35
The sun is out in full force, baking the grass, turning the river into a strip of blinding light. It’s too hot and bright.
I knew it would be, but Beau wanted a picnic, so here we are.
He pulls the MG into the gravel with that perfect parking handbrake flick he’s always done, his curls bouncing in the wind,
sunglasses crooked, our weekly Monday drive playlist crackling through the speakers. We’ve taken the long way today, winding
through back roads for the hell of it, top down, sun on our faces. He parks at the far end of the clearing, well away from
the handful of other cars, as though their mere proximity might dent her feelings.
We climb out, and he runs a palm lovingly over the curve of the bonnet, then lifts the hem of his polo shirt to polish the
badge with quiet reverence. “Still the prettiest girl here,” he murmurs to her as he pockets his Pooh Bear keychain.
“Careful,” I grunt, hefting the picnic basket from the boot. “Say that any sweeter, and I’ll start checking if the two of
you need a moment alone.”
Beau smirks as he pulls out the rug. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, chef.”
“Neither does being second to a machine.”
He pats the bonnet. “She doesn’t snore.”
“She doesn’t cook, either.”
“Ha!” He spreads out the old blanket beside a tree, then stretches out on top of it, arms folded behind his head, soaking in the warmth. “See? This was a good idea.”
I grunt, reaching into the basket. “We’ll see how good an idea it is when you’re pink as a prawn and whining about it for
the next week.”
He cracks one eye open. “You’ll rub aloe on me. Won’t even complain about it.”
I roll my eyes but don’t argue as I start unpacking the food—panini, fruit, and of course . . .
“Is that—?”
“Yes, I made the lemon tart.”
His whole face lights up. “You do love me.”
“Debatable.” I wink, handing him a sandwich instead of the dessert.
He pouts but takes a big bite, sighing like it’s the best thing he’s ever eaten. “God, you’re a genius.”
“It’s a sandwich, Beau.”
“It’s your sandwich, which makes it better than anything I’ve ever made in my life.”
I roll my eyes again, but his words sit somewhere warm in my chest. He does this, makes me feel like I’m something special
without even trying.
A rustling sound makes me glance toward the edge of the trees. A scrawny dog is hovering near the scrub, eyeing us with cautious
interest. Its ribs show through patchy fur, tail twitching.
“Hey, mate, who do you belong to?” I ask.
I reach for the wrapped half of my smoked salmon panini and tear off a generous chunk. “You look hungry,” I say softly, placing
the offering a few feet away.
The dog inches closer, sniffing the air. A few seconds later, it’s devouring the fish like it hasn’t eaten in days.
Beau watches me with a smile tugging at his mouth. “See, this is what I keep telling Lisa. Soft as jelly.”
I shake my head, settling back on the rug. “That’s thirty-six hours of brining and cold-smoking, gone in two bites.”
He brushes a crumb from my chin. “I saw your face. You’d give up the whole picnic if he looked at you twice. That’s why I love you. Even the wild ones trust you.”
My ears go hot. “We should take him to the vet, see if he’s microchipped.” As I turn back, though, the mutt has already run
away. I call out and search for him but it’s no use.
“Aww, you wanted to keep him, didn’t you?” Beau says, clocking my glum face. “Lisa would have scrubbed him up nice, too.”
He pauses, his face falling. “I wish you’d call her.”
“It’s just too hard.” I sigh, bracing for the argument we’ve had more times than I can count.
“She’s tougher than you think. I know I’ve said it a thousand times, but if you’d just open up about her dad—”
“I can’t, Beau. I swore to Mum I wouldn’t. You haven’t said anything, have you?”
“No, I promised you I wouldn’t, and it’s not my story to tell, but it’s put me in an impossible situation.” Beau exhales sharply
through his nose as he snatches a stick from beside the rug and breaks it in half.
The crack jolts through me. For a heartbeat, doubt flares, then settles the way it always does beneath the oath I made to
Mum. Hold the line. Keep it buried. Protect Lisa. I hate that Beau is caught in the crossfire, the mess I’ve made for him, yet the line I drew all those years ago feels like
the only one I can live with. I place a hand on his shoulder. “I really am so sorry to make you carry this.”
He looks at me through narrowed eyes, his angry expression slipping away. “You’re lucky you have such a cute face!” He tousles
my hair.
I pull out a bunch of grapes and set it between us.
Beau frowns. “Did you forget the strawberries?”
“No.” I pause. “You said they’ve been tasting like cardboard lately, so we should get grapes instead.”
His forehead creases. “Did I?”
I nod.
He hesitates, then pops a grape into his mouth, chewing slowly. “Huh. Well, good call, then.”
I stretch out beside him, elbow to elbow, and let the silence settle. A cicada drones in the reeds. The air smells like warm grass and lemon zest. I could fall asleep right here, in the sun, next to him.
But Beau doesn’t lie back. He reaches for the case resting beside the basket and carefully lifts his viola into his lap.
“Now?” I say, half laughing.
“I’ve written a new song,” he says, adjusting the shoulder rest.
I smile. I love it when he writes. “Ah well, may as well give the kookaburra a show,” I say, motioning to the brown-and-white
bird perched on a branch nearby.
He tunes the viola by ear with an instinctive little tilt of his head, then he starts to play.
I watch his bow drift across the strings like it was born in his hand. There’s something unguarded in him when he plays, like
the rest of the world falls away, and all that’s left is joy. I don’t know how he still has it in him. That light. But I’d
sit through a hundred sweltering picnics just to see him like this.
I stare at him, spellbound, as the last note settles into the heat. He lowers the viola and looks at me, waiting for the usual
sarcasm. But I’m momentarily lost for words. I glance at the gum tree where the kookaburra is still watching.
Beau follows my gaze.
“He didn’t flinch,” I murmur. “Not once. In fact, I think he loved it.”
“Did he just?” says Beau, moving closer.
“In fact, he thinks you are extraordinary.”
Another pause.
“What else does ‘he’ think?”
I swallow. “That he’s a very lucky bird to have you. And grateful that you put up with his rough feathers.” A flush creeps
up my neck.
Beau’s expression softens, his gaze holding mine. “Well,” he says, brushing a hand through my hair, “I happen to love his
rough feathers.”
Our lips meet. And I know he heard every word I didn’t say.
He straightens, rubs the back of his neck. “I think I might be getting burnt after all. Might need the . . .” He waves a hand
toward the basket.
“The sunscreen?”
“Yeah, that.” He grins.
“What would you do without me,” I say, pulling out a bottle and liberally applying it to his neck. A bright red bump peeks
out from under his collar. “Have you shown the doctor this mole yet, Beau?”
“Don’t be a nervous Nellie. Got an appointment next week. I’m sure it will be benign like all the others.” He hands me some
lemon tart, taking in my frown. “Don’t worry, handsome, you are going to have to put up with me for a long time yet.”