April's Glow (23 page)

Maybe it was just because of today. September fifth. The third anniversary of her accident. She needed space to get through it, like Zac had needed space to get through his first anniversary. And she needed to get to the first anniversary of her business next month. Show that she had made it on her own, survived the first year. There was too much going on in her mind.

And then there was the email.

It had arrived an hour ago, and she still hadn't clicked on it.

Subject:
Thanks for your letter

Okay, she had to read it. She'd procrastinated enough.

She clicked open. As Kyle couldn't type, it was obviously from his parents. His mother, in this case, as she read the signature at the bottom.

Now the tears came. Not when she'd read the letter she'd written, nor when she'd sent it, nor when she'd said no to Zac. But now. And not only for his reply, but for the fear that she wasn't honouring him properly. Was she really living her life to the full?

From now on, each anniversary would no longer be filled with sadness, she decided. It would signify a reminder of the gift of life she had. A reminder to live fully as Kyle wasn't able to, and make use of what she had.

She knew this would, at some stage, mean opening her heart up properly again, but right now, she didn't feel ready. Zac was ready, she knew that, but she wasn't. She didn't want to build something only to have it shatter. Maybe Zac had been a practice guy, preparing her for someone more suitable down the track.

Romeo meowed as he approached her, rubbing his head against her right leg.

‘It's okay, I'm okay,' she said, sobbing and wiping her face. ‘Here.' She picked him up and held him close to her, grateful for the comfort and unconditional love from her pet. ‘Will I ever be ready, Romeo?' she asked, to another meow. ‘What is wrong with me? Why can't I take away the fear?'

More tears came, and though she felt silly for it, she craved even more. More release, more of the cathartic bliss. If she was going to cry she might as well do a damn good job.

Sometimes the only way to avoid a broken heart was to be the heartbreaker. But that came with its own kind of breaking; a splintering of guilt, an ache of sadness, a painful throb repeatedly saying, ‘it's not fair, it's not fair!'

Why is it that the ones who feel so right are so wrong?

The only way April had been able to handle her rejection of Zac was by making herself extremely busy over the past month. Which hadn't been hard. With the store's birthday celebrations all organised to perfection for tomorrow night, she'd barely had time to think about the Zac situation. It was only during quiet moments when her thoughts would return to him, and then before they could take hold she'd find some task she needed to do, or a call she needed to make, or would distract herself on Facebook with stupid quizzes like ‘which movie star is your soulmate?'

By the looks of things, Zac was coping in his own way. He was busy too. She'd wake to early morning hammering and chainsawing, and the sounds of timber banging together. It wasn't like Zac to be up early, but he'd be outside at the crack of dawn building things. Cat things. Like some giant feline cubby house adventure playground. She'd also noticed a wooden stand on the deck housing an array of fresh herbs. If he wasn't a wealthy ex-soldier, poet, and blogger, he could be a carpenter.

She'd thought about going over there and telling him about her event for tomorrow, since it had been his idea, but every time she built up the courage she'd find an excuse not to go. But with one day to go, it was now or never. She couldn't be rude and not at least thank him for the inspiration. And invite him, not that he'd attend. Or maybe he'd surprise her, maybe he'd also been busy working through his phobia and was ready to try taking a risk. He would have been a great ambassador for the event, since the chosen charity would be close to his heart, but she doubted he was ready to announce overcoming his addiction in public, let alone
be
in public.

She took the glossy flyer from her fridge, the butterfly magnet dropping to the floor and breaking in half.

Damn it.

She picked up the pieces and tossed them in the bin.

Bad omen?

No, she didn't believe in that stuff.

She let Romeo inside and fed him, then went out the front door, the sun still blaring despite being evening. With daylight savings starting the week before, she had been able to leave Romeo outside most days while she was at work, which he loved. And despite him jumping into Zac's yard occasionally, it was no longer a problem as Zac would either lift him back over without her having to ask, or she'd ring the new bell she'd bought for him to associate with being fed and patted. Worked a treat.

If only human lives were as simple as those of cats.

She stepped onto the porch, noticing another wooden creation beside the door—a large storage box with a label: deliveries. She shook her head. Zac went to a lot of trouble to make something that was totally unnecessary. Sure, he got a lot of things delivered to his house so he didn't have to step foot inside a busy store, but a box for boxes? He must have really needed something to occupy his mind.

She knocked, and muffled footsteps sounded. She knew he would probably peer through one of the windows so she kept a neutral expression on her face and held the flyer up near her chest, so it looked like she was just dropping something off. Which she was, of course.

The door opened and the scent of Zac's freshly showered skin wafted towards her, her legs becoming unsteady for a split second. A white towel was wrapped low around his waist and tucked in at the right side, the top of one of his tattoos peeking out the top. The tattoo she'd seen that night:
For your eyes only
. She could only she the word ‘For', and for some reason imagined another woman in the future seeing the tattoo. A sickening feeling curdled in her stomach and she mentally scolded herself. How ridiculous, jealous of someone that didn't exist yet, or did, but not yet in his life. She'd said no to him, she had no right to feel any attachment to him or entitlement to his damn tattoo.

‘Hey,' he said.

‘Hey.' April forgot why she was there.

‘What's that?' His eyes glanced towards her flyer.

