I sigh. ‘Fine.’
‘Loser has to jump off Lockwood pier.’
‘Seriously? That’s a really high pier.’
‘I’ve done it before. You in?’
‘Well, I guess it won’t hurt you to do it again,’ I say. ‘I’m in. What do I need to write?’
‘Tell him you miss him and you’d like to see him. And give him the address.’
‘That’s all?’
‘That’s all.’
‘Alright. He’ll ignore it, but alright.’ I type out the message and hesitate before I press ‘send’. When I do, I can’t stand looking at my phone.
‘See?’ she says. ‘That wasn’t so hard. And now we wait.’
My phone buzzes. I read the message quickly and then I groan.
‘What?’ Mary says.
‘I’m not telling.’
‘Stella.’
‘I really don’t want to jump off the pier,’ I say.
‘What did he say?’
I sigh. ‘He said he’s getting straight on the train.’
***
‘Are you sure you don’t mind him popping in?’ I ask Mary for the tenth time.
‘No. Of course not! How many times do I have to tell you that it’s fine?’
The buzzer goes and we look at each other. ‘Go on,’ she says, clapping her hands. ‘Answer it! Don’t keep him waiting! I should make myself scarce, shouldn’t I?’
‘Actually, I’d like you to meet him,’ I say.
‘Really?’
‘Of course.’
I open the door. Clem smells of nice cologne, which I know he only wears when he’s forced to or when he’s nervous.
He starts bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. ‘I might not know what it’s like to . . . to have a gambling dad or live in a caravan park or be adopted. But I know you, Price. And that has to count for something, right?’ He notices Mary and flushes. ‘Sorry,’ he says.
‘Don’t be. I’m Mary. Stella’s aunt. I’m an aunt!’
‘Clements.’
‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’
Clem pulls a face. ‘Oh.’
‘I’ll leave you to it.’ She grins at us and then disappears into her bedroom.
We go outside into her pretty little garden, which is so much more inviting than Kelly’s. Clem reaches for me and I think of all the things I’ve been telling myself about him. I wonder if they’re true. He’s wearing the belt, the stupid, crooked belt. It’s frayed and faded, now. As though he’s been wearing it non-stop since I gave it to him.
‘I thought you’d given up on me,’ I say.
Clem looks so shocked that I almost laugh. He sits down on a garden bench and stares at me. ‘What?’
‘I thought . . .’ I shrug. ‘I don’t know. You’ve been completely off the radar. You ignored me in biology.’
‘Oh, Price. Because I thought that was what you wanted!’
‘It wasn’t,’ I whisper.
‘About that night . . .’ he says. ‘When you came over.’
‘You don’t need to say anything.’
‘I didn’t want you to do something that you’d regret . . . I didn’t want you to regret me.’ His voice is tiny. He shakes his head. ‘I wanted to. Just not like that.’
I swallow. I don’t know what to do with my hands.
‘You’re my Price.’ He holds out his hand, but doesn’t look at me.
‘I know,’ I say.
‘And I don’t mean as friends.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t mean as friends.’ He squints away from me. ‘You’ve never just been my friend.’
I think of him tugging at my shirt and holding me the day we found Dad at the track. All those moments, pieced together into something so precious and dazzling that for a second I can’t think. I continue to stare at him. He continues to squint into the distance.
‘Clem?’
He doesn’t move, but I can tell he’s holding his breath.
‘I’m glad,’ I say. And I don’t have any feeling words for this moment. I don’t need them.
His whole face lights up and he jumps to his feet and kisses me, and it’s the strangest and most familiar thing in the world. He smiles at me, his face closer to mine than it’s ever been before. ‘I thought I’d screwed it all up for good,’ he says, pulling me tightly against his chest so that I’m overpowered by the smell of cologne and by the very fast beating of his heart.
‘Why didn’t you just call me?’
‘I figured you had enough going on without me adding to it,’ he says. I feel his lips press against my forehead. ‘That’s all.’
Clem’s always been there when I’ve let him be. And even when I’ve done everything I can to stop him, to drive him away, he’s still here. Ready to drown himself in cologne and jump straight on a train. Waiting for me.
***
That night, I stare up at the blank ceiling above the bed in Mary’s guest room. Mary’s painting is erratic, which is evident in the dribbles and brush marks. I can feel her energy. So unlike the ceiling above the bed I’ve been sleeping in at Kelly’s. That’s too empty; too clean. There’s nothing there of any stories, any people. Life hasn’t marked it, and I feel as though a splash of Taylor’s food or a scorch mark or a flood mark would sort of improve it. At least then you know the people you love have been there. Love makes me think of Clem, and my whole face flushes hotly against the cool pillowcase.
I think of how Kelly spends her days. She does all the sorts of things I’ve been telling everyone around me to do, to better themselves. She sits in the sun when she wakes up and drinks herbal tea and eats lots of dark, leafy greens. She takes vitamins and goes to yoga and keeps her house calm and ordered. But Kelly is still broken. She’s done everything right, and it’s not enough to fix her. I’ve been so obsessed with people being fixed – with me fixing them – and what good has it done anyone? What good has it done me?
I close my eyes and imagine myself back to the cabin with the mouldy smell and the worn-out, squeaking wicker furniture. I imagine myself back to the jungle wallpaper and the shells glued all across the ceiling, like stars.
It’s nothing like Kelly’s beautiful garden, where she is alone. And what a shame it is, to have a space that beautiful if you’re never going to share it with anybody.
***
The next day, I meet Mum at a café near her work and we drink milkshakes. Mum’s eyes are red-rimmed, but I don’t say anything important until she’s halfway through her caramel malt.
‘I want to come home. Wherever that is, after Fairyland. Wherever you guys are, I want to be there with you.’
She stiffens. ‘Are things not working out with Kelly?’
I shake my head. ‘She’s not my mum.’
Mum blinks very quickly.
‘She doesn’t want me there, Mum. And I wasn’t ever moving in with her permanently, I just wanted to get to know her. But that doesn’t mean I want her to be my mum. It doesn’t mean I want to live with her. I’ve already got my mum. I’ve got you.’