Forever summer (Summer # 4) (5 page)

To: Adam

Guess what Mum packed for me?

HILARIOUS if not a little bit scary.

SENT!

It was only just nearing 1 a.m., so I knew he would still most likely be at the Onslow playing pool. I mentally allowed what I thought would be enough time for him to take his shot, have some trash talk with the boys, and return to the bar for a sip of beer and the usual check of his phone. I smiled; he was nothing if very predictable. But when the few minutes I had allotted passed with no reply, I found myself thinking maybe his phone had gone flat. Maybe he had lost it. Or gone to bed early; but no matter how many scenarios I ran through my head none of them seemed realistic. If Adam’s phone had been flat he would find a way to charge it. Adam only ever lost his keys, never his phone, and as far as going to bed early, it was Friday night in Onslow, that would never happen.

Minutes dragged to the point where the likelihood of him replying was not very high. Had I pushed him too far? Had he lost interest in playing the game? I could feel my stomach drop with all the swirling scenarios in my head. Now that the shoe was on the other foot, the silent treatment wasn’t so much fun. It made me feel like such a bitch, having ignored all his messages. I opted for drastic measures; I had to make contact if I had any chance of going to sleep.

I dialled Adam’s number.

Nothing.

No answer.

This seemed wrong, very wrong, and I suddenly wished I were back in Onslow. Anything was only a short walk away from finding out the answer, or asking someone you knew a question to find it out. That was one of the blessings and curses of living in a small town and knowing everyone’s business. It was the one thing I thought I wouldn’t miss, but now, sitting in my city flat, alone in the early hours of Saturday, I had never felt more alone. I would instinctively message Tess but she would be with Toby and I didn’t want to seem like I was stalking Adam, which is totally what I would be doing.

Calm down, Ellie, you’re being ridiculous.

I decided instead to put my phone on silent and set it aside. Pulling back the covers and settling into my bed, it didn’t take long for sleep to claim me. There was a welcome refuge in knowing that everything appeared different in the light of day.

But nothing was clearer, just the same. There were no messages or texts from Adam. My message had been cryptic on purpose to coax a response from Adam and his ever-inquisitive personality, but there was nothing. Heat crept up my neck as I stared down at my blank screen, feeling like an idiot. I wished I hadn’t texted him back and worse, now he would have a bloody missed call from me.  Surely he knows me well enough to know I had offered him an olive branch. He wouldn’t ignore that to be cruel to me. Would he?

Screw you, Adam Henderson
.
I refuse to play these games.

Instead, I leapt out of bed with a surprisingly not completely horrific hangover and selected my outfit for the day. It was Saturday after all and what better way to enjoy it than to go for a Saturday stroll down to the main strip where cafés were dotted along the way, where hip city folk enjoyed brunch and sunshine. Enough was enough; I was going to immerse myself into this new world, blend in with the locals, and enjoy the aspects of my new life.

As I walked down my street, ensuring not to snare my thongs on the uneven footpath lifted by the root system of hundred-year-old elm trees, the sun broke its way through sections of the canopy. I felt happy and content. And it wasn’t just because I had—rather violently—chucked every single diary back in the box after I had showered. I had taped the box up and shoved it into the deep recess of my cupboard, out of my sight, soon to be forgotten. That was my old life, this was my new. I wouldn’t allow myself to recognise the emotion of being hurt by something as simple as an ignored text message. No way, no how. This was the new me, I was embracing my new life now. No more lonely weekends poring over old diary entries and drinking wine like a loser. I was in the prime of my life, for God’s sake; I couldn’t turn into a spinster cat lady, not yet. No, I would adopt an alter ego and become the independent person I had always wanted to be: then and only then would I return to Onslow and show them all.

Chapter Four

Tall, blond and abs you could grate cheese on.

Or so I imagined. I would hopefully find out as a fact, later on; I mean, the night was still young.

I resisted the urge to pinch my leg under the table.

No, this was real, this was very real. I was sitting across from THE Rory Franklin.

