Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
Alexia
Professor Yamada is halfway through his lecture on hybrid multilateral peacekeeping frameworks when I hear myself say, "Mm. Warm."
The room goes quiet, quieter than it's been all lecture. I haven't exactly been paying attention, but even I know that much.
"Warm?" Professor Yamada repeats, trying to make sense of my outburst. "Could you share more on your thinking there, Alexia?"
Um.
No. No, I cannot.
Not without embarrassing myself further.
Because slow, delicious kisses with your brother's best friend at four in the morning have no relation to the topic at hand whatsoever.
"Um. Reception," I say. "The reception to hybrid frameworks. In the field. Comparatively warm. Wouldn't you say?"
Craig, at the front of the room beside me, doesn't even try to hide it. He throws me a look that screams nice save. "I…agree!" he says, though, nodding slowly as if anything I’ve said makes the slightest of sense.
"That's certainly something we can discuss in the tutorial," Professor Yamada says, not sure what to make of my interruption.
Craig nudges me. "You owe me one."
The rest of the hour doesn't go much better. I nod at the right intervals and contribute exactly one coherent thought, but Craig covers for me so smoothly that by the time we file out, nobody suspects my head is still stuck on banana bread and Zachary's hands on my hips.
The door shuts behind the last student and Craig starts stacking chairs, the smirk on his face announcing that he’s about to ask all the questions he’s been discreet enough not to ask during the seminar.
“So," he says. “Warm?"
"What about it?”
He drops a chair onto the stack with a clatter. "You want to tell me what that was, or should I workshop some theories?"
"Nothing to tell." I gather my laptop, my notes, the marking I haven't started, and buy myself a few seconds pretending the zip on my bag is utterly fascinating. "Just tired. Long week."
"Right." He doesn't believe me, but he doesn't push either. "So, drinks? Saturday night? We've had enough coffee during the day. How about an actual, after-dark beverage?"
"Is this instead of Friday coffee?"
"It's…instead of, as well as, on top of…whatever."
I think about saying yes. I should emphatically, enthusiastically accept this smart, funny, charismatic man's invitation. Go out with him. Enjoy an uncomplicated drink and not worry the whole time about how this is the worst thing I could be doing.
"I'll think about it," I say, which is not a yes, but it's also not a no.
Craig grins like I've already said yes. "Progress." He slings his bag over one shoulder. "So, I see you’ve been working pretty closely with Rhys. What's the plan once the doctorate’s up? Staying, or is Adelaide just a layover?"
"Depends what comes up. There are a couple of things on the horizon. Nothing locked in."
"Hargreaves?" he says.
I school my face before I look up at him, not wanting to give too much away. You've heard about that?"
"Everyone's heard about it." His tone stays light, but his eyes betray real interest. "Pollack was on the advisory committee. He seems to think there are already some forerunners. Which is surprising, given we haven't put in our submissions."
If he's baiting me to find out whether I'm going for it, it's almost working. Almost.
"I'm not surprised, it's a popular role."
"Course not." He watches me a second too long before he lets it go. "Anyway." He straightens, easy again. "Are you seeing anyone?"
I did not see that coming, and it shows. I take a full second too long to answer, which is its own kind of answer.
"That's quite the pivot.”
"We're too busy for awkward segues."
"It's complicated," I say.
"Complicated's not a no."
"Complicated's complicated."
"I can work with complicated." He winks. "Saturday, then. We'll unpack complicated over a drink or three."
“I haven’t accepted your invite, Craig.”
“You also haven’t turned it down, which you are of course completely within our right to do.” He holds the door open. “But until then, I’ll assume that I’ll see you Friday. Or Saturday. Or, honestly, both, if you want. I'm flexible."
“Oh yeah? Is that what you've been told?"
He gives me an overexaggerated wink. “Maybe it's what I'm hoping you'll find out. Just don’t be surprised if you see me doing some stretches in the break room.”
