26
The parked car still smells like spilled ginger beer, thanks to the time I convinced Beau it paired well with hot chips and
then promptly dropped the bottle between the seats mid-argument about aioli versus tomato sauce.
He winced and immediately reached for the wet wipes he kept in the glove box “for sticky-fingered emergencies,” which apparently
included me. But then he patted the dash of his beloved MG convertible and said, “You’ll survive, darling. Though I’m not
sure I can say the same for Lisa.” He winked and kissed the top of my head.
Despite his car obsession, I’ve never met anyone so forgiving.
Beau lounges, idling in the driver’s seat, one leg curled up, brown leather jacket slung behind his head, like he could sleep
here without complaint. “Tell me again how we just lost trivia by one point because you thought Keanu Reeves was in Titanic,” he says, faux-solemn.
I groan. “He could have been! You can’t prove he wasn’t hiding below deck.”
He smirks. “You’re thinking of Speed 2, Lisa. But he wasn’t in that either!”
“Oh, yeah. God, remember when we watched that and someone shouted, ‘This is just Titanic with Sandra Bullock’?”
“Yeah—it was you! If my mum were still alive, she’d be horrified at your film knowledge.”
I laugh. “I wish I could have met her.”
“Me too. She would have adored you, like I do, even though you make me late to everything!” he says with a twinkle in his
eye.
Heat blooms across my cheeks despite the cold and three glasses of chardonnay I’d enjoyed during trivia. It’s easy with him.
Too easy. Like we’re characters in a show I wish I could pause and stretch out forever.
We sit in comfortable silence for a bit, his mixtape humming softly—a random mix of classical string music with a dash of
Missy Higgins thrown in for good measure. For a second, I imagine a world where he is straight, in which he could be mine.
But then he wouldn’t be Beau, the man I adore for everything he is. The man who fills his flat with friends after choir, their
voices still hoarse from rehearsal, music spilling into the kitchen while he passes around wine and tells everyone they sang
like angels. The guy who organizes board game nights that stretch past midnight, inviting everyone he knows just to make sure
no one feels left out. Sure, he sometimes stresses out about time, but he draws people in without trying, as if his warmth
has its own orbit.
Beau clocks my silence. “You alright?”
“Fine,” I lie. “Just . . . existentially exhausted.”
“Of course. Classic Thursday mood.”
“I just feel like I’m stuck, you know? Everyone else is off doing things. Getting married, moving overseas, finding whatever
it is you’re meant to find in your mid-thirties.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You’re only twenty-nine.”
“Exactly, essentially ancient,” I say, knowing he’s seven years older.
His chuckles are soft. “Lisa, you’re the most alive person I know. You’re chaos wrapped in fairy lights.”
I don’t know what to say to that. So I nudge him with my shoulder. “You’re the worst, Beau Brooks!”
“Griff would have to disagree with you there.”
The name lands like a stone in a pond, reminding me I can’t keep swimming in this direction.
I glance at Beau. “Are you sure you know what you’re getting into with him?”
He blinks. “What do you mean?”
“You know he left Mum. When she was dying. Just . . . disappeared.”
Beau doesn’t look away. “I know.”
“And that doesn’t freak you out?”
He exhales through his nose, not angry, just measured. “Grief does weird things to people. Especially when they’ve already
lost too much. It wasn’t simple for him, Lis.”
“Sometimes it feels like you know a Griff I never will.”
He nods. “It’s not because he doesn’t care about you. It’s just . . . growing up gay when Griff and I did, you got good at
concealing things. You learned to lock parts of yourself away, even from the people you love.”
The words settle and my heart sinks, imagining Griff at school, learning to shrink himself just to survive, to dodge the names
and the stares. Kids can be merciless.
No one should have to do that. I can’t pretend to know what that felt like, but I do want to understand him—the brother who’s
spent a lifetime behind locked doors. I want to tell him that I’m on his side.
At least at home he had Mum. She once told me she’d had a sense Griff was gay from the time he was a kid. She always embraced
his boyfriends, never made him feel wrong for who he was. I know she had his back completely.
And if she was like that, surely my father must have been too—I can’t imagine her marrying someone who didn’t share her views.
Dad always built me up, made me feel like I was special. I don’t remember any specifics on the topic, but I doubt my prickly
brother ever let him close enough for personal conversations.
I sigh. “I’m still so angry that Griff left me to deal with Mum’s death alone. I’m angry that he’s kept me at arm’s length
since we were kids.”
“I assume you haven’t been able to speak about that properly with him yet?” His tone is soft, the same patient question he’s
asked me before.
I go quiet. “I’ve tried. You know what he’s like, though.”
“A clam?”
I nod.
He shrugs, fiddling with his Winnie-the-Pooh keyring. “Please keep trying. Griff doesn’t process pain the way you or I might. He shuts down. He runs. But it doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it.”