The very one and only Best and Fairest, Brownlow-winning, Aussie rules full forward, Rory Franklin. God bless Sheila, my new BFF and dental receptionist, for setting me up on a blind date; well, blind for him, not so much for me. I had all but smashed the windows of the hospitality area of our office with my elated squeals. There was not a woman in the southern hemisphere that didn’t know Rory ‘Cleo Bachelor’ Franklin.

It had been eight weeks, and I was so bloody proud of myself. Adam had texted, but our exchanges were nothing out of the ordinary—back-and-forth banter like once before. I tried to control my heart spiking every time my phone chimed, but as the distance of another weekend rolled past it felt like I could breathe again. It was becoming easier. The draw of wanting to go home to Onslow was beginning to fade, and once I learned that the key to it all was keeping busy, I merged into an altogether new groove, one that didn’t involve Adam Henderson.

And here I was, on my first date that didn’t involve a pot and a parmi at the Onslow Hotel. This was an honest-to-God date, with a hotter-than-hell footy legend.

Just be cool, Ellie. Be. Cool.

Rory’s baby blues glanced up from his menu with a melty grin. “They do a sensational duck dish here.” His voice was deep and rich—croony—and jolted the butterflies in my stomach into action by the simplest of words.

“Ooh, where’s that?” My eyes searched through my menu.

“Oh just … there.” Rory reached across the table and pointed to the elegant italic script; he had nice hands: large, tanned with immaculately trimmed nails that seemed a bit too well kept for a bloke.

He wasn’t your average meathead footy player. He was reserved for the elite players, the ones that hit a select pay bracket and stood out from the rest. He had heavily endorsed sponsorships outside his footy sponsors and would also pitch in for commentary gigs because he was built for TV.

He had picked me up at my flat, parking across the narrow suburban street, emerging from the red, sleek sports car with his black square-cut Italian leather shoes. He looked like a walking catalogue for Armani, and I’d been forced to quickly pick up my jaw from the pavement.

Since the zippy commute, friendly, light-hearted chitchat, flirty jokes and heated glances for the first forty-five minutes, I had been immensely proud of my composure. And the stares and whispers from those surrounding us weren’t lost on me.

The waiter approached, ready to take our order; he looked at me, under the assumption of ladies first (what service), and I was about to tell him that I would have the salmon when Rory spoke.

“We’ll have one steak, well done, no sauce, and a duck, thanks.” He all but whacked his menu into the waiter’s hands, before he winked at me. “You gotta try the duck.”

Umm, okay.

I honestly thought that that kind of stuff only happened in the movies. I actually felt that I had been transported back to the 1950s, where I smiled and nodded my head.

Yes, dear.

But in true Rory Franklin style, he redeemed himself by a mouth-watering smile and a compliment. “You look really beautiful tonight.”

I could almost see the gleam twinkle from his bleached white teeth.

Just. Breathe.

“Thank you.” I could feel the heat creeping up my neck and inflaming my cheeks. I hoped it wasn’t visible, although the restaurant was dark and moody, thankfully, with its dark, glossy surfaces and bird-cage, twig-like structure for lighting.

“Will you excuse me for a moment?” I smiled coyly. “I just need to use the restroom.”

I should have said something like ‘going to powder my nose’ like they do in the movies; after all, nothing about this seemed real. This was not your average Saturday night outing for me.

In true gentlemanly fashion Rory stood as I stood, his impressive six-foot-five muscled frame towering over me.

“Won’t be long.” I smiled, broad and sexy. I wanted him to remember me in my absence; his searing gaze that locked with mine flickered with a secret, dirty promise as he flashed a wolfish grin.

“I’ll be here.”

I could feel my heart drumming in my chest as I tried to remain cool and calm, breaking away from his intense eyes. I weaved my way through the dimly lit restaurant, swaying my hips and walking with an assured confidence, smiling a little smile with the knowledge that all the onlookers were eyeing my table with interest.

That’s right, bitches: Rory Fucking Franklin.

It still didn’t seem real.

