Keanen holds up a hand. “It’s okay. You don’t need to explain. We’d only be going as friends, anyway, right?”
And it’s that declaration that tips me in the opposite direction to where I was heading. A friend is far more attractive than getting an extra shift at work. In the grand scheme ofthings, it’s probably far more important to my mental health, too.
The last three months have been so lonely.
“No, you’re right. It’ll be more fun to go together. Of course, I’ll go with you.”
“Yeah?” His eyes light up and he shifts posture, angling farther towards me. “Fantastic. It’s a friend date.”
The lunchtime chatbanishes the unpleasant remnants from that morning—the hassles lost under the pleasant buzz of our fledgling friendship. The threats from Kari, dismissed. Bumping into Lachlan, forgotten.
A warm Keanen hangover spills into the rest of my day. After school, I go home, even though my shift starts so early there really isn’t time. But my father didn’t show his face this morning and I want to see him, make sure he’s okay.
I also want to know he’s talked to his sponsor. If he hasn’t, I’ll be ringing him. Whatever else happens, there’s no way I’m paying a debt for my father, ever again. I wouldn’t, even without Kari’s threat.
The journey is wasted. He’s not there.
It fits the pattern I’ve seen before. Embarrassed by his behaviour and the consequences, he’ll spend more time away from home. Even if he has the best intentions, and I know he does, temptation will surround him.
Most of the time, he catches himself before he falls too far, wrestling his demons into temporary submission to become the father I cherish.
I could wait here for him, lose my meagre income in the effort to catch him when he pops home—to change, to shower, tograb a power nap—and reassure him he doesn’t need to avoid me; I’d rather have him here.
But the job was hard enough to find once, twice might push my luck. And if he doesn’t show at all, it’ll be for nothing.
I’m too tired to think any further than that. Too tired to worry about him out in the world, pissing off the wrong people, maybe earning himself more than threats, more than a beating this time.
Since I’m home, I change into my grubbiest outfit for the upcoming six-hour shift at the restaurant. There’s a gap in my wardrobe and I stare at it for a long time before I remember what’s missing.
The clothing I wore yesterday. I changed in the department store but can’t remember what happened to them after that.
A pity, the pair of jeans was my best and although the blouse had a small tear in the side seam, it was easily covered. I add getting replacements onto a mental list that never seems to grow shorter, no matter how many items I tick off, and leave the house ten minutes after entering.
My eyes automatically check the top step as I pass but it’s clean now. The rain of the night before must have washed the blood away.
I’m four hours into my shift before I get a break. Unlike half the kitchen, I don’t smoke but still duck into the alleyway out the back, avoiding the stench circle around the rubbish skips to lean against the fence and breathe in gulps of the fresh night air.
Out here it’s cold, already single digits and probably heading lower overnight. Compared to the heat of the kitchen, it’s a gift. After a few minutes, I’ll probably change my mind, but for right now it’s heavenly.
A door from the back end of the pub opposite opens, a man shouldering it while he carries two large rubbish bags, one ineach hand. He kicks a wedge in to hold the door, then walks across to our skip. Given my employment, I should probably call him out on the territory breach, but I’d rather mind my business and use my break to get an actual break.
Still, he probably deserves it when the universe teaches him a lesson by making the wedge slip, sending it skidding out the side as the pneumatic hinge on the door drags it closed.
“Damn it,” the unfortunate yells, then notices me for the first time. I pretend a sudden interest in the cracked concrete underfoot, though I monitor the impromptu soap opera from under my lashes.
He stands with his hands on his hips, staring at the shut door with a grumpy expression. Given the state of his uniform, even dirtier than mine, going through the front door won’t earn him any favours from management. He tugs at the handle on the off chance, kicking the door when it stays resolutely shut.
With a quick spin of his heel, he heads straight towards me, stopping two metres distant. “Got a phone I could borrow?”
“Yeah.” I walk it over to him, deciding I can afford the increased threat level more easily than I can afford to replace my phone if I toss it and he fumbles the catch.
“Cheers.” He taps in the number from memory, then exchanges a short set of instructions with the person answering. “Here you go,” he says, handing the phone back to me. “Thanks.” He offers a crooked smile, then saunters towards the door, arriving just as it opens.
The man inside makes an elaborate show of holding the door open and waving the worker inside, then glances across to me and I freeze.
It’s Patrick.
I hold my breath and duck my head low, checking from my peripheral vision to see what he’s doing. I hope he’s heading backinside when he turns but he’s just kicking the wedge into place. It skids a little then holds, probably intimidated into it. I remember his teasing in the library. The abrupt change in personality when he recognised my distress counts in his favour, but it hasn’t entirely wiped out the earlier impression.
