Lisa
I pop the smart corduroy trousers in a bag, rubbing the ribbed brown material between my fingers. I went to five different
shops before deciding on this pair. Griff probably won’t know the difference between these and the el cheapo ones from Best we haven’t rushed to define it. But I know this: I feel more like me lately. Maybe
I’m starting to believe I don’t have to hide so much to be worthy.
Tonight will be the second time he comes over. I’ve ditched the garbage-bag trick and used a laundry basket instead—covered
it with a towel so it looks like a normal pile of washing. Like me, in my “normal person” disguise. But I’ve also left a few
things out. A jacket on the couch. Dishes in the sink. Nothing dramatic, just . . . real. And somehow, real feels okay. I’ve
even managed to put lipstick on. But I can’t find my hairbrush, so I’ve embraced the punk-rock look.
I catch my smile in the mirror. All of this has been a good distraction from my kidneys. I’m choosing denial, and honestly? Life’s too good to burst the bubble—not until I absolutely have to.
Frank is ten minutes early, a skill I deeply admire but will likely never possess. In high school, my friends coined the phrase
“Lisa time”: it runs half an hour behind the rest of the universe. Maybe if Frank and I end up together, we can average out
and be just twenty minutes late? That feels romantic, in a logistical kind of way.
His hug smells like coffee and something earthy. I press my ear to his chest, the perfect height to hear his heartbeat. It
stills my brain.
“Hey, you,” he says, brushing back my hair.
I look up. “Hi.”
“Place looks good.”
I follow his gaze to the oven. “I know what you’re thinking,” I tease, nudging him.
He raises his hands. “I didn’t say a word! And that laundry basket—that’s just towels, right?” His eyebrows lift in mock suspicion.
My cheeks betray me.
We burst out laughing, and he pulls me into his long arms again. People say love feels like butterflies in your tummy, to
me it’s more like kangaroos.
I step aside and gesture to the coffee table, where I’ve laid out an old dog-eared music book. “It belonged to Beau. A few
of the pieces he collected from his travels. I took them hoping I could learn to play some for Griff, but much as I’d love
to be able to learn to read complex music, I think they’d be much better in your hands.” I pause.
He crosses to the table and runs his hand across the battered cover, flipping through the pages. “Lisa . . . this is . . .”
“I didn’t know if it would be weird,” I say quickly. “You don’t have to—”
“It’s beautiful. Thank you!”
I bring over two glasses of rosé. He pops the book in his backpack, settling onto the low brown couch, his poor knees shooting
up at a 45-degree angle. We sit close, legs brushing. Definitely kangaroos.
I lean in. Our lips meet again like we’ve known each other for years not weeks. His fingers thread through my hair. It’s . . .
dizzying.
Then—clatter.
“Oops, sorry, Lisa! I’m such a klutz.” Frank grabs the fallen wineglass, dabbing a stack of letters with a handkerchief from
his pocket. He squints at one. “Was this important?”
I glance at the soggy paper. Crap. The ultrasound form. I lunge for it, too late. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry. Want more wine?”
I leap to my feet, and he gently touches my leg. “Lisa . . . Why do you need a kidney ultrasound? What’s PKD?”
The kangaroos in my belly transform into an octopus, limbs flailing. “It’s nothing,” I mumble. “Just a routine test. Totally
forgot about it.” I lie. It littered my daydreams and nightmares like an inextinguishable fire.
His eyes dim. “I wish you’d let me in.”
“Polycystic kidney disease—PKD,” I blurt. “It’s genetic. That form was for a scan.”
His grip tightens slightly. “Do you have it?”
“Maybe. I thought I didn’t. It usually shows up earlier in life.”
“And it’s genetic? Does Griff have it too?”
“No, he didn’t inherit it. Our mum had it. She died of complications from it just before her sixtieth birthday.”
My lower lip quivers as I sit back down. I want to tell Frank everything.
He touches my cheek, studying me. “Please don’t hide. Not from me. Are you in pain?”
“My back’s been a bit sore, but that might be a coincidence. The main thing is . . .” Don’t say rosé wee, don’t say rosé wee . . . “Rosé wee.” Damn it.
“I’m sorry . . . ?”
“My wee.” I point to the pink wine in my glass. “It’s like that.”
His mouth drops open. “Lisa! That sounds serious. When is the scan?”
“I, um, haven’t booked it yet.”
“What? Why?”
“I’m hopeless with paperwork and am the queen of procrastination. But to be honest, I’m petrified to know the truth.”
“Lisa!” He stands up, clenching his fists. “The truth exists whether you know it or not. You can’t mess with your health like
that! It’s so irresponsible.”
My eyes sting.
He exhales sharply, his face softening. “I’m sorry, it’s just I don’t want anything to happen to you.” He sits again. “Because
I’m starting to really like you.”
I peek at him through my fingers.
“Truth be told,” he continues, “I haven’t felt this way in years. If ever. I’ve been kind of a hermit lately.”
“Why’s that?”
He shrugs. “Bit of a rough patch after my dad died. Grief, mostly. And burnout. I kept busy helping other people, but I didn’t
let anyone in. Not really.”
“You mean emotionally?”
“And literally.” He fiddles with a button on his shirt, unable to make eye contact. “You know how I said I have a tiny kitchen?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s because I live in a caravan.”
“A caravan?” I almost spit out my drink. I’d wondered why we hadn’t been to his place yet.
“Yep.” He chuckles. “Under a gum tree, behind my aunt’s house, with dodgy wi-fi and two possums I’ve named Grogu and Chewbacca.
They’re dying to meet you.”
I try to picture it: seven feet of Frank folding himself into a tin can. “That must be a tight fit.”
He laughs. “It has a really impressive pop top and a king bed. It’s a squish, but it’s mine.” He pauses. “You remember what
I said about not fitting in with people my own age? The caravan makes sense—no flatmates, no parties, no pressure to perform
or be someone I’m not.” He shrugs lightly. “And for a long time, that felt sufficient.” There’s a beat of silence. He meets
my gaze. “I’ve always been scared I’m not enough.”
I inch closer. “And I’ve always thought I’m too much.”
We sit a moment in that soft, shared truth then lean in and kiss again, longer, deeper.
When we break to breathe, he picks up the soggy form. “C’mon, you duffer, why don’t we call them now? We can get ice cream after—it’ll be like a date!”
I look at him incredulously. “To get a kidney ultrasound? Sounds sexy.”
“I told you I want to see all of you. This is a great chance to view one of your vital organs. How many guys can say they
get to do that so early on? It’s gotta be beyond second base, right? Forget boobs and bum, I’m a kidney guy!”
We laugh, and the tension begins to melt. I didn’t know flaws-up-front love existed. It’s utterly terrifying and completely
wonderful. How can something this good be happening at the same time as something so bad?
We make the call and schedule the scan for Friday afternoon.
Later, a half-empty pizza box between us, Frank hits pause on the political thriller we are watching. “Sorry, I can’t really
concentrate.”
“Me either.”
He shifts a little closer, his eyes soft with something that pulls at my chest. “I know it’s early, and this will sound super
corny, but . . . you already have my heart. I wouldn’t hesitate to give you my kidney too.”
I let out a laugh. “Wow. That’s . . . aggressively corny.”
He winces.
I reach for his hand before he can retreat, my fingers lacing through his. “But also,” I add, gently now, “probably the nicest
thing anyone’s ever said to me.”