Page 33 of Home to Christmas Island
Chapter 14
I WAKE UP THE FOLLOWING morning to my phone buzzing. For a split second, I worry that it’s Justin, and my anxiety spikes. But then I remember that I blocked his number, before picking my phone up off the nightstand.
The name on the screen reads, Alistair Campbell aka Al aka Hot Cop Who Pulled You Over.
I burst out laughing—in my haze of grief yesterday at the house, I hadn’t noticed this.
There is a photo and two words. The picture is of the sunrise from the patio of the lake house, a steaming cup of what looks more like tea than coffee in the corner of the frame, with the text, Morning, friend.
I feel giddy, and for once I don’t tamp down my bubbling emotions.
I take my phone and snap a photo of the lake from my window. For some embarrassing reason that I’ll ruminate over maybe forever, I reply to his text with the picture and the words, G’day mate.
He replies instantly: I’m not Australian.
Florence: I know, it’s such a shame. You’d be so much hotter if you were.
Alistair: At least then you’d be able to understand what I’m saying. Usually you stare at me like I’m chatting shite because you can’t understand my accent. But I’d wager it’d be another lie if you said my voice did nothing for you ;)
I’m grinning at my phone like an idiot when Alba bursts into my room.
I thought you were dead, she says. You never sleep this late. She registers the look on my face and the phone in my hand, and all of a sudden she looks like the Cheshire Cat.
Who are you texting? She can barely get the words out through her shit-eating grin. Rose pops up behind her in the doorway. I don’t think a smirk has ever appeared on her lovely face, but whatever expression she’s wearing is as close as it gets. She raises her eyebrows at me.
There’s no point in denying what they’ve both clearly already figured out. So I go for the distraction method instead.
Who wants pancakes?
LATER THAT MORNING, AFTER WE’VE stuffed ourselves with pancakes and bacon, another text from Alistair comes through.
Alistair: What are you doing this afternoon, Just Florence?
I feel a wave of nervousness. I wonder what he wants. Does he want to hang out? To actually be friends? There’s only one way to find out.
Florence: My current plans involve sitting on my ass and going stir crazy at Alba’s. Care to tempt me with something more exciting?
I reread the message a few times before I send it. I’m aware that I want him to find me funny, and I decide I don’t really want to know why that is.
His reply comes through straight away.
Alistair: I’m not sure it’ll be up to your standards, oh great adrenaline queen. But I can promise it will definitely get you out of the house.
Florence: Okay, fine, I’ll bite. What is it?
Alistair: A few of us are going down to Park 223 to start setting up the outdoor rink. It’s not cold enough to actually flood it yet, but some of the structure needs work.
I gawk at my phone and type out my most honest reply.
Florence: I have literally no idea how I could possibly be of help in this situation.
It’s the truth. My phone buzzes again.
Alistair: Don’t worry, I’ll put you to work, Red Sizzler. Good for you to get that energy out, so you’re not forced to get into mischief.
I chuckle at this. I doubt I’ll actually be of any real physical help, but it gives me something to do.
Florence: Fine, I’ll come. What time?