“He hides it well.”
“He hides everything well. It’s sort of his whole deal.”
“That must be exhausting.” I know how draining it can be to mask even a small part of yourself, but Griff seems to mask everything.
The effort it must take makes my chest ache for him.
Beau nods, a shadow in his expression. “It is. Some of us get lucky and find people we don’t have to hide from early on. He . . .
he didn’t have that growing up, with . . . everything the way it was.” He opens his mouth, then closes it again, and I can
tell by the way he looks at me that he has more to say but won’t. I know Beau won’t break his trust, but the thought rattles—that
Griff’s silence might not just be stubbornness, but something heavier I’ve never had to carry.
“Why won’t he let me in?”
“Give it time, my lovely. I’m determined to bring you two back together if it’s the last thing I do.”
“I don’t think we were ever together. Some days I think it would have been easier if I were an only child, like you.”
Beau just takes my hand, letting the quiet settle between us again, gentle and undemanding.
And then I look at him, really look, and there it is: the thing I’ve been pretending not to see. The soft lines of his face,
the way his smile tugs at one side first, like he’s holding a secret. The scent of his citrus cologne. The way I could fall
in love with him so easily.
The way I possibly already have.
But he’s Griff’s. Not mine.
“Well, I hope my brother knows how lucky he is.” I swallow the lump in my throat, glancing back through the windscreen.
Beau’s lips pull into a crooked grin. “It’s me who’s the lucky one.”
I want to stay here forever—in the fantasy. Instead, he puts the key in the ignition to drive me home. Because that’s what
friends do. And that’s all I’m allowed to be.
“I don’t suppose you want to come up for a cuppa at Griff’s on the way?” he asks.
“Not sure Griff would like that,” I say, forcing a smile. “He’s not exactly a fan of drop-ins. Or me.”
Beau reads me easily, like always. “Nonsense. Come on. Just tea. I’ll even let you pick the mug.”
We pull up to Griff’s place, my heart tapping out a nervous beat.
The hallway light flickers as we climb the stairs. Beau knocks once and opens the door like he lives here—which, judging by
the multiple pairs of shoes by the mat, he sort of does now.
Griff appears in the kitchen doorway. Barefoot. Blank expression. Dishtowel over one shoulder. When he sees me, something
shifts slightly. His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t retreat. He wipes his hands on the towel and opens the door the rest of the
way. “Hi,” he says. “You coming in or just loitering?”
Beau nudges me with his elbow. “See? Practically rolling out the red carpet.”
Griff disappears back toward the kitchen without comment, but within seconds there are three mugs on the counter steeping
with tea bags.
“Thanks,” I murmur, picking one up.
He shrugs. “Didn’t know what you liked, so I went with something neutral.”
“Chamomile,” I say. “The Switzerland of tea.”
It almost gets a smile. I wait for more—a comment, a crumb of approval—but he’s already turned away.
Beau busies himself in the cupboards, pulling out plates, and serviettes. He narrates as he moves—little observations, small
jokes. Filling the air the way he always does. Not for attention. For everyone else’s comfort.
“Crisis tea and post-trivia debrief. Griff’s even made biscuits.”
“I didn’t say you could have them!” Griff calls.
“He’s letting us have the good ones because you’re here,” Beau stage-whispers.
“He never shares the Anzacs.” Beau rolls his eyes as he slides a neat stack of Griff’s notebooks aside and places the plate of biscuits on the coffee table.
“One day, my love,” he calls to Griff, “you’re going to let me throw out at least one of these.
If I find another shopping list from the nineties, I’m staging an intervention! ”
Griff grunts in reply as Beau flops onto the couch, gesturing for me to join him. I take an Anzac and settle beside him, surprised
at how normal it all feels.
My brother stands at the edge of the kitchen, arms folded, watching Beau like he’s everything. When Beau passes him a biscuit,
Griff doesn’t say thank you. He simply nods—but it lands like a thank-you anyway. Beau touches his shoulder in response. A
brief pat. Automatic. Familiar.
I watch all this and, for a second, I see it: the rhythm they’ve built between them. The unspoken fluency. The private, lived-in
language of people who know how to read each other without punctuation.
And still, I don’t get it.
Beau is light. A boy who glows, who hums when he stirs tea. Griff is . . . shadows. Not in a good mysterious way, just closed
off. Difficult. He walks through the world like everyone’s about to take something from him. Beau walks like he’s trying to
give everything away.
Maybe he pities Griff; maybe he’s trying to fix him. Whatever it is, it’s something more patient, generous and forgiving than
I’ll ever be.
My gaze turns to Beau, and a familiar ache settles beneath my ribs as I watch the ease with which he moves through this place—the
way he fits here so seamlessly, fits with Griff, in a way I never have.