Page 105 of Secrets in Love
♥ I love that you cherish our childhood so much that you have my hanky and our photo in your pocket.
♥ I love how you take care of everybody, how you always say sorry when you fart, how you play with Iris and talk to her like the little mini adult she is instead of an idiot like a lot of people do.
♥ I love how you can say the most romantic, sexy things a woman could dream of, then come out with the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard a second later.
♥ I really love your bum.
♥I love that you make me cupcakes and clean the kitchen afterward. That you clean the shower and make the bed, even putting the pretty pillows you apparently hate back into perfect order while I’m at work.
♥ I love that you’re willing to give up your life to come here for me, even when I was too scared to do the same for you.
♥ I love that you tell me you love me every day, even when I can’t.
♥ I love how much you love me.
♥ I love you.
I didn’t know if she had meant to put it in there, or if it was an accident, but either way, it ended up in my hands as I lay crying on the floor of my bathroom. I read it over and over again in the two or three days I lay in the same position and only let it go when mum threatened to open the window and turn the hose on me.
She snatched it from my hand as I got up and was soon as busted and broken apart as I was. “You really do have beautiful hair, Nate,” she said as she smothered me in mum kisses.
That note became both a lifeline and nail in my coffin. It gave me hope. I resumed my attempts to contact Evie, but the way she refused to speak to me or reply to any form of communication brutally dashed it the second it bore any weight.
Christmas and New Year’s came, and with the passing of time, I increased my amount of time out of my solo pity party and got out of the house, mainly doing meaningless farm duties to keep myself as busy as I could. I caught up with friends a few times, but my heart wasn’t in it. How could it be when, like mum said, it was still in New York?
Not caring if I ever surfed another wave again, I sold my surfboard and instead started spending my spare time at the Austen’s’ old place, working on their gardens. Mum had been looking after it since they’d been gone, but between Dad and the farm, her old neighbors’ yard had slid down her list of priorities.
It would have broken Finn’s and Evie’s hearts to see it the way it was. And their dad, Russ, too. He loved watching his wife toil away as much as I loved watching Evie dance or write.
I spent a fortune on fresh topsoil and new, mature plants. Had an arborist deal with the overgrown trees, re-sowed the lawns, and redid all the garden edging, but my first point of order had been Saoirse Austen’s flower bed.
Remembering Saoirse with such warmth and admiration had somehow infused into my blood, making me love her kids more. That woman was joyous and wise. Caring and smart. Pure sunshine. Evie always joked that she was her antithesis, but she couldn’t be further from the truth. Those beautiful qualities were as strong in my Evie as they were in her mum. Evie just chose to hide them.
“Don’t you think it’s time to stop going there, Natey,” Mum said one morning, her worried face leaning in the car window to give me a kiss. “I don’t want you to spend all that time there only to be broken all over again when she doesn’t come home.”
“That’s not why I’m doing it, Mum,” I lied to myself and her. “I know Evie’s not coming back. I’m doing this for Saoirse and Russ.”
She’d smiled and nodded, then rustled my hair and sent me off with another piece of bloody cake. “You’re a good boy. But you’re getting too thin.”
Every minute spent with the Austen ghosts was glorious torture. I was intoxicated by memories, high as a kite until it was time to leave, then low as they came when forced to deal with the emotional hangover when back at my empty home. Going back every day was the hair of the dog.
After yet another day of self-inflicted wounds, I needed a distraction.
This time, I chose actual alcohol. I was all out, so I braved heading into town.
As it always was that time of year, Byron was pumping. There were only two pubs that locals from my side of town would hit up in the summer. The first I tried was wall to wall ex-flings and school friends. I was in no mood for small talk, so I decided to go to the second, but that, too, came with a problem—a curvy problem named Polly.
I had no idea if she would be working. Her large family usually escaped town over the holidays, but I had a vague memory of her telling Evie that Holly, her sister, was heading home from Sydney.
Thankfully, I had successfully dodged Polly since I’d been home, and even if she was working, at this time of year, she’d be run off her feet. I could probably escape with a wave or a short and polite, ‘How was your Christmas? Happy New Year.’ It was a conundrum.
Beer vs Polly. Was my need for beer worth the risk? An image of Evie’s love letter smacked me in the chops.
♥ I love how much you love me.
♥ I love you.
Yes. Yes, it was.
