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Maybe I should leave now.
If Dad finds out where I am, the life I’ve built here could come crashing down around me.
The people I love will be in danger.
I’ll be in danger.
I grab my phone and pull up my last message from my mum.
Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.
Two years ago, I left Bendigo. For months I slept rough, jumping between hostels and homeless shelters, partying and taking drugs just to stay awake. I’d find places to sleep in public during the day; parks, beaches—places where it’s socially acceptable to doze off. I’d go to the shopping centre to charge my phone at the outlets in the food court; sit in the library when I needed wi-fi; shower in public bathrooms or hostels and carry around my dirty laundry in my backpack.
When Margie’s dog-sitting job popped up on the share-house website, it was early March, and the weather was already changing. It’d be a long winter on the streets and I knew I needed to find a more permanent solution before the weather set in.
The arrangement with Margie was a godsend, and the job at the jazz bar followed once I got a roof over my head. For the first time in a long time, it felt like everything was coming up Noah. I’d reinvented myself. I was a phoenix risen from the ashes of a burnt-out childhood and a shitty family, and there wasn’t anything I couldn’t achieve.
When Mark took over the Peacock Lounge and it became Mark’s Place, I’d hoped everything would stay more or less the same, and that I could maintain the stability I’d fought so hard to create. By the time I realised it wasn’t going to be great, I’d already adapted to the crushing weight of working for Mark.
I know, deep down, that I deserve better, but when you’re in that cycle of abuse, it’s hard to claw yourself out.
Once I’m dressed I go into the kitchen to make a coffee. It’s only six-thirty and I’m already spiralling.
I shove my cup under the spout of the coffee machine and let it run. Holding my breath, I quickly google my full name and wait for the results to come up.
Luckily, there are at least a dozen Noah Burgesses on Facebook and a marketing executive with a prolific LinkedIn page and blog. The only thing slightly linked to me is a short article announcing me as the winner of a colouring-in competition when I was seven years old. As far as the internet goes, I might as well not exist.
So why am I stressing over Dad? I’ve lived with the fear he’ll find me for over two years, but the fact is, Dad hasn’t reared his head since I left Bendigo, and I’ll be damned if I’ll live my life haunted by the ghost of childhood past. If I stop living my life, he wins, and I’ve got a hot man to take to the beach and watch frolic in the surf.No oneis taking that away from me.
Grabbing the keys to Margie’s car, I throw an esky and my beach bag into the back. It’s a little Hyundai Margie rarely uses because we cycle or catch public transport around Melbourne.
After swinging by a local café to grab us both a coffee, I drive through the city and arrive at Gabriel’s hotel just before eight. To my surprise, he’s in the lobby.
‘I could hardly sleep, I was so excited,’ he says as he falls into the passenger seat.
The tension eases out of my body. For the next few hours, it’ll be just us, away from everything.
‘Hey, about this morning—’ he begins.
‘It’s fine. It’ll die down.’ I hand him the AUX cord. ‘You’re in charge of the playlist.’
He laughs as I turn out of the hotel driveway, my phone directing me to turn left. ‘That’s a lot of responsibility.’
Gabriel filters through his playlists while I find my way onto the highway; it’s still early morning, and the traffic’s light as we make our way out of the city. Eventually, Gabriel settles on Taylor Swift’s latest album, which I’mdefinitelynot mad about.
‘I can’t believe they called my sunglasses bitchy,’ I say as we hit the open road.
‘I like them,’ Gabriel replies. ‘They’resassy.’
I adjust said sassy-slash-bitchy sunglasses. ‘I feel like that’s just a synonym for bitchy.’
Gabriel laughs and pats my knee. His hand lingers for a moment, and it takes me back to yesterday and how it felt when his hands had dragged down my body; when he’d brushed the hair from my eyes.
‘Did you work things out with your dad?’ I ask.
‘Yes. We decided to skip Brazil and go back to France after the Open is over,’ he replies. ‘I want to take time off.’
My heart stutters. I shouldn’t get ahead of myself. Gabriel is here for a finite amount of time; it’s selfish to try and make this anything more than it is.
