Chapter Twenty-nine – Jack
Chapter Twenty-nine
JACK
W e eat the stone-cold bacon-and-egg sandwiches curled up in my bed. No amount of sex, even good sex – very good sex – is going to get in the way of Andie taste-testing my creation.
Dating rule number four: If you want something to last, try not to sleep together too soon.
In my defence, it felt like a long time coming. It’s as if I’ve known Andie for weeks, not a matter of days. And so much has changed in that time. The melancholy stranger from the river boat has transformed into the smiling, increasingly familiar creature now propped up on one of my lumpy pillows beside me – her hair even wilder, and her freckles multiplied across her nose.
‘Watch the egg yolk on my sheets,’ I tease, as she takes a bite and golden liquid trickles down her arm. She swallows, then delicately licks her wrist, her tongue darting out like Izzie after a fly.
‘I said I should move to the table!’ she protests, shifting to get up.
My hand instinctively goes to her leg. ‘Oh no you don’t. You’re not going anywhere.’
She’s dressed in only her top – no bra – and underwear, with her bare legs splayed out on the bed. Her skin is warm to the touch. Too warm?
‘Are you hot? Is that sting still inflamed?’ I ask, bending my head to kiss the splotchy red mark.
She looks at me with a Do you really want to start this again right now? expression. Yes, I do. But I also want her to finish her sandwich.
‘I think I’m healed,’ she says, smiling coyly and pulling her leg away from me like she can’t trust herself. ‘But it is a bit hot in here.’
I’ve been so caught up with Andie that I’ve failed to notice the stifling heat. My crappy pedestal fan is merely shuffling hot air around the cabin-turned-greenhouse; it’s no match for the sweat we’ve worked up.
‘I’ll open the door,’ I say, hopping up.
‘Come right back.’
‘Of course.’ I grin.
I have to kick the box of glass from Mum out of the way so I can prop the door open with the stopper – a heavy buoy I made from a few metres of coiled cotton rope.
As I return to the bed, a warm breeze follows me, carrying the earthy scent of approaching rain. A thunderstorm is on its way.
‘So, final verdict?’ I ask as I settle back next to Andie, who’s finishing her last bite.
‘Delicious.’ She licks her lips, her gaze drifting from the crumb-covered plate to my bare chest. My shirt remains in a crumpled heap at the foot of the couch, along with the tea towel and Andie’s bra.
‘What’s in the box?’ Andie’s question brings an abrupt mood shift.
‘Just some art materials.’
There’s a rumble of distant thunder.
‘So you made that beautiful yin–yang pearl artwork for your mum and Hannah – what else is in your art repertoire?’
‘Ah, nothing earth-shattering – some pieces I create from oyster shells. It’s only a hobby.’
How do I explain that my life went from the hands-on, gritty work of breeding, cleaning, harvesting and shucking oysters to something far less fulfilling? That my hands ache to do more than spray a bottle of bloody Windex and buff fingerprints from a mirror. When I create things, especially from oyster shells, I don’t feel as sad about everything. Just as oysters make beautiful pearls from grit; I’m trying to find beauty again in the painful bits. My art is a way of turning the river’s lemons – the diseased oysters – into lemonade.
Every part of me wants to share that with her, but I’m also unsure how to say it without sounding super intense.
I love seeing the island through Andie’s eyes, experiencing it with her fresh perspective, and witnessing as she gradually falls for the place I call home. I like that in her mind, I’m synonymous with the island.
She doesn’t ask anything further, turning to study her phone instead. We lapse into silence, which is broken only by the sound of her fingers tapping on the screen. I regret being so brief with my replies. Maybe I didn’t need to wait until I had all the right words.
‘I’m starting to get the feeling you’re using me for my wi-fi,’ I say, rolling to face her.
‘Oh no! I’m not!’ Andie drops her arm, letting the phone fall to her side.
‘I’ll try not to be offended,’ I tease.
‘Grace messaged, so I had to make sure everything was good back at the house.’
‘And is it?’
‘Yes – they couldn’t find the fresh bottle of tequila.’
‘Ha. And is there anyone else you need to contact? Or do I get you to myself again?’ I ask, detecting a shimmer of apprehension.
‘Well, I – no, it’s fine.’ I don’t know if her hesitancy is about me, or something happening back home.
I prop myself up on one elbow and reach over to smooth her hair.
