Page 12 of Wide-Eyed
“Pip-fucking-pip garçon!” I continued in the direction of the scaffolding. “I don’t have all day!”
Predictably, there was no reply. Just a snuffling sound coming from rats in the stables or birds or something.
Too late, I realized it was Lyssa.
Lyssa was snuffling.
No, Lyssa was crying.
I froze.
In Woodville, teasing someone—a wind up, we called it, or ripping the shit—was a compliment. It meant: I trust you, let’s laugh together. I had never considered this might not be universal. Non–New Zealand girls were delicate, I realized. Lyssa didn’t speak my language, even though—yeah, we spoke the same language.
Awkwardly, I went over and put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, girl. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
Lyssa slapped me in the chest with the back of her hand. There wasn’t any force behind it, but surprise drove an oof out of me.
Maybe this one wasn’t that delicate.
“I’m not crying because of you, moron! I’m crying because I’m a fuckup.”
This felt like the time I got lost looking for remedial math and walked into Year Twelve French.
I had no clue what was going on.
“What? You’re not a fuckup.”
“Yes, I am,” Lyssa moaned. “I fucked up the reservation.”
“That doesn’t make you a fuckup. It means you made a fuckup. That’s different. Happens to everyone.”
The large wooden front door flew open with a bang.
I let out a yelp and leaped back, but beside me, Lyssa was cool as a cucumber. I coughed, pretending the yelp had been … asthma or something.
Priscilla Penrose stood on the veranda of her decrepit house. Her ginger curls were wild, and her floral apron was on inside out. Her glasses were sticking out of her shirt pocket and she was wearing her usual bright orange lipstick, but not a lot was actually on her lips. It made me wonder if this place had been wired for proper lighting yet.
“Mike Holliday?” Cilla squinted. “Is that you?”
“Hey, Cilla!” I waved. “Yeah, it’s me. Glasses are in your pocket.”
She put them on and heaved a massive exhale when she confirmed my identity for herself, lowering the rolling pin I hadn’t noticed her holding.
“Come and give me a kiss, you big beefcake.”
I carefully navigated the gap-toothed steps of the veranda and did as I was told. Cilla’s cheek was thin under my cheek, and she smelled strongly of candle smoke. I made a mental note to bring out some fire alarms tomorrow. If she was going to insist on living out here during renovations, she should at least try not to burn the place down.
“Cilla, this is Caroline’s friend Lyssa. She’s visiting from New York.”
“New York, aye?” She peered at Lyssa. “I love New York. I fucked my way through Manhattan when I was a Rockette.”
Lyssa looked impressed, and Cilla nodded, smug.
“Cilla, Lyssa is here about the room listing?—”
“Look at your nails!” Cilla’s eyes were locked on Lyssa’s hands. “These are exquisite!”
Lyssa fluttered her fingers. “Thank you!”
