Page 30 of The Weight Of It All
I checked my watch. “Holy shit,” I cried. I needed to finish getting ready but wasn’t ready to say goodbye. “Hang on for a sec?” I didn’t wait for his reply. I threw my phone onto my bed and pulled my sweater on and quickly donned some socks and my favourite boots. I freshened up in the bathroom the best I could and snatched up my phone. “You still there?”
“Yeah. Everything okay?”
“Oh sure. I just needed to finish getting ready. Anika will kill me if I’m late.”
“Do you need to go?”
“Yes, well no, not really. I’m walking to the pub, so you wanna keep me company on the way there?” Shoving my keysin my front jeans pocket and wallet in the back, I pulled the front door shut behind me. The evening air was cooling off, and the busy Balmain street was humming with a Friday night buzz.
“Sure!”
“You can meet us there if you want?”
He paused, and I immediately regretted the invitation. “Nah, I’m already in my trackies in front of the TV, plus I’ve got an early start tomorrow. Maybe next time.”
“Oh for sure,” I said, trying to come off as cool or whatever. “So? What’s for dinner tonight?”
“Baked sweet potato and grilled lamb steaks with a balsamic salad.”
“Oh wow.”
“Yeah, I love it. It’s one of my favourites, and it’s so easy.”
“Is there some secret recipe, or is it as simple as it sounds?”
“I’ll write you out the recipe. Or I could cook it for you one time.” He swallowed hard. “If you want, that is?”
“Oh.”
“Yeah well,” he added quickly, “you brought some of that lemon tart in for me, so it’s only fair I return the favour. I can bring some into the gym for you on Sunday.”
“Or you could cook it for me.” I almost tripped over my own feet on the footpath. I don’t know what made me say that, but it sounded like that’s what he meant, then tried to flounder his way out of it in case I said no. I didn’t want him to feel bad. “I like my lamb cooked medium, thanks.”
He chuckled warmly, a relieved sound. “I’ll try to remember that.”
“And I’ll try and remember to bring another citrus tart.”
He groaned, an almost obscene sound. “If you insist.”
The guttural filthy hum reverberated from my ear down my spine, short-circuiting my brain. I did some kind of Mr Bean flail as I stepped out into Darling Street and was rewardedwith a cacophony of curses and honks from traffic. I might have squealed.
Reed’s voice was fast and concerned. “Henry, are you okay?”
“Oh sure,” I replied, my free hand over my pounding heart. “Just sharing my awesome dance moves with oncoming traffic.”
He snorted. “I’m pretty sure a car would win a dance off.”
“Well, you’ve obviously never seen me dance, because that was a mix of Michael Jackson and Michael Flatley.”
He snorted. “Sounds amazing.”
“Of course it was. That’s why they honked.”
He burst out laughing. “You nearly at the pub yet?”
“Almost. A block to go.” It was then I realised I wasn’t out of breath, even after my River Dance with a car. “Huh. I think all that exercise nonsense you’ve been making me do is actually paying off. Not only do my jeans fit, but I’m not even puffing.”
“Ah, there is method in the madness.” There was a smile in his voice.