I laugh at his cockiness, a welcome change from being in my head all day. I'm about to fire back a retort when I see a figure across the hallway.
Rhys is leaning against the wall, going through a stack of papers while someone fires questions at him. He looks up and catches my eye, holds it — then his face hardens, and I turn to see Craig coming through the door behind me, still doing up his jacket.
"Can I walk you back to your office?" Craig says, gesturing down the hallway. "We can continue our conversation about how impressive I am."
"Craig," Rhys says, stepping forward, cutting off whoever he's talking to mid-sentence. "Got a minute? Wanted to run something past you."
"Now?" Craig throws me a confused glance.
“Won't take long. Unless you're busy, of course. I've got an idea for your application."
Craig's face lights up with eagerness. “Sure. Not busy at all. Look forward to hearing it."
"Great, after you," Rhys says, gesturing to an empty room. We watch Craig go, and then Rhys turns to me, a hand on his chest. "So sorry if I interrupted something, Ms Riley.”
I glare at his retreating back. I might not know him as well as I used to, but something tells me Rhys isn't as sorry as he wants me to think.
I'm starting to get used to the dark sky greeting me when I leave uni. It's encouraging though, that even after just over a week, the nights aren't closing in as early as when I first got here.
I'm halfway home when I realise a dark grey car is tailing me. Rhys. I'm not surprised, somehow he's managed to leave work at the same time as me almost every day. But today when I drive past our street and head to the local supermarket instead, he's still with me.
It's a busy Tuesday night, and when I finally find a park, I don't see his car. Good. I'm still not sure what to make of what happened earlier when he saw me with Craig, and I'd rather not talk to him before I know what I'm going to say.
I grab some reusable bags from the backseat and walk to the entrance, only to see Rhys standing there, hands in his pockets. His tie is off, top button undone, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. A little more wrinkled than usual — end-of-day Rhys, rather than the pressed version of the morning.
"Small world," I say, and push past him into the store, with no intention of continuing this shopping trip with him.
"Ran out of milk," he says, falling into step beside me.
Good enough explanation. People run out of milk, even uptight, seemingly emotionless ones.
I head for the baskets, but he beats me to the stack. I reach for one anyway, but he grabs one first. "I've got it. Big enough, or should I get a trolley?"
I frown. Is he shopping with me? "I don't need that much. But I can carry it."
"You could. Or I could. And I'm already holding it."
Good argument, I guess.
"Other than milk, what do you need?" I ask.
"I'll know it when I see it. You lead the way."
I start at the fruit and veg, because starting anywhere else feels sacrilegious.
Whenever I reach for something, he gets there first, and, honestly, annoyingly, he's better at picking than I am.
When we pass the cherries, I linger longer than I should, knowing I'm not actually getting any — it's the off-season and they're basically a dollar a cherry.
But they're my favourite, and if I can't buy them, I can at least devour them with my eyeballs.
"Do we need more ginger?" Rhys asks from further down the aisle. "For your tea?"
I nod. "How did you know?"
"I live with you, remember? I know things about you no one else does.”
I think there’s an almost imperceptible cocking of his eyebrow, but he’s focusing again on the pile of ginger before I can process it.
We stop at the deli, and he orders a kilo of smoked bacon, then feigns it being too heavy when he drops it in the basket. "We're all going to die of heart disease at the rate Marcus force-feeds us bacon. There's nothing he doesn't put it on."
I chuckle. "He made that nut mix last week with the little crunchy bits — didn't admit it was maple bacon until I'd eaten a whole bucket."
"That's nothing. He made a caramel bacon topping for our ice cream sundaes in summer."
I make a face.
Rhys laughs. "It was actually delicious."
We wander to the meat section and I point at the pork. "He's fattening us up so we turn into little piggies." I glance at the pork belly then down at my soft middle. "I'm already halfway there."
I laugh at my own joke, but when I turn to Rhys, he's not laughing.
"It was a joke, Rhys," I say, nudging him.
