Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
NICK
I glanced back toward the glass doors of the conference centre, my finger poised over the number on my phone. It would be easy to simply go back and tell Mads I’d changed my mind. That I either wasn’t going to call Chloe, or that I wanted him to be with me while I did it.
But wasn’t that just more delaying tactics? More procrastination?
Dammit. I hated what her letter had done to me. I wasn’t this guy. I was decisive, and determined, and . . . fuck it . . . I was a force to be reckoned with. I’d made sure of that over the years.
I hated the fact I’d been reduced to an indecisive, terrified mess with a single fucking letter. How much worse might it get when I actually met her in the flesh? The woman who’d birthed me and then taken off and left me to deal with my arsehole father.
One letter and I was right back in that fucking house. Back to that eight-year-old kid, furious with the world and devastated his mother didn’t love him enough to even send a damn letter. To see how I was doing. To let me know that she was okay.
Or the sixteen-year-old teenager sleeping in his coach’s house until I’d finished school, too scared to come out under my father’s roof and yet confused as to why he never came to get me, either. Rejected by both parents and desperate for love. Any love. Even my father’s.
I’d often wondered why he left me with my coach.
In the end, I decided he likely found out that I was gay through other sources since I came out almost as soon as I’d left home.
The idea would’ve disgusted him and his homophobic drinking buddies.
He was probably glad to see the back of me.
Better to live as a lonely fucked-up sonofabitch than have a gay son.
Mads’ words from just a few minutes before suddenly came back to me. You’re going to have all sorts of feelings. Big feelings.
I’d wanted to argue. To protest. To ask what he could possibly know about growing up in a home where domestic violence was just an average day and fear was the ruling emotion.
Mads, God bless him, had known nothing but a supportive, loving environment—a literal dream compared to the shitshow I’d dealt with.
But I bit my tongue. Because the truth was, Mads didn’t need to know what I knew.
He didn’t need to have lived my experiences.
All Mads needed was to know me, to love me, and to have my back. And he did all of that in spades.
So don’t be such a goddamn chickenshit.
I drew breath and pressed call, my heart rocketing into the stratosphere.
Chloe answered almost immediately, as if the phone was in her hand. Like she’d been waiting for me to call and was maybe as anxious as I was. “Hello?”
Her soft voice registered in my brain, and just like that, a memory popped up from my past.
“Hello? Earth to Nick?” My mother clicked her fingers in front of my face, drawing my attention from the tray of freshly baked Anzac biscuits sitting on the countertop. My mouth watered at the sweet aroma of rolled oats, butter, and golden syrup.
I met her eyes, frowning. “Huh?”
She smiled at my confusion. “I said, how about you grab a blanket and put it under the tree. Let’s have ourselves a picnic.”
Reality hit like a leaden punch to my stomach. “But—” I glanced toward the back door, my heart rate kicking up. “Won’t he be mad if he finds us?”
My mother’s eyes flashed with an emotion I couldn’t quite decipher. Whatever it meant, I’d been seeing a lot of it lately. “Your father won’t be home for at least a couple of hours.”
I gave a tiny nod, not convinced. My father always seemed to know when we broke the rules, like he had cameras watching us or something. What my mother was doing was dangerous.
Like she’d read my mind, my mother said, “Even if he does find out, I’ll deal with it. It’s nothing for you to worry about.”
Not true. I heard the cries and saw the marks on her body.
I hated it.
Hated it.
“I baked these biscuits for you and me,” she continued happily. “For my favourite boy. Don’t you want some?”
I did, badly. And so I took her at her word and grabbed a blanket. We laid it under the ancient apple tree in the backyard and drank Fanta and ate biscuits until my tummy was so full I didn’t dare move.
As we lay there, Mum told me stories about her family and what I’d been like as a baby.
She talked about her own mother, what a great cook Nana had been and how much Mum missed her.
Nana died when I was just a baby, and my grandad went not long after.
I’d never known my father’s parents. Dad didn’t talk about them and he didn’t like my mother talking about hers. Mum said Dad’s weren’t nice people.
We ate biscuits and talked for an hour. It was one of the best afternoons of my childhood. And when the shadows gathered and we went inside, I filed it all away so that I could relive the memory when things got bad, like they always did.
