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“More like I’m too impatient? I want to just read but I must move my eyes too fast. It jumbles and I have to tell myself to slow down.”
“Have you ever been tested for a reading disorder?”
“Yes. I don’t have one.”
He doesn’t look convinced.
“I might have some sort of emotional blockage, the psychologist said. Now, what about the light?”
He must read my need to change the subject because he nods. And then he groans and buries his head in the pillow. The tips of his hair tickle my mouth as he shifts again to look at me. “I’m . . . scared of the dark.”
“A big, strapping guy like you?” I mean it as a joke, to lighten the mood.
Ethan sits up. “What does that mean?”
Shit. I shove onto my knees and curl an arm around his tight bicep. “Sorry. That was stupid.”
He doesn’t look at me, and the disappointment sinks into my skin and settles heavily in my stomach. I feather my hand up and down his arm, over his shoulder. “I’m really sorry.”
He shrugs. “I know the light thing has to stop. It kinda keeps me up at night, too. Just seems the lesser of two evils.”
“Would it help if, like . . .”
“Like what?”
“If we had the light off, but I kept my door open? So you know someone else is there?”
“Are you offering?” Ethan laughs at himself, and I urge him awkwardly back down on my bed, hand drifting to his waist to keep him there.
“I’m not afraid of the dark,” I say. “But I have bad dreams sometimes.”
“What do you do about it?”
“I sleep with my mum.”
“Really?”
I hesitate. “Well, not since Tom. But . . . sometimes I want to crawl into her bed.”
“Yeah, Dad is so not letting me sleep with him.”
I come forward and press my forehead against his, clasping his warm neck. The pillow is still jammed between us, but his warmth leaks toward me anyway. His breath caresses my cheek, the edge of my lip, mixing with mine.
I look into the night-darkened pools of his eyes and whisper, “You can always sleep with me.”
Somebody who’d quite understand
K. Mansfield, “Fairy Tale”
When I wake, Ethan is there.
One of his legs is thrown over my hip; the pillow is wedged between our crotches. A relief. I’m as hard as an elephant’s backside. I think. I don’t actually know how hard an elephant’s backside is. Point is: embarrassingly hard.
Ethan rolls onto his back, taking his leg with him; my hip tingles as cooler air replaces the warm pressure. Dirty blond hair catches in a strip of sunlight that starts at his pillow and shoots up the wall, through the picture of Dad. It’s like, for a moment, they’re mystically connected. Like Dad might be wanting to feel Ethan out. See how he likes him.
Dad’s smile brightens.
I brace myself on an elbow and grin down at Ethan. “Sleep good?”
Groaning laughter. “The best.”
“I figured. Or you’d be lapping lengths in the river right now.”
“What’s the time?”
I turn and glimpse at my radio-clock. “Like, six-thirty.”
“Did you sleep good?”
“Yep.”
“I figured. Or you’d still be sleeping right now.” I roll my eyes and Ethan grins. His gaze keeps slipping down to my chest and finally I look down.
My greenstone has slipped out from behind my t-shirt. It’s the first time he’s seen it.
Ethan hesitates. “Can I ask a question?”
I nod.
“What does it mean?”
“Supposedly it gives me courage in hard times. The koru carved into it represent the family. Our bond, our love.” I fist the large rectangular stone against my heart, feeling the spiral outlines against my palm. “It was my dad’s.”
“It works, I think. You’re very courageous. Coming here. Living here. Putting up with Dad.”
The words are a warm hug. I tuck the stone away, take the pillow between us and bop him over the face, grinning.
He laughs and we stumble out of bed. I use the toilet first and he bolts in after me. We change into fresh clothes, and Ethan pulls me to the small door leading to the roof. I’ve only been up here a couple of times, and never with Ethan. It’s always felt like his space.
The stairs are narrow and dark; light blinds us when we emerge. Ethan leans against the balustrade, breathing in the dawn. I mirror him. Below the back yard two long aisles of pear trees stretch to the hills and the river. The sky is a dazzling yellow, throwing a gauze of soft light over the grass, the trees, the water.
“Now I want to move rooms even less.”
“This place is yours no matter where you move. You can always come up here. It’s a great place to think. To be inspired. Or, you know, to curse Dad.”
We share small smiles. “I kinda think of this as yours,” I say. “You’re always coming up here.”
