Page 7 of We Were Never Lovers
Jack wheeled him over to the door, slid his arm around Sean’s back and his other arm under his ass and lifted him like it was nothing as he sat him down on the seat. Sean saw the nervous flutter in his hands as he stretched the belt over Sean’s chest, so careful of his ribs, giving him plenty of room around his leg, the seat already pushed back to accommodate it. He was so close, Sean could see the pulse of his carotid under his tanned skin, could smell the shower he’d just taken; the hint of fruit and chemicals in the shampoo and conditioner smelled exactly like the stuff Sean used.
Sean didn’t say anything and kept his breaths shallow; he did his best to hold himself still, to not lash out. His last memory was also this close and it was not a happy one—the two of them pushed so close and an inch away from punching each other for real, finally.
“All set,” Jack said with way too much effort and closed the door softly.
The radio filled the car as they got going and Sean narrowed his eyes at the side of Jack’s head. Jack tightened his hands on the steering wheel and glided onto the road. Jack hated indie music, hated anything and everything that wasn’t chill or top 40 or ‘classic’, which was another word for awful pub rock. And while Sean could admit he liked some of that old stuff too, he’d taken to disliking it since discovering Jack preferred it. But here was not only indie, but the indie radio station.
The indicator flicked on and Sean looked away, his eyes hurting against the unfiltered morning sunshine as he watched the streets lined with people in black suits and white shirts walking into the city from the train station. He thought it was Monday. Definitely a week day, the throngs of people looking at their phones as they walked briskly towards the city centre.
Jack took the turnoff to the freeway and they slid between the concrete walls before emerging onto the four lanes, Jack smoothly moving them over to the far lane and onto the Narrows Bridge over the Swan River, the sounds of hip hop defiantly punctuating the space between them.
“I’ll bring Lola over once you’re settled,” Jack said, shooting Sean a reassuring smile.
Sean glared at the side of his head. In what universe did Jack think Sean wanted to meet his fucking girlfriend? The fact Jack had a girlfriend was pretty fucking rich—sure, dude might be straight, maybe even bi, but Sean didn’t think so; what’d happened between them in high school didn’t feel like a straight boy experimenting as much as Sean was convinced Jack had convinced himself that’s what it was.
“She’s gonna be so stoked to see you, man,” Jack went on. Sean decided to leave aside the clumsily tagged on ‘man’ and go for the kill.
“I don’t wanna meet your fuckin’ girlfriend, Jackie,” he said.
Jack looked at him, scandalised. “Lola’s my dog,” he said, his voice stumbling over the ‘my’.
Sean felt himself relax and hated himself anew for being tense at the prospect of Jack having a missus. “Good,” he muttered, “I like dogs,” he tacked on the end lest Jack think he was praising him for something.
Jack nodded readily, though his face was pinched. “I know you do. You love her.”
After Sean grunted at that, they lapsed into silence. He couldn’t bring himself to address the word love coming out of Jack’s mouth, so silence was the best option. The river was flat and calm beside them, so flat it was like a mirror. The whitefellas that first came here called it the Swan River after the black swans that lived on it, but the blackfella mob from this Country—the Whadjuk Noongars—called it Derbarl Yerrigan because it mixed the fresh and salt water, coming from the ocean in Fremantle and stretching all the way up Country past the hills. Sean was a Wiilman Noongar, but he’d been coming down to Perth since he was seventeen to play footy, briefly played for the South Fremantle Colts before he got drafted, and knew plenty of Whadjuks. He looked at the black swans now, gracefully dunking their heads under the water to feed, and reckoned they must’ve been a real sight for those first whitefellas who’d only ever seen them in white.
Once they arrived in North Fremantle, Jack turned down a lane and wound into a development with tower blocks filled with fancy apartments. Sean couldn’t believe he lived here. This was not something he’d like—new, pretentious, so clean it bordered on a prison feel—but Jack was pulling into a spot reserved for one of the apartments, carefully not making eye contact as he got Sean out and into his chair, hoisted Sean’s duffel onto one shoulder, wheeled Sean over and got him into the building with a code he knew, another code for the lift, and finally a key hanging with his own car keys to enter the apartment.
He pushed Sean inside. It was a top floor apartment so spacious you could ride a motorbike around in it. The river reflected the sun below them, the Freo port clearly visible off to the right. Everything was as neat as a showroom—the white couch, white chairs, white curtains, set off against mint green walls. Sean was no designer, but this was awful.
“I got you something to eat,” Jack said as he parked Sean near his couch. “So you can take your pain medication. And I’ve got the spare room made up for me, I’ve just got to head home for a bit to check on Lola, but Ben’s gonna pop in later, so she’ll be alright while I’m here with—”
“I don’t live here,” Sean said. He was sure of it.
He looked up at Jack.
Jack sighed. “This is your place, but kinda, like. I dunno...”
Sean stared at him. Jack was twitchy again, rubbing the back of his neck, hiding his face in his hair. It was longer. The shots of white from his surfing even more bleached, like he’d been surfing more in the years since he’d come back from Melbourne, in the years Sean couldn’t remember.
Then it hit Sean.
“Do I have a …”
He hoped he didn’t have to say it. If him and Jack were such good mates now, surely he’d know if Sean was living with a boyfriend. But if Sean had a boyfriend, why hadn’t he come to see him in the hospital? As bizarre as the thought was—Sean was never going to have a boyfriend while he was playing, never mind after; the thought of coming out to his mob and Elders was terrifying—but what else would explain buying a place this hideous? This private?
“Where’s my phone?” he asked before Jack could do more than make a few aborted noises, mouth open but nothing coherent coming out.
“Oh, yeah,” he said and crouched down to rummage through Sean’s bag. He got up, stretching out to hand it over. He took his hand back. “Hang on.”
Then he was opening it, doing a bunch of stuff before handing it over.
“Just deleting our messages,” Jack said. “I don’t wanna, you know. Like the doctor said. That might be a bit much.”
“What might?” Sean asked.
“Us,” Jack said, “we’re really good mates.”
