Page 10 of Because of Us

We had a week. And we knew it would only be that. I was foolish for even considering we could have more.

OLIVER

There’s a sharp stabbing in my temple as I pull into the car park. The headache has been brewing since last night, and I can’t seem to shake it off, no matter how much water I chug.

It probably doesn’t help that I haven’t slept all week. Instead, I spend my nights tossing and turning. Every time I close my eyes, I see her face. Every time I drift into something that resembles sleep, I dream of her legs wrapped around me. Madison haunts me.

Somewhere around three o’clock this morning I gave up trying. When I couldn’t focus on reading, I turned on my laptop. The bright blue light shone through my eyes as I scoured the internet for local charities. I never imagined it would be this hard to donate all my winnings, but I can’t find the right place.

Research centres are too focused. Pushing all their efforts into one single type of cancer or a terrible, but singular, disease. Charities raise money for specific groups of disadvantaged minorities, as though no one else has it tough. I want my money to go to everyone. Without discrimination.

At this stage, I’m ready to start throwing cash off the university roof.

I did find one thing in my search last night though, which is why I’m here. At the local community centre. A safe haven for all members of the community. The website boasted nursing services, community classes, food drives, career counselling, financial aid, library services, and a whole host of other outreach programs.

Something for everyone. Which means maybe, I’ve found my place.

The building has been left in the past, decades older than the new town homes surrounding it. Two potted lemon trees stand tall either side of the ramp that leads the way from the car park up to the bright teal door. Around the side of the building, a small playground is fenced off, and a veggie garden surrounds the car park.

It’s homely, nurturing and welcoming in a way that I wasn’t expecting.

A soft bell tinkles above the doorway as I enter, and a young man in an orange suit stands up from behind the desk.

“You must be Oliver.” His dark eyes meet mine and he smiles.

“I want to reiterate the importance of keeping this confidential.”

I shake his outstretched hand. He nods his agreement and gestures for me to enter a small office space. The walls are crowded with filing cabinets, but the window looks out over the playground.

“You mentioned wanting to make a donation?”

“Ten million dollars.”

The man freezes, his wide eyes blinking rapidly. Both hands find his chest and his mouth opens to speak. Flustered, he snaps his mouth shut and stumbles over to the chair by the desk.

“I don’t even know what we would do with that sort of money.” His voice is barely a whisper. Unsure if he was talking to me, or to himself, I choose not to respond.

My attention drifts to the window. Children squeal in delight as they fly down the rickety slide. From this angle, I can see how splintered the wooden structure is. The old plastic pieces might have once been red, but are now a faded, dirty shade of salmon. Sun bears down on the children, whose hats have been strewn about the bark chip that covers the ground.

“You could start by upgrading the playground?”

Mateo leaps out of the chair, as though he forgot I was in the room.

“Yes! Let me show you the centre.”

He hops from foot to foot until I nod, then grabs my arm to pull me back into the main room.

We wander through the centre, Mateo pointing out old light fixtures and broken furniture. Down the hallway, Mateo greets the local Mothers Group, and we poke our heads in on a study session for mature students. He points out the community calendar, outlining all the classes and events happening through the month. The community centre is a place for people from all backgrounds, and warmth spreads through me.

In the far back room, a floristry class is being held. Mateo drags me in to show me the kitchenette facilities the room offers. The laminate on the bench is peeling, and the tap sits at a precarious angle. Cupboards filled with mismatched crockery and glassware are missing doors.

Spinning to take in the rest of the room, I see her hair before I see her face. But I know it’s her. I know those golden strands with the gentle waves. I know the way they tangle in my fist, and how they look spread out on a pillow.

Madison double takes when she sees me. Like a child who can’t believe they are seeing their teacher outside of school. The thought is a firm punch to the temple, causing my headache to throb and a pit of nausea to bubble in my gut.

“Oli!”

Coming from anyone else’s mouth, I hate that nickname. But from Madison, it’s birdsong. I smile back at her as she places her bare stemmed flowers on the table in front of her. She holds up ten fingers, mouthing something that resembles ‘wait for me’. As though I had the power to walk away from her.

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