Page 61 of This Stays Between Us
Where to even begin?
Declan looks over at me, a question in his eyes. Are we really going to tell him?
But I think of everything Luke has done for us, welcoming us into his hotel, letting us stay for free.
He deserves to know.
I take a deep breath, force myself to say the words, to revisit that night.
“She thinks Phoebe killed our other friend. Tomas.”
28
Phoebe
Then
The rest of our time in the Whitsundays passes in a flurry of beach days, sunsets, and rowdy nights, all layered with the steady intoxication provided by countless goon boxes and bottles of whatever liquor the hostel bar has on hand. We take speedboats to private coves where we snorkel and sunbathe, hike the lush rainforest trails on our island.
It should be perfect. But it’s far from. Adrien’s told everyone who will listen about our little altercation. From the way she’d recounted it, you would have thought it was a brutal attack rather than a drunken shove. She even had the nerve to report it to Nick, which prompted yet another scolding in which Nick’s head turned so red I thought it may be in danger of spontaneously combusting. Another threat that this time wasactuallymy last warning.
And the others have pulled themselves even further away. Clairebarely meets my eye anymore, choosing to spend every night in Declan’s room, as if to minimize her exposure to me. I’m constantly the odd one out, the only one left sunbathing on the beach while the others party in the water, the one staying in when the others spend yet another night getting wasted.
There’s only one person who wants anything to do with me. And it’s only ever at night, in private. No one can know, they say. They don’t want to be publicly associated with the outcast.
It’s pathetic, degrading, all of the above. But they’re the only person I have left. And apparently, the effects of loneliness are stronger than my remaining dignity.
I’m right back to being the girl I always was. The outsider, alone, unwanted.
The sliver into my old life that emerged in that bathroom when I shoved Adrien has opened into a crevasse. The regret, the shame, the disgust I’ve worked so hard at keeping buried during our time in Sydney and Cairns has now metastasized, destroying the easygoing, confident persona I’ve been creating this entire trip.
By the time we leave the island, I’m clinging to anything that will remind me of the Phoebe the others think I am.
None of us are eager to leave, especially given our checkout time at the ass crack of dawn to grab the ferry and then pile back into our stale, smelly bus for endless hours to head to the barren tundra of the Outback. None of us, that is, except for Tomas.
“Dude, what is it with you and the Outback?” Josh asks as our bus drives away from Airlie Beach, heading west.
“My father showed meMad Maxwhen I was a kid. It becameour favorite film. We would watch it once a year, at least.” Tomas’s smile falls. “He became sick a few years ago. He did not make it. But I promised him before he died that I would go there.”
“Shit man, I’m sorry,” Josh says.
Tomas smiles at him, and Ellery loops her arm around his shoulder.
“Alright, listen up,” Nick announces hours later, after we’ve been driving for what feels like eternity. “Our next stop is Cullamonjoo National Park. We’re officially in the Outback. We’ll be spending the night there, camping. It’s a cultural experience so I expect yous all to be respectful.” He shoots us a stern look, taking the time to make brief eye contact with each of us—his eyes lingering on mine.
“I wish we could have just stayed in the Whitsundays for the rest of the trip,” Kyan moans once Nick has taken his seat.
“It’s beautiful in its own way; don’t worry,” Hari says, turning in her seat. “Plus, we’re going to have a campout under the stars. You’re going to love it, I promise.”
The view from the bus window stays the same for hours. Red dirt, barren land, sporadic termite mounds. No one seems particularly interested in the stagnant scenery, except for Tomas, who sits glued to his window for the full length of the trip. Finally, the bus tumbles over a speed bump next to a sign that identifies it as the entrance to the national park. As we follow a road that leads us past a small building with a single man sitting outside it, I realize Hari was right; this place isn’t like anything I’ve ever seen before. The compact red dirt gives way to featherweight cream-colored sand as dunes the size of small mountains erupt out of the groundand roll as far as the eye can see. The light breeze grabs on to it, spinning it in the air.
We’re in the desert, but not the type I’ve seen in films and books. This is beautiful. Soft, sparkling.
Apparently I’m not the only one mesmerized. It takes Nick Gould several attempts to regain our attention.
“For God’s sake, listen up, will ya? We’re going to get off here and meet the tour guide, who’ll lead us through the park.”
When we exit the bus, I see a bare-chested man seated to the right of the building, blowing into a long tubelike instrument that sends an eerie sound echoing throughout the desert around us. A didgeridoo, I remember, plucking the word from somewhere in the recesses of my mind. He’s dressed only in loose-fitting black pants and a red band that circles his forehead. The gray hair that sprouts from his dark chest matches the thick moustache above his lips, which twitches with each blow into the instrument.
