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Giving myself a pep talk, I stroll over to the hob and stir the chilli. Jen warms some plates and puts the rolls on the baking tray. Eyeing me with solidarity, Tabi puts the bags of rice in the microwave.
Josie returns just before there’s a knock on our door. She’s changed, a black blouse paired with tight, dark denim jeans. Before she answers the door, she holds my gaze and nods.
I nod back, trying to overcome my irrational fear.
When our neighbours walk in, a wall of masculine frames in the space that’s my temporary home, my safe space, I can’t see anything else. And they’re not even near me, not really, but they seem to block me in by the kitchen, crowding me, their loud voices dominating and threatening.
The bass baritones bubble and boil until all I can hear is drumming thunder. My brain feels like it’s being shaken around in my skull, an intense roar obscuring my thoughts. For a second, my vision goes black. Conversations overlap and blur until it’s all a thick fog, my senses clouded. Intermittently, words escape. I hear gratitude, but low, male laughter has my grip on the spoon tightening, the sound of drinks being poured and beer bottle tops spilling to the tabletop like nails on a chalkboard. Looming figures move around the dining table, the dark shadows looking at things as if it’s theirs to touch and inspect. Entitled eyes burn through me, looking, watching me breathing breathing breathing as I crumble apart.
“Hey, Ava.” A pause. “Ava, it’s Max.”
Slowly, I emerge from my deep-dive. I blink away the fright and focus to my left. With his back against the double fridge, Max is giving me space, watching me with eyes that know too much.
He sinks his hands into his jeans pockets. “Do you want us to go?”
Yes. Yes, I do. But then that part of me that hates feeling so weak, that hates being at the mercy of what happened to me takes over, so I shake my head.
“The boys are sitting at the table out of your way. But I want to help, so give me something to do.”
I can’t think. My head has been spinning in darkness and I’m not sure what remains to organise. “The rice,” I manage, “needs putting in the bowl.” I stir the chilli again, lost inside my head as I pull myself together.
Jen joins us, pulling warm rolls from the oven and putting them on a plate. “We’ll seat you on the end,” she whispers before moving away.
Through the wreckage of my mind I’m aware that someone’s laying plates and cutlery on the table. Josie is pouring drinks. Max places a bowl of rice on the table which only really feeds four.
I taste the chilli, adding a few final spices before bringing the hot pan over to my seat at the table. Nearest me is Max, Josie on my other side.
“This is Sam,” Max introduces. I lift my eyes to find the fourth neighbour, his hair a dark auburn, his eyes a turquoise blue.
I offer a smile. “Hi.”
“Hi. Thanks so much for having us. Truly.”
“You’re welcome,” I reply looking at Josie. “How are we going to do this?” I ask.
Ben stands, a plate in his hand. “How about you dish up the chilli and I’ll hand them out. Everyone can help themselves to the rest.”
“Okay,” I say. And then I remember a forgotten ingredient. “Jose, can you grab the fresh coriander from the fridge?”
I plate the guys first, giving them big helpings, after which Josie sprinkles on a few leaves of bright green coriander. To my surprise, the men wait until we’re all ready, even though we tell them to dig in.
“Not until the chef’s ready,” Laurence says. “This smells great by the way,thank you. I missed lunch, so I’m really looking forward to this.”
Poor guy. Men can be such bears when they don’t eat.
“You’re welcome. Just as well we were here, right?” Josie says kindly.
“And well prepared,” Max adds, gifting me with a companionable smile.
“The boys said that this cabin is the exact mirror opposite of theirs, with the same sofas and same trinkets on the walls and sideboards,” Josie reveals.
So that’s what they were doing when they came in—not inspecting and touching because of a sense of privilege, but because they were pointing out all the similarities. Somewhere in my gut, I feel the bitter ache of shame.
From my spot at the end of the table, I have the perfect view of the unfolding evening. The conversation seems effortless, the voices gaining confidence as the night progresses. But I can’t relax; I’m watching their hands, our glasses, my eyes constantly flitting about. Max tries to draw me into conversation multiple times, but it’s when he admits to being an avid wild swimmer that I stifle a groan.
“Oh, that reminds me. Tabi is making us all swim in the lake tomorrow.”
“Good for her. I’m a big fan of it. I try and swim outdoors every week.”
