Page 22 of Saving Ren
What the fuck am I doing here? What am I doing? I’m forty-four years old. I can’t leave Jay. I’m too old to start over. Where will I go, what will I do?
He’s watching me, waiting on a response and I know I need to say something.
“I. No, I don’t have a card on me, but I can get one to Jo to give to you. I’d definitely be interested in the work. My website has images and testimonials from previous clients.”
“Hey, Gabe,” a brunette says as she passes us by.
“Hey,’ he responds, all the while not taking his eyes from me. His gaze’s intensity is adding to my nerves and obviously preventing my brain from engaging with my mouth.
“That’s quite the little fan club you’ve got going on. What do you call them? Gabriella’s? No, no. I know, Gabettes?”
He rubs his palm over his stubble, lifts one dark eyebrow and smiles.
“Have you been talking to my brothers? You sound like one of them with the shit you’ve been giving me.”
I open my mouth to speak, a little unsure if I’ve offended him with my comment when he laughs and shakes his head.
“Fuck me. You don’t hold back, do you? Gabettes? That one’s actually pretty funny.”
“Thanks.” I shrug and return his smile.
“That accent must let you get away with murder.”
“I don’t have an accent. This is how most new Australians sounded when they arrived on the First Fleet.”
“Yeah, I s’pose you’re right. My dad’s English, from Kent.”
“That’s just across the Thames from where I’m from, a place called Essex.”
He nods. Eyebrows raised, he tilts his head towards me.
“I’ve seen the show, that’s where they get vajazzled and say, ‘shut up, and hundred percent babe’, all the time, right?”
His impersonation of the Essex accent leaves a lot to be desired, but I’m impressed that he’s seen the show.
“That’s. . . that accent is nearly as bad as your chat-up line, but you’ve redeemed yourself by saying the wordvajazzledand your knowledge of the spoken word from my old home county.”
“I have a daughter who’s about to turn thirteen. I’d probably shock the shit out of you with a lot of stuff a thirty-five-year-old single bloke shouldn’t know.”
Thirty-five? This is why I shouldn’t be here. This is why I need to go home.
“How long have you lived in Australia?” He fills the moment’s silence almost instantly, not really giving me a chance to overthink the fact he’s years younger than me.
“Since I was thirteen.”
“Really? Your accent. . .non-accent. . . is still so strong. My dad didn’t move here till he was eighteen, and he sounds a lot less English than you.”
“What about your mum?”
“Born here, but to Italian parents.”
That explains the dark hair and skin, and now I’m aware of the fact, everything about him screamsItalian. Tall. Dark. Chiselled cheekbones. Straight nose. Those eyes though, not what I’d assume to be typically Italian.
He’s watching me watching him and somehow reads my thoughts.
“Blue eyes from my dad, hair and skin from my mum.”
“It’s a great combination. . .” And yep, I said that out loud.