As evening turned to night, I was almost convinced we’d got away with it. But then Dad came home and noticed a few wayward crumbs on the laundry floor. Mum sent me to my room before the shouting started.
I forgot about the picnic after that.
“Hello?” my mother repeated warily. “Nick? Is that you?”
I swallowed around the choking lump in my throat and managed, “Yes.”
“Oh.” Chloe went quiet, the deafening silence tearing at my resolve to see this thing through.
I wanted to hang up. I wanted to run. I wanted to scream at her for leaving me all those years ago. I wanted to cry. I wanted to lash out and hurt her. But most of all, I didn’t want to care. I didn’t want this . . . her . . . to mean anything to me. I didn’t want her to have this power in my life.
I didn’t want to feel anything, but especially not for her.
Yeah, about that.
Grown-up Nick could maybe box it up and file it away, but eight-year-old Nick had gone weak at the knees at the sound of his mother’s voice—my mother’s voice.
Eight-year-old Nick was still desperate to be loved.
He wanted to hear the words. Wanted to know it had all been a big mistake.
Wanted to know what he’d done wrong all those years ago.
What I’d done wrong.
He wanted to know . . . why.
It was Chloe who broke the silence. “I’ve been a mess waiting for you to call. Wondering if you even would. So, I can’t imagine how hard it must be for you, Nick. I am so sorry . . . about so many things.”
“Are you?” The question slipped out, dripping with a level of anger and sarcasm that surprised even me. Still, I let it stand. Mads’ advice about not getting off on the wrong foot rang in my ear, but I was desperate to find my feet in the conversation and anger came easiest.
Chloe’s answering sigh was soft and even penitent.
“Yes, I am. I don’t expect you to believe me and neither should you.
I’ve given you no reason to, after all. I wish I had the right words on the tip of my tongue to make everything better, but we both know it’s way too complicated for that and there’s a lot to talk about.
A lot of pain and hurt. But if that’s what you want, to talk about it now, then we can do that.
I’ll do anything you want, Nick. How this moves forward .
. . or doesn’t . . . is entirely up to you. ”
It sounded good, thoughtful even, but it wasn’t true.
Because Chloe held nearly all the cards.
She had the information I wanted. The answers to all those questions circling my brain.
And to get them, I had to engage with her.
There was no other way. In person, by phone, or through email, I had to deal with her, and just the thought of that power imbalance enraged me.
Trying for a little less antagonistic, I said, “What if all I want is for you to write everything down and mail it without us meeting at all, and then get out of my life? Would you agree to that?” Okay, so a fail on the less antagonistic effort.
Chloe drew a sharp breath, then whispered almost desolately, “Yes. If that’s what you want, I’ll do it, and you won’t hear from me again. I promise.”
An answer, which really didn’t get me anything except the dubious satisfaction and shame of hurting her and making myself feel guilty in the process.
Jesus, what a mess.
Maybe I should’ve taken Mads up on his offer to sit with me.
What point was I trying to prove? We were supposed to be a team and here I was cutting him out .
. . again. Still trying to control my life without needing anyone.
Without accepting help. Still that eight-year-old boy doing it on his own because he had to.
Because no one was there for him. Because no one cared.
“My partner was desperate to be with me when I called you,” I spat, the admission sour on my tongue.
“I turned him down. Told him that I wanted to do this on my own. He’ll be beside himself with worry.
He won’t admit it because he doesn’t want to burden me.
” I took a deep breath and counted to five.
Chloe remained silent, but her tension bled through the phone, her slow breathing shifting up a gear.
I went on to explain because she needed to know.
I needed her to know. “I turned down his offer because I hate relying on other people. I don’t want to need .
. . anyone. I have trouble trusting people.
Trusting they’ll do what they say. Trusting they’ll be there for me.
Trusting they’ll stay. And I have trouble believing them when they say they love me.
” I pressed my palms to the tears running down my cheeks, furious at the obvious catch in my voice.
“And all of that is down to you, Chloe. To what you did.” I let the indictment sink in.
“Forty-seven years and I still don’t trust that the people I love won’t just up sticks one day and fucking leave me.
” My words broke off on a choked cry and Chloe had the sense to not respond or explain, or sympathise, or do anything except remain silent.