Page 12 of Then Came You

Giving her a ride was a way for me to delve deeper into who she is, but after she gets me to type in her address, and fiddles with the temperature of the air conditioner, she falls asleep, snoring like a baby dinosaur.

Honestly, where she lives is as far west as you can get from my home. As we move farther away from the inner west, I veer onto Parramatta Road towards the M4. I can’t help but notice how wealth decreases the further we travel out. There’s more muted concrete, less lush greenery, no million-dollar water views, harsh profane graffiti, older cars worth ten times less than the one I’m driving, and plenty of towering high-rise apartments.

After a while, I pull up to a small fibro house that has seen better days. The off-white security door is rusted, a fly screen is half torn from one of the windows, and there’s no way the rickety brick stairs that lead up to the entrance are compliant. The red bin is pushed over with rubbish spilling out, and the grass hasn’t been cut for at least a month. My ankles will be knee-deep in weeds when I open her door. The porch light is blinking and on its last legs, and there’s a mangy dog howling somewhere outside.

As I scan my surroundings, the house across the road looks as if the tenants prefer to sit outside rather than inside, with many of them vaping in footy shorts and thongs. I’m not judging, just observing, but they look rough. I don’t miss how they’re eyeing my $400,000 wheels curiously. I keep my eyes peeled, on guard in case one of them tries anything. The streets are grimy and dark, and I have safety concerns. Big ones.

I return to the sleeping, drooling beauty in my passenger seat, hating that I have to wake her, but what’s the alternative? I gently brush her arm with my hand, running my fingertips from her wrist up to her shoulder and back. She immediately shivers, and goosebumps rise to the surface of her skin. “Row, we’re home.” I continue to stroke her, revelling in the feel of her supple body. She blinks a few times, her lashes prominently fanning to the tops of her cheeks. She’s disoriented but not alarmed that I’m next to her. When her mind catches up to her body, she sits up abruptly.

“Oh my god!” She squeals, facing her body toward me. “I can’t believe I fell asleep,” she says, wiping the spit on the corner of her mouth.

“It’s fine.” I wave her concerns off. “You were exhausted.”

An awkward silence engulfs us. Our eyes lock on each other but our lips remain sealed, the weight of so many unspoken thoughts filling the air.

Where do we go from here?

Does she want to get out?

Do I give her my number? I mean, sure, I have her business card and know where she works, but that isn’t exactly a direct ‘call or message me sometime.’

Do I ask to see her again, walk her to the door?

Honestly, I don’t remember dating or planning to date being this hard to decipher. I like her, but am I coming on too strong? Have I misinterpreted the signs?

“Thanks again for driving me home,” she repeats, breaking the silence.

Not giving me the chance to respond, she hops out of the car.

Disappointment weaves its way through me now that she’s gone.

I watch as she checks the dingy mailbox, sifts through her bag for her keys, and walks toward the door. I don’t see any movement inside, but her family must be home because an old beat-up Nissan Tiida is in the driveway. I visibly see Row’s shoulders sag as she walks inside.

She turns just for a moment to give me a small wave, and then closes the door, leaving me to wonder if that was it?

Was that the last time I’ll ever see her?

No. It can’t be.

Chapter 5

Row

"Get up, you lazy fuck," Mom slurs, kicking the side of my ribs with her manky overgrown toes. She reeks of cigarettes, cheap vodka, and rank body odour like she hasn’t showered for days.

This is my life.

I live in a two-bedroom, one-bathroom housing commission home with my sick sister and an abusive, alcoholic mum - if I can even call her that.

Mum is a mess. I pulled the short straw when it came to mothers. Mine has always been addicted to something. If it wasn’t alcohol, it was gambling. If it wasn’t either of those two things, it was men. No ten-year-old should ever have to witness their own mother on her knees, sucking off two guys at once in the middle of your living room.

It takes a minute to reorient myself as I stretch on the rank yellow-stained mattress I’m lying on. I wince at my slow and cautious movements, pressing one hand to my lower back, trying to alleviate the persistent ache that settled there a long time ago.

"Did you hear me, you worthless piece of shit?" She digs her pointy toenails into my flesh, kicking me with her scabby and blistered bony foot.

"Ow. I heard you," I groan, rising to my feet, which still throb from standing all day in cheap shoes. I snuck into the house early this morning after not being able to find a women’s shelter that could take me for the night. Places around where I live unfortunately fill up fast with runaways or women fleeing from their violent partners.

I sniff something putrid, which makes me want to gag. There’s a rancid stench wafting into the room, and as the seconds go by, I’m assaulted by its potency. I try walking toward it, but Mum is right on my back harassing me.

---