Chapter 4
FOUR
In the end, I return to Shell Beach and take the box with me. I live in a one-bedroom apartment that I bought thanks to my last divorce settlement and some financial assistance from my parents.
I go inside and set the box on the kitchen counter. Maybe I should put it out of sight so I’m not tempted to take the compound on a whim. I really should have a plan if I’m going to use it again.
If I really wanted to know, I’ll have to contact him now.
I make myself a cup of tea and sit on the couch, musing over the men I’ve been romantically involved with.
Apart from Frankie, the other significant male in my life was Jarvis.
We were married for two years and got divorced four years ago.
I definitely do not wonder what might have been with him—maybe because our split was comparatively recent.
I place at least eighty percent of the blame on him thanks to his crazy mood swings and tendency to avoid confrontation. I only persevered for as long as I did because I thought I could fix him.
But I very quickly figured out I couldn’t.
And I hate that because he’s an actor, I still see his face everywhere all the time.
He’s not hugely famous, but he has a recurring role on a cult TV series, and he often gets invited to do variety shows.
He’s very charming—and very good looking—but he completely destroyed me.
Since we split, I’ve only been interested in two guys.
One was Billy—and that was very misguided.
I’d had a crush on him before I met Frankie, and I was excited to see him again as an adult, but he ended up flirting with Anna and then forcing himself on her, and it caused a massive argument between us.
And then there was Simon—a hot personal trainer—who it turns out also liked Anna.
Apparently he was her stalker in the nineties or something.
For a while, I told myself I didn’t care if he dated me just to feel close to her, but I finally realised I deserved better.
I had never considered Simon a serious long-term commitment, but I still decided even a fling should want to be with me for me.
I’ve finally learned that just because someone prefers another woman to me, it doesn’t make me less of a person. I just need to find the guy that fits me.
Could Frankie be the one I dismissed because I didn’t make enough effort?
I look around my apartment and imagine him here with me now.
He’d be sitting here with me on the couch, sipping black coffee instead of tea.
He wouldn’t necessarily be writing a movie review in his notebook—it could be poetry, or even a sketch.
Even though I was the one studying art, Frankie was better at drawing than me. I was more about theory than practice.
One night, I even modelled for him naked, posing like Rose in Titanic.
I think because movies were such a big part of our life, we inadvertently found ourselves living as though we were part of a film too.
Maybe that’s why I think about Frankie so much now—because our time together felt so other-worldly.
The older I get, the less magical everything seems. Am I just wanting to recapture that spark?
I finish my tea and head to the cupboard, pulling out a bottle of red wine and pouring myself a large glass. I swallow half of it in one mouthful.
I sit at the kitchen counter and look up Frankie’s Facebook account again on my phone. Should I send a friend request? It still feels wrong. What happens if he ignores me? Could I handle the rejection?
But also, since I just found out he was planning on applying for the job in Sydney before we met, I kind of want to confront him about it.
Maybe I’ll contact him through Messenger first. And then I can do a friend request later if he replies.
I spend an inordinate amount of time formulating what to say. We haven’t spoken since 2000, and I think back to how much I’ve evolved in that time.
I inhale deeply and quickly type up a short message.
Hey! I saw Strange Days advertised on streaming the other day, and it made me think of you. How have you been?
The Strange Days reference is a lie, but I want to sound like I naturally thought of him as a result of a random external influence.
I sit, watching to see if he opens the message, but after five minutes, it becomes too much, and I put my phone down, finishing the wine and pouring myself another glass.
I need to think about something else.
And then my phone beeps.
I snatch it up, my heart racing.
Oh. It’s Jarvis.
Talk about a letdown.
I’m still getting your mail. Can you get a redirection put on or something?
How is my mail still being sent to that address after four years? I changed everything I could think of as soon as I moved out. And it’s not like I receive many physical letters anyway. But I know it’s not because they’re going to Jarvis.
What mail are you getting? I text back.
A few moments later, I receive a photo showing a small pile of envelopes. All except one look like marketing letters from various companies I probably made a single purchase from once. But the one on top looks official.
Me: You can throw them all away except the one on the far right of the pic. If you leave that one in your mailbox, I’ll come pick it up tomorrow.
Jarvis: Fine. But make a note of the others and ask to be taken off their lists. It’s a waste of resources and unnecessarily reminds me of you.
I snort. Despite being averse to face-to-face conflict, the guy has never been one to hold back in writing. I’m tempted to say I wish I could take him off the list that shoves him in my face every day in the media, but I know not to engage.
Me: Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you never have to be reminded of me again.
I write down all the companies linked to the marketing letters and put in my calendar to contact them tomorrow to remove me from their databases.
But I’ll have to make a trip to Coolum Beach in the morning to pick up whatever that other letter is.
It’s probably a health reminder for some medical check-up or something.
At least I don’t have to work tomorrow. The gallery I manage is on Main Street, not far from the T-shirt shop I was in just a few hours ago, but I negotiated weekends off a while back.
I figure I’ve done my time over the past few decades, having to be at the whim of an employer.
My current boss—who is infinitely more professional than Ashley—knows I work hard and that I can get my job done during Monday to Friday business hours.
Maybe I’ll go for a walk in Coolum tomorrow and have brunch at one of the cafés I used to frequent.
It’s funny that Coolum is only a twenty-minute drive from Shell Beach, but it almost feels like a different state.
Shell Beach is famous for its upmarket resorts and national park, whereas Coolum is slightly more organic, with its young surf and skate culture.
I do miss living there at times, but I’m glad I don’t have to see Jarvis anymore.
I stare absently into my wine glass. Travelling back in time earlier didn’t really provide me with any clarity. If anything, it made things more confusing.
Should I dispose of the remaining Youth Compound?
I think I’ll wait until tomorrow to decide.