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He wasn’t conscious of turning away from his makeshift barbeque, but he was facing out towards the ocean and Foley was standing beside him. A woman worth more to him than his next meal, his next morning, the percussion of his heart and lungs.
He didn’t know how he’d allowed that to happen, or how long it would last, but he knew he was powerless to stop it.
He turned to look at her. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“I didn’t think you did but if you told me a scary story here at night, I’d make you walk me back to my car.”
He did that every chance he got. She was prickly about it. Didn’t want to inconvenience him, undisguised code for not wanting to be patronised. She could walk to her own car, thank you very much. He’d like to have gotten her a newer, more reliable car. He still could, but like entering the house, logging on again, there would be a cost beyond money, and her outrage. It would break the rules and leave a trail.
“I didn’t s
ay ghosts don’t believe in me.” Less and less over time, they’d lost their ability to haunt him, but it took no effort at all to call them up, feel the cold fingered edge of their disdain and blame. So many of them, confused and angry.
She punched his arm. It did a better job of refocusing him on dinner than anything she might’ve chosen to say.
The fish was good, the potato a little soft, the vegetables a little crisp, but nothing was leftover and Foley complained of being full. She lay back on the couch and he sat in front of it, on a folded blanket, his back against it, legs kicked out in front.
“Are you going to tell me a ghost story or not?”
He shook his head. “I’ll make you hot chocolate.”
“Story first.”
“Once upon a time.” He stopped. She thwacked the back of his head and he laughed. “You won’t like my ghost stories.”
“I’ll like them better than your non-ghost stories, because they suck.”
He half turned to face her. That was a not too gentle dig at the fact he didn’t tell stories at all.
“Tell me something, Drum. Anything. I tell you everything. You know about Nat and Adro, Hugh, my parents, my stupid brother’s pregnant girlfriend. You know how much I love a doomed house. You know what colour eyes Gabriella has.”
“Slow loris brown.”
“See. I know only the most superficial things about you.”
“The best things.”
“You think the best things about you are your dreadful wardrobe, mediocre cooking skills and fresh air accommodation?”
He nodded. “That about covers it.”
Her smile collapsed. “That makes me sad.”
It made him want to scoop her into his arms and hold her like he’d done while she slept and Mad Max rocked Fury Road. He didn’t want her feeling sad on his account. He put his back to her again.
“How about this? How old are you?”
He smiled. She’d be an excellent chess player. That innocuous question was designed to put him at ease again.
“I’m thirty-eight.” She’d turn thirty this year. Her age was part of what made her restless, her assumption she should’ve achieved more.
She tugged his hair. “Old man.”
No grey in his beard yet, but then, the mirrors he used weren’t the best. Her hand soothed where she’d pulled.
“My mother was killed in a car accident when I was ten.” Foley’s hand came down on his shoulder. He heard her breath catch at the unexpected admission. “I remember her, but with a kid’s eyes. She was always happy. She was always teasing Dad, making him laugh. He forgot how to do that for a long time after she died. Poured himself into work. My grandparents and a neighbour, Benny, basically stood in and raised me.”
Why had he started this? He didn’t want to talk about his father. Foley left him to his silence, but her fingertips played with the hair that fell over his coat collar. He liked the gentleness, the randomness of her touch. He lifted his chin to give her easier access.