I veered down a hall, tracing a long path toward the back of the building lit only with dull down lights and glimpses of mirrored panels. I was still smiling as I pushed my way through the very end door that had the silhouette of a lady. I had never felt more alive, more feminine, my belly aflutter with the workings of a thousand butterflies dancing with the memory of Rory’s smile. I dodged a woman retreating from the basin and through the door. I locked my eyes on the real reason I excused myself, not for the necessity of the ladies’ room per se, but to check my makeup and tame any flyaway hairs that might mortify me. Smoothing over my brow and pressing my glossed lips together, I was relieved for the grounding moment of alone time I had in the secluded toilets. I turned from side to side, running my hand down the seam to smooth over my black dress. I grabbed my clutch resting on the granite top basin, delving to find the lip-gloss cylinder to reapply my lips, when as if by some coincidence my mobile chimed to attention. The interior of my silk clutch illuminated just as I opened the clasp.

Thinking it was my nightly text from Tess on how my date of all dates was faring, my smile broadened to blinding proportions when I quizzically stared at the screen.

Rory

1 Message

Wow, was he missing me that much? I mused, thumbing the mobile to retrieve my message with interest.

My smile faltered before falling away completely, as did the contents of my clutch as they spilled across the counter and into the sink when it fell from my hand.

Little did I care for the clattering of my contents—compact, tampon, lipstick, perfume, and condom—that spilled into the basin. No, my eyes were too readily fixed on the illuminated screen in my white-knuckled embrace. My eyes ticked over the text, over and over again.

A bit dumb but nice ass.

My gaze may have been mystified to begin with, but as the weight of Rory’s words gained traction, you didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out exactly what had happened. Heck, I had almost done it myself a hundred times before; it was the number one nightmarish mistake you could do in the tech world.

Accidentally message the person you were talking about. Rory had obviously made this very mistake, and now black-and-white proof lay in my palm of his exact impression of me in a nutshell. Any confidence and feeling of grandeur and smugness had been wiped away.

My attention snapped with the swinging of the ladies’ door, the sound of high-powered giggles assaulting my peace as two women walked in.

The interruption jarred me to attention, to not think about much more than to scoop my belongings quickly up from the sink and get the hell out of there. Caring not a second for what I might look like, I scurried my way toward the ladies’ door, juggling to close the clasp to my clutch, all the while knocking into one of the women.

“Hey,” she cried out. “Watch it.”

I couldn’t raise enough energy to apologise or care for anything other than storming back toward the restaurant, my mobile still burning into the palm of my clenched hand.

I half expected him to be sitting there, waiting with an innocent, ignorant smile, completely unaware of what a massive cock-up he had just committed in a two-point-five second moment of stupidity. But Rory was none of those things; I spotted it even from across the other side of the restaurant. His face was illuminated by the centred lamplight of our table; his anxious and guilty eyes rested on me. Gone was the self-assured cockiness of the man that had picked me up in his red sports car, gone was the sexy alluring smile of before; instead, it was replaced by the ‘oh shit’ look as he gingerly moved to stand up from the table, at a guess, trying to be gentlemanly or just out of an idea of what to do as I approached in a long, determined line toward our table. Unlike Rory, who couldn’t disguise the look of being busted, even though he desperately tried to. I was not too concerned on him reading exactly how I was feeling, I wanted him to see it my eyes, my burning, seething gaze that told him that his unease was completely justified. That in a two-point-five second lapse of concentration he had turned my confident, awesome feeling into a plunging hole I wanted to bury myself in.

A bit dumb but nice ass.

Yeah, I showed him my hurt and anger through my stare; I made no apologies by looking him straight back into his sheepish eyes. I also made no apology for my hand grabbing my wine and throwing it into his face.

“Enjoy the duck, you dick!”

Giving no time to enjoy Rory’s humiliation as he wiped the glorious red stain from his eyes, or the gasped horror and whispers of the diners around, I shoved my clutch under my arm and strode a determined line to the glass doors. Pushing myself out onto the street, basking in the cool night air that felt glorious against my flamed cheeks. My eyes burned, not from the crisp, cool night, but with the ebbing adrenalin and the fury that bubbled under my skin.

Don’t cry, Ellie, don’t cry; the dickhead is not worth it.