Chapter 8
8
Brock
I drag the coffee table closer to the couch, stack a pile of old home improvement magazines, and place Schapelle's laptop on top.
Her fingers linger over the spacebar. "You ready?"
"Ready as I'll ever be," I reply, not sure what to expect.
She taps the space bar and settles on the couch next to me. Not right next to me, but close enough that the scent of her peach body wash invades my senses. She's staring intently at the screen, so I should probably do the same.
The show begins. Two teenagers, Dawson and Joey, are watching a movie. Joey is lying on the bed while Dawson is sitting by his desk. They're talking about their friendship, Dawson's parents, and their sleepover tradition.
I only pay half-attention, my mind wandering.
It's been two days since the hot pool, but Schapelle's words haven't left my head.
My days of trying to fix emotionally damaged men are over.
Transmission received, loud and clear.
There goes any slim fantasy I had about having a shot with her, because I'm the poster child for emotionally damaged men.
It's probably a good thing, knowing I'm not even in contention, because as much as I'm trying to fight it, my feelings for Schapelle have only grown in our first week of living together. Her saying that was the bucket of ice-cold water I needed to rein in my errant thoughts.
We can only ever be friends. Just like Dawson and Joey are.
"This is classic storytelling," she whispers to me. "See how it sets the tone for their close relationship but also hints that deeper feelings are at play, too?"
"There are?"
"Of course there are." She assesses me with those sparkling, blue eyes. "You can't see it?"
"No. I thought they were just friends."
His lips twitch into a smile. "Men are clueless."
Can't argue with that, so I nod vaguely and say nothing.
Her smile grows, and when the theme song begins to play, she sings along, loudly, totally wrapped up in it. She may not hit all the high notes the singer does, but I'm enraptured watching her.
No, I'm not. This is a month-long arrangement. We're just friends , I remind myself. But you want more than that , the devil side of my brain counters.
No I don't.
Yes you do.
No I don't.
Yes you do.
I spend pretty much the rest of the episode mentally arguing with myself about my feelings for Schapelle, ultimately not reaching a resolution. The sad truth is I like her, even though I know I shouldn't. She's had such a long streak of bad luck with men, she deserves to be with a decent, emotionally un-damaged guy. I have to accept that and move on.
"So, what did you think?" she asks as the credits start to roll.
"It was…very '90s."
She bites her bottom lip. "You hated it?"
"No, I didn't hate it." It wasn't something I'd watch myself, but sharing a couch with Schapelle and stealing glances her way whenever I could definitely helped.
"So you'd watch another one?"
A hopeful glimmer shines in her eyes. I don't have it in me to crush it. "Sure. Why not?"
Three nights later, we're up to the ninth episode. Schapelle checks in from time to time, asking me what I think. I have to admit, I'm starting to get into the show. It's still a little young and too cutesy for me, but it's not terrible. Unless any one of my brothers ask, in which case, it absolutely is, and I'm only watching it for her.
"Are you sure this is okay?" she asks, lifting her feet slightly.
I grab them with both hands and place them down on the pillow over my lap. "Of course it is."
She felt too self-conscious to lay how she normally does on the couch with me on it, but since her feet are swelling and causing her pain, I grabbed a pillow, placed it on my legs, and insisted she rest her feet on me.
And if my hands happen to fall to her feet and my thumb happens to apply gentle, circular pressure to her soles, or my knuckles roll over the bottom of her foot, then who am I to stop it?
And yes, I hear how pathetic that sounds, but I'm currently losing my battle with logic and still stupidly harboring a wish that something more could happen between us.
She turns her attention to her laptop screen, and I start rubbing her feet, thinking about how much I love having her here.
My eyes shift to the banquette table in the dining nook that's become her makeshift office during the day as she works on her next book. It's covered in so many notebooks, papers, highlighters, Post-it notes, mugs, and snacks that we have dinner at the breakfast counter.
I keep an eye on her as I work on the pergola during the day, and man, is she focused or what? When she gets into her zone, there could be an earthquake, and she wouldn't even know. She doesn't even notice when I fill up her water bottle, or her mug with decaf, or keep her snack plate full. Good thing, too, because I don't want to disturb her.
It's crazy to think we're almost halfway through our marriage arrangement. How is that possible? Where has the time gone?
We're still only just getting to know each other, and in a little more than two weeks, it'll all be over. She'll be gone, and I'll be alone again, which doesn't feel as good as it once used to, when all I craved was to live by myself.
Ever since Schapelle windmilled into my life at the engagement party, it's got me thinking that as much as I needed a time-out to process what happened on the second tour, I've taken too long. Life isn't meant to be sat out on the sidelines, it's a game that's meant to be played.
When the episode ends, Schapelle gets up off the couch and says, "I'll be back," before disappearing down the hallway.
When she returns a moment later, she's holding my guitar and has a nervous look on her face, which she tries to erase with a wobbly smile. "I'm calling in my thing."
"Your thing?"
"Yeah. Remember when you said I could bank a thing for forcing you to watch me sprawl out on the couch?"
"You're not forcing me to do anything, but yes, I remember."
"Good." She holds the guitar out in front of me and takes a breath. "Play something? Please."
"O—" My voice cracks as I take the guitar from her. "Okay."
I place it against my torso and hook the curve over my thigh. Sliding my left hand up the neck, my right hand hovers over the strings. My chest swirls with painful memories, so I squeeze my eyes shut and begin to strum.
I feel myself getting dragged into the darkness that's been with me ever since it happened. Sometimes it feels like drowning, other times it's like I can't breathe. Every time, it's an all-consuming black wall I can't escape, climb over, or push out of the way.
But tonight…tonight, that same ferocious pull that usually swamps me isn't as strong. Isn't so unbearable.
Tonight, for the first time, it feels like there's a small opening. A tiny crack in the wall. A possibility to not go down the well-worn path and choose another way. A way that allows me to open up instead of pulling back.
Because tonight, I'm not alone.
I keep strumming and reopen my eyes. Schapelle is sitting next to me, her head tilted and a soft smile playing on her lips. She's swaying gently, her hair loose and falling around her shoulders.
A jolt of electricity shoots up my spine as it suddenly dawns on me.
Schapelle said she was done with emotionally damaged men. Yeah, well, maybe it's about time for this emotionally damaged man to finally deal with his issues.