“We filed paperwork to sue my dad. There’s a young actress who filed against her mom several years ago that set the precedent. Bullying, mismanagement, fraud . . . that kind of thing. Basically, Dad schemed with my accountant to exploit me for his own profit and benefit. He’s refusing to deal with me directly, citing unreasonable behaviour when we’ve spoken. It’s lies. But it’s a classic ‘he said, she said’. I’d rather focus on the stuff I can prove.”
“You’re handling it really well,” Luke said. It seemed an understatement. The first night they’d spent together, he’d thought her young. But the more time he spent with her, he realized, she just had preferences when the two of them came together in bed. She liked him to take control. But outside of sex, she had an inner strength he actually admired.
“Don’t be fooled. I have moments when I feel like anxiety is going to swallow me whole and spit me back out again.”
“Yeah. But you get up and get on with shit anyway. Doesn’t it feel like a chore?”
“It does.” She shrugged. “But I’ve been reading these books, lots of them. I have a choice in how I feel about what needs doing. I can get upset, I can cry, I can ask myself, why me? Why can’t I catch a break? Or I can look at whatever it is that needs doing, tell myself I’m capable, that I’ve never let myself down yet, and get on with it. In the end, it gets done, the difference is how I feel while doing it.”
Luke thought about looking after Izabel. “That makes sense. How do you get from one place to another?”
“Mentally?”
“Yeah. Like. How do you switch from one mindset to the other?”
“Honestly? I literally ask myself, out loud, if possible, how do I choose to feel about this? That’s it. If I can’t change it, and it’s gnarly, and it has to get done, I just force myself to choose. To breathe. To relax my shoulders.”
He dropped his own at her words, aware the conversation was close to making him feel emotionally incompetent. “I want to do all that,” he said.
“Just choose, Luke. How often do you look back, specifically at something that was tough that you survived, and think how good it was for you in the long-term? How much it taught you? How much better you know yourself now?”
He was still noodling her words hours later when they climbed into a taxi to take them back to the hotel. Was it possible to choose how you felt? It felt like his feelings had always chosen him. Or maybe it was just the way he was looking at the circumstances of his life. The creep of panic rose in his throat, and he opened the taxi window wide.
“Are you okay?” Willow asked.
“Yeah, good. Why?” He forced the words out, over the panic. He breathed like Ben had said. Five in. Five out.
“Your hand just went clammy and you look a little grey.”
Yeah. No. He was not having a panic attack in front of Willow. “Maybe a little carsick. I don’t like traveling in the back of the car.”
“Oh, do you want to stop and get in the front? I don’t mind sitting back here by myself.”
The hotel came into view around the bend. “No. No. I’m good.”
He paid the taxi driver and then hurried them both up to the room. Once inside, he led her to the bed. “Get comfortable. I’ll just need a minute in the bathroom.”
“Take your time,” Willow said, concern lacing her words. “Why don’t you take one of the waters with you, just in case?”
He grabbed one and placed it on the counter in the bathroom before locking the bathroom door and sliding down against it.
Why couldn’t he look back at what had happened in his life without freaking out? Why couldn’t he think about changing the way he viewed the world without spinning out of control?
When he felt like he had his legs beneath him again, he stripped and stepped beneath the shower, turning the taps until it was ice cold. The frigid water chased away the remnants of his panic attack. Once he had a towel tucked around his waist, he brushed his teeth and studied his own reflection.
What was it his father had said?
Still waters run deep.
That’s how he’d been until his father’s death. Then, he’d fought. He’d been out of control. If the band went out for a night, he’d fight. Shit, he’d fought everything. What had happened to his dad. To his mum. Matt and Iz getting together. It was like he expected everything to be hard. Was that all he was doing now? Fighting something.
He picked up his clothes and walked back into the hotel room, where Willow was standing out on the balcony.
“Are you feeling better?” she asked as he joined her.
He wanted a cigarette. Wanted to be on his own.
No. He didn’t.
He needed someone to hold on to. “Much. Come here.”
Luke opened his arms and Willow stepped into them. The warmth of her heated his chilled bones. For a moment, he considered telling her, spilling his guts until she knew everything. But he wasn’t ready for that.
Yet.
Stars twinkled in the ink-blue sky, the shush of the waves the only sound. Peace wasn’t something he realised he missed until he experienced it. It left him with a sense of wonder, with space to actually create something without having to refer to the noise that always filled his head.
He stood holding on to Willow like she was driftwood in his swirling ocean. A way to keep his head above water while he was buffeted from all sides.
From within.
“I suppose I should keep my distance a little,” she said, pulling away from him. “If you are sick sick, not car sick, I might catch it, and I’m not sure how good for the baby that would be.”
Finally, he released her. “Let’s get some sleep, flower.”
Disappointed in himself, he led her to the bed he’d mentally made plans for all day. The two of them, a warm sea breeze, naked bodies.
But now, there was no way they could do that. She was right. If he was sick, she should keep her distance. Only he knew he wasn’t. But telling her what was wrong, was far more painful than spending a night without her in his arms.
At least, that’s what he tried to convince himself of as they drifted asleep on opposite sides of the bed.
Luke perched on a rocky outcrop and watched Willow take pictures of the bay and harbour. There was something quite captivating about her when she worked. She was truly happy with what she did. And now he understood just how much work was involved, he’d stopped thinking of content creation and being an influencer as an easy career. There were hours plotting out themes, stories, and content. Hour spent editing and posting and commenting.
She was building something real. Hell, with as many followers as she had, perhaps it was already built. And maybe joy came from reaping the rewards of that kind of effort.
The dress she wore kept whipping up with the breeze blowing in off the water. Her bump looked bigger, and she looked . . . glowing.
Beautiful.
And right at this minute, he felt the same peace he’d felt on the balcony the previous night. Words would change that, but he’d decided at some point during the early hours of the morning that he needed to be honest with her. And by being honest, perhaps he’d give them a better foundation to build the two of them and their relationship on.