He surprises me by gently holding my elbow and steering me into an empty aisle, his eyes dark as they catch mine. "It wasn't funny, Alexi. Don't make that joke again. And you better not be skipping breakfast or lunch."
"Rhys, I—"
His grip tightens. "Promise me." Two lines appear between his eyebrows. "I hate that you ever thought you needed to. I don't want you thinking that way about yourself. I'm not kidding. Promise me."
The air goes out of my lungs. All I can do is tilt my chin down. "I promise."
Relief floods his face, and his hand slides down my arm as he drops my elbow. "Good. Now let's find some lower-sodium turkey bacon and swap it in for the normal stuff, see if Marcus notices."
An unexpected laugh slips out and earns me a glare from an older lady in the aisle.
We wander through the Asian food aisle for noodles and another bottle of sweet chilli sauce.
Rhys comes up behind me at the soy sauce, offering his expert critique of supermarket brands versus the Asian grocer's, but lets me grab a small bottle since we're low, and if there's one thing the three men and I agree on, it's that soy sauce goes with everything.
"How's work going?" I ask, mostly to fill the silence.
He surprises me by answering. Rhys doesn't usually do small talk.
"Good, mostly." He drops a packet of popcorn in the basket without asking if I want it.
I do, it's my favourite late-night snack.
"I like it. Building programs from scratch, seeing the results of my clients' work.
I like mentoring the junior counsellors, that side of it works.
" A pause. "But it's creatively stifling sometimes. "
"If it's creativity you're craving, your job might not be the right place for that," I joke. The second I say it, I want to stuff the words back in my mouth. He doesn't flinch, not exactly. But there's a beat where I watch him process it and then his mouth sets into a tight line and he moves on.
We keep shopping. He's quieter after that. I hate that I stopped him from sharing when it's so rare for him.
We turn into the baking aisle and I grab a bag of flour.
"Baking?" he asks.
"Yeah. Thinking of making some chai banana bread. To bring into work tomorrow," I lie. I don't know why. It just feels like the right thing to say.
"They should like that." He says it softly. "What else do you need? I'll grab it."
I read out a few things and watch him work down the aisle, picking the best of everything.
When he comes back, I try to take the full basket from him, but he pulls it back. "Just let me do this. Please."
There's a vulnerability in his voice I can't quite place, but I nod and pull my hand back. He gives me a tight-lipped smile.
At the checkout, he lifts the basket onto the belt and I start unloading. When we're done, he reaches for his wallet.
"No, I've got it," I say.
"Not today." He's already got his card out.
"Rhys."
"Alexia." He doesn't look up from the card reader.
"These are my groceries."
"They're house groceries." He nods at the bacon, the toilet paper, the dish soap, the yoghurt.
But at least half the items on this belt are for a dish I'm making for someone else, and it feels wrong to let him pay for it. There's no way to say that now without making things more awkward than they already are.
I'll pay him back later.
Outside, he's got the bags before I can argue, and we walk out into the last of the light together.
"That's me," I say, pointing at my car, reaching for the bags. He shakes his head and walks me over anyway. When I start to open the boot, he says, "It's alright, I'll put them in my car. I'll grab them out when we get home."
I let it go. I'm expecting him to walk away when he turns back.
“There's a hot pot place. The new one down the road. Apparently it's pretty good. I thought you might want to try it."
I can't be hearing right. "You want to go with me?"
"I do." He says it so simply I almost feel silly for feeling so much about it.
For half a second I want to say yes so badly it's embarrassing.
Then it flashes, unbidden: the other side of the bed, still dented from his body, but empty, the door already shut.
I can't go back there.
Run, Alexia. Run.
"Actually," I say, "I have plans."
He blinks once, and whatever he was opening himself up to closes back up so fast I can practically hear the door slam.
"Of course." Flat again. Contained again. Same old Rhys. "Go on. I'll take these home."
He's gone before I can answer, long strides eating up the car park like he's trying to put real distance between us.
And I stand there and let him.