‘Oh. This.' She held it up. ‘It's for my store's birthday event. Here.' She handed it to him. ‘I know you won't come, but I wanted to give it to you anyway, and thank you for the idea.' She avoided looking at his eyes by keeping her focus on the flyer and pointing out things he could clearly read by himself, but she needed to do something with her hands too. ‘As you can see, twenty per cent of all proceeds from the night markets will go to charity, the Addiction Prevention Foundation. People who can't make the markets can also donate via a special link on my website. Not that you have to, I'm just saying, if you wanted to it would—'

‘I will for sure,' he said.

‘Cool. Thanks. Okay, I guess I'll, ah …' She gestured to her house with her thumb.

An awkward silence filled the gap between them, the gap they had closed before by moving close to each other, the gap that hadn't existed whatsoever that night at his house when they'd lain in bed together as one.

She smiled and stepped off the porch.

‘April.'

She turned back and looked at him, standing at the doorway half naked without any self-consciousness. ‘Yes?'

‘I told myself I wasn't going to chase you. You know where I stand, you know what I feel. But this …' He raised his hands and let them fall to his side. ‘This is just … not us.'

She knew she wouldn't be able to get away without getting caught up in another deep discussion. ‘Zac, I think we've said all that needs to be said.'

‘No, we haven't. I haven't. And I don't care if I sound annoying, or desperate, or crazy, but we should be together, April. Life doesn't make sense without you.'

Oh God, why did he have to be standing there in that towel, and saying the sorts of things most women would love to have said to them? He was like a perfect disaster waiting to happen.

‘And it wouldn't make sense if we
were
together. I'd be forever worried that things would go wrong, that you'd fall back into old ways, that …'

That I might get knocked down the stairs like Mum.

That I would end up on anti-anxiety medication like Mum.

That I'd lose you like Kyle.

‘That … look,' she sighed, ‘it just wouldn't work.'

He turned his head away, then back again. ‘But, life is short and precious, you know that as well as me. We should be making the most of life. Of our lives. Not living in fear.'

‘Fear, Zac? Fear?' April put her hands on her hips. ‘If we shouldn't be living in fear, then why are you?'

His jaw tightened.

‘If life should be made the most of and lived fearlessly, then why aren't you trying to overcome your phobia, huh? I wrote that letter to Kyle to move forward, I read those books you gave me to learn more about myself and the world, I listened to a song for the first time in ages, I took part in those thirty-six questions with you to start opening up more, I …' She was out of breath. As oxygen rushed into her lungs, she continued, ‘I made an effort. But you, you continue to live out your days locked away in your house, building God knows what, and writing God knows what, and avoiding the things that could tip you over the edge. How can I be with someone who can't handle the world? You say you won't go back to your addiction, but how do you know how you'll cope when you're back out there if you won't
get
back out there?' Her wildly gesticulating hands felt like they might fly off and get carried away in the wind. ‘God, Zac. You need to just say, “enough!” Take a stand for your life and snap the hell out of it!'

Her exhalation felt rough and gritty, like she'd released some dormant emotions that had festered away for too long. And that wasn't the only thing that was rough and gritty. Zac's face had changed. He no longer held that honest, open expression in his eyes, they only held annoyance. Or was it anger? She hadn't seen it before, even when she'd rejected him after their night together. She'd hit a nerve, and she didn't know whether that was a good thing and what he needed to finally do something about his problem, or whether she had gone too far.

‘Sure. I'll do that. No problem. I'll snap out of it,' he said. ‘I better get to it, then.' He stepped back inside the house and April flinched as he closed the door. Not a calm close, but a firm, definite, ‘go away' slam.

She dashed back home and closed her own door, and sunk onto the couch as dread and regret weighed down her muscles. She had gone too far. As usual, her big mouth had gotten her into trouble and there was no delete button to undo the damage.

* * *

He'd kill for a drink.

A long, slow, indulgent drink that went on forever, gave him that comfortable buzz of happiness and hazy filter over the world and its overstimulation.

He didn't have any. And if he wanted it, he'd have to go out. He couldn't go out. Right now, that was the only thing stopping him. His agoraphobia was saving him, strangely enough. It
had
served a purpose, despite some people seeing it as something that needed to be fixed.

He rushed out back to get some fresh air, even though he'd been standing out front. The air there was marred with her hurtful words. He took a few deep breaths, looked at his strength tattoo, reminded himself of his coping strategies. He should call his sponsor. Before heading back inside, the flowering star magnolia trees caught his attention. Johnny's was still slightly taller than his. He imagined that Johnny was looking down on him, chuckling to himself at his superiority.

No. No sponsor. His twelve months were up. He needed to handle this craving on his own. He needed to step up and make Johnny proud.

And April was right, there was no guarantee he would stay sober. The cravings would come and go. Whether he gave in was another matter. But today, he wouldn't. Couldn't.

Despite being freshly showered, he got to the floor and did push-up after push-up until his arms could take it no more and sweat formed on his skin. Then he did sit-up after sit-up until he could no longer bend at the waist. Then he sculled a glass of water, took another three breaths, remembered the feeling during meditation of his breath being enough. One breath at a time. He could do this. He could keep it together.

But he needed to write.

Now.

He went to his blog. It was time to come clean.