liquid is bitter but cold. “That’s strange.” His voice sounds almost normal now. “I wonder who they belong to?”
“I don’t know.” Damian shrugs his muscled shoulders. “I wouldn’t worry about it, though. I hid the machete in the van.”
Curtis nods tightly. The weapon in Damian’s possession does not put him at ease.
“If someone’s after you, mate, they’ll never get through both of us.”
“After me?” Curtis scoffs, but his face feels hot, and he drinks more beer. “Why would someone be after me?”
Damian ignores the question, his eyes penetrating. “I came back here because you and I need to talk.”
Curtis grew up keeping secrets from a cold, punishing mother. He knows that responding could lead to self-incrimination, so he says nothing. He presses his molars together, keeps his expression placid, and waits.
“I’m sure you’ve noticed there’s something brewing between the women.”
“Brewing?”
“Bianca and Sydney are getting closer. I think there are some real feelings developing there.” Damian picks at the label on his bottle. “Romantic feelings.”
Curtis is bemused. “Sydney isn’t gay. She’s not bi either.”
“Bianca has a way of opening a girl’s mind.” He sounds almost proud. “I’ve seen it in action.”
“What do you care? I thought you two had an open relationship?”
“We do. But this feels different. More serious.”
“Are you worried they’re going to run off together?” Curtis laughs, but it rings hollow.
“I hope not.” Damian drains his bottle. “I can’t believe you haven’t noticed.”
Curtis had been concerned about the chemistry between Syd and Damian. He’d been intent on not appearing to flirt with Bianca. Had he been blind to what was building between the two women? Is Bianca the reason Sydney cringes from his touch?
“I need another beer,” Damian says, dragging himself up off the sofa. “Want one?”
“Why not?” Curtis still has half a bottle, but he suddenly craves the release of the alcohol.
He takes a big drink, hoping the booze will ease the anxious feeling brought on by Damian’s suggestion.
His marriage hasn’t felt solid since his infidelity.
But could he really lose Sydney to a woman who lives in a van?
The Aussie returns moments later with two cold bottles in one hand. In the other, the notepad Curtis had left on the counter.
Fuck.
“What does this say?” Damian asks.
“I was checking on the lumber delivery,” Curtis says smoothly. “Making sure it’s still arriving tomorrow.”
“It says ‘Australiano’ here,” Damian presses. “Were you talking about me?”
Curtis can feel the sweat prickling his hairline, but he keeps his cool. “I mentioned that I came in with you. I thought they might remember you because of your Australian accent.”
“You have an accent, too.”
“That’s true.” He shrugs. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“As long as you’re not talking behind my back.” Damian’s expression is dark, his tone almost threatening. But Curtis keeps his response light.
“What would I be talking about? I barely know you.”
“Just kidding, mate.” Damian hands him the beer. “Let’s drink these by the pool. I might go for a dip.”
“Good plan,” Curtis says, taking the frosty bottle. Bullet dodged, he follows the big Aussie outside.