“You should go and have a nap, Freyja, while the babies are sleeping.”
And on and on and on. At least it means I don’t have to contribute much to the conversation.
After we’ve eaten, I sit back with the glass of whisky Will pours for me and observe the familiar yet somehow alien dynamics. Dynamics that have changed subtly with the addition of Freyja and Rosanna. And the loss of Jess.
It’s taking me a hot minute, okay, maybe a hot month or two, to acclimatise to being part of the family again without Jess as the buffer.
It’s a family of big personalities, big opinions and big emotions. I’ve always felt slightly intimidated by them, if I’m honest. Mum always said I’m like her father. Quiet. Thoughtful. Reserved. Whereas the others have always been a bit—or a lot—on the dramatic side.
Will and Ben were always in trouble at school. Will because he was too smart for his own good and got bored. Ben because, funnily enough, he was too smart for his own good too, only his dyslexia masked his amazing brain, and he acted out.
Being between them in birth order felt like being the meat in the volatility sandwich a lot of the time. Keeping my head down and doing the right thing seemed like the safest option. And the kindest thing I could do for my mother, who was overwhelmed with their antics, our little sister being bullied, and my father being a workaholic. If she didn’t have to worry about me, there was one less problem for her.
Sadie seems to be revelling in the noise and activity. If something needs doing, she jumps up and offers. She chats and smiles as though she’s known everyone forever. And when littleIsla, aptly nicknamed Isla the Wonderchild, who I guess is two or three, insists Sadie needs her hair ‘done’, she submits with a delighted laugh.
A laugh that hits me right between the eyes. Or maybe lower. In the chest. Knocking the breath out of me and throwing off the rhythm of my heart. Because that’s exactly what Jess would’ve done.
Chapter Eighteen
Sadie
Idon’t know what’s happened, but as Isla is pulling my hair out by the roots with a little pink plastic brush, I glance over at Ethan. His face, only minutes ago relaxed and almost smiling, is a mask.
It can’t be anything I’ve said. Can it?
My gaze darts from person to person, and everyone is engaged in teasing banter. Nobody seems to have been in a position to have said something to upset him. Years of growing up in a domestic war zone has honed my ability to pick up on tensions between people. But Ethan’s tension is all centred on himself. Directed inward.
The only other person who seems to have noticed is Ben, who is on the other side of the room, swaying and patting the little back of the baby draped over his shoulder. His bright blue gaze is trained on Ethan, and all I can read is concern. And love. I might’ve only just met this family, but you can feel the love oozing out all over the place.
You can also feel the way they’re not quite walking on eggshells with Ethan, but they’re definitely watching what they say. Tempering their demonstrations of affection. A couple of times I’ve noticed Greer about to say something and suddenly changing the subject, clearly not saying what had been on the tip of her tongue.
And I’ve seen the way Stella’s eyes follow Ethan. Longing. Assessing. Worrying. There is a mother who wants desperately to help and isn’t being let in. Which makes my heart hurt. I’d give anything for a mother who cared about me like that.
My hair is finally in two very attractive pigtails that meet Isla’s exacting standards, and the hairs on the back of my neck are standing up.
I need to get Ethan out of here.
“Thank you, Isla.” I kiss her dimpled little cheek. “You know what? I think I have to go right home and show my friend Bella this beautiful hairstyle. She’s going to be so jealous.”
Isla beams. Lulu rolls her eyes and mimes ‘thank you’ from behind Isla’s mass of bright red curls.
“Ethan, maybe we should start back to Sydney?” I suggest as casually as I can.
“Yes. Right. We should,” is all he says before standing up.
Concerned looks fly around the room like nervous butterflies, and not a soul suggests we stay longer, even though I can feel the disappointment. Especially from Stella.
I wouldn’t have thought it possible after yesterday’s prolonged departure, but we’re out at the car in less than five minutes. The rest of the family stands on the verandah, their enthusiastic waving at odds with expressions ranging from false smiles to concern to heartbreak.
Stella breaks from the crowd as though she can’t bear to see him go and gives Ethan a final hug before he gets into the car.
“I love you, darling,” I hear her whisper against his chest.
“Love you too, Mum.” His reply is gruff.
Ethan had a couple of whiskies this morning, although certainly not enough to be anywhere near drunk. Nonetheless, I drive. At least this way, I can occupy my mind with the road rather than what happened last night. Or this morning. Or not. Because thoughts are flying through my head faster than the kilometres are flying under the wheels.
The first time Ethan and I hooked up, it was good. Very good. But we were strangers. Last night was something else again. Better. More intimate. More dangerous. Suddenly, I find myself craving kisses, which is a new phenomenon for me. And regretting the fact that the one person I’ve met in … well, forever … who I might be interested in having more than a hook up with is totally off limits. I silently remind myself of all the reasons this is not a good idea. He’s my professor. He’s in a position to completely screw up my career, which is what I need to be focusing on. And he’s very obviously still grieving his wife.