‘Seriously, call whoever you need to, Andie. I don’t mind. I’ll be waiting right here.’
‘I shouldn’t call him.’
‘Your dad?’ I ask, recalling our earlier conversation in the hotel room.
‘Yeah. Well, my brother about my dad. I’m trying to be good. I’ve been given strict instructions not to phone.’
‘Maybe you should listen to your brother, then,’ I say, gently stroking her leg.
‘Can you please not do that while we’re talking about my brother?’ Andie asks, but she’s laughing. A good outcome.
‘What’s your brother’s name?’
‘Toby.’
‘Well, maybe you should listen to Toby, then,’ I murmur, my hand creeping up her inner thigh.
‘Jack! That’s no better. In fact, it’s much, much worse.’
But she snuggles into me, arching her body closer. Her warmth pressing against my hand ignites a stirring in my groin.
‘Sorry. You’re right, hands where you can see them,’ I say, making a show of pulling my arm away.
Andie groans, frustrated. ‘Why are you such an arsehole, Cap?’
My body sparks at the nickname. ‘Better things come to those who wait.’
‘As if you can wait.’
‘Try me.’
I last less than two minutes before I move between her legs.
It feels like a fucking movie as she lies in my arms afterwards watching the rain come down outside. The light pitter-patter on the tin roof. Crumbs on my pillow. A smile of yolk still dancing at the edges of her lips. I want to press pause and stay in this moment forever.
‘What film is this?’ I murmur into her hair.
‘Mm, let me think,’ Andie sighs, voice dreamy.
I close my eyes, ready to be charmed by some Andinese.
‘Ah! It’s Godzilla,’ she cries.
Not the movie I was expecting, and the alarmed tone is also a surprise. My eyes snap open to find Izzie rummaging through our shucked clothes.
I chuckle. ‘Andie, meet the other woman in my life, Izzie. The friendly neighbourhood water dragon.’
Andie sits up, pulling the sheet around her and casting a wary glance at Izzie.
‘There is no way that’s not a dinosaur,’ she breathes.
‘Haven’t you ever seen a lizard?’
‘Our class pet is an axolotl, I’ll have you know.’
‘So, a salamander, not a lizard,’ I reply, amused.
‘It’s lizard-like,’ she huffs.
‘But I take it you’re not a fan of said class pet.’
She pushes her fingers up into her curls and lets out a long breath.
‘Greg. And no, I’m not. I make the five-year-olds deal with him. Feed him his gross wormy stuff. They’re far braver than I am.’
I can’t help laughing again, and she screws her mouth into a tight line. If looks could kill! ‘So tell me – who would you prefer to encounter on a dark night: Izzie, Greg, Woof or Freddy Krueger?’ I ask bravely.
‘Freddy. Hands down,’ she says, her eyes fixed on Izzie, who has made a makeshift nest out of our clothes and is inspecting Andie’s bra, seemingly assessing whether the lace meets nest-building standards.
‘Right, that’s enough,’ I say to Izzie, springing out of bed to usher her out into the storm and closing the door behind her.
Thankfully, there are plenty of sheltered places for her to seek refuge. I briefly consider warning Andie about the possibility of Izzie making her way to Moorings, then decide against it. Explaining the reason would be too complicated.
Dating rule number five: Don’t share too much, too soon.
‘I’d love to hear more about your teaching job,’ I say instead, sliding back under the sheets beside her. The rain has brought a welcome cool change. As sexy as it was to be all matted hair and sweaty stickiness, there’s an indescribable comfort in being wrapped in this cosy cocoon with her.
Andie yawns and burrows further under the doona. ‘Do you mind if I rest my eyes for a bit first?’
‘Not at all.’
Before long she drifts off, her light snores keeping time with the tap of raindrops against the window. Eventually, I also succumb to sleep.
Some time later, I wake to the sound of Andie tiptoeing across the room.
‘Sorry,’ she whispers. ‘I was trying to be quiet.’ She’s already dressed, sandals in one hand and the bunch of lilies in the other. ‘The rain’s stopped. I should get back to the house.’
‘Stay,’ I whisper back. I don’t care if it sounds desperate; I’m not ready to break our peaceful cocoon just yet. ‘We can watch the sunrise together.’
‘Next time,’ she says, offering me a soft smile before slipping out the door.