I lean forward and squeeze my eyes shut, as though that might stop the coffee and biscuits and two hotel breakfasts from rising in my stomach.
“Hey, lady, are you okay?”
My eyes fly open. A young barber in a leather apron.
“You good?” He takes a step toward me, and I jerk back so hard I bash my head on the brick wall behind me. The sharp pain blurs into my nausea, and I know I’m done.
“Move,” I croak at him.
He steps back, hands raised, just in time. I jackknife forward and vomit into the tiny drain by my feet. Coconut Krispies, caffeine, eggs, and the last of my dignity blast out of me in unholy surges. I close my eyes so I don’t have to see it.
“Dude!” the barber yelps. “Jesus!”
My diaphragm cramps, and my puking stops as suddenly as it starts. “Sorry. I’ve got a bad… everything.”
“Yeah, looks like it.”
I spit the last dregs of shame from my mouth into the gutter. I glance up, the barber’s looking at me in horrified sympathy, and I can’t blame him. I’m horrified at myself. For once again succumbing like this to the anxiety that’s been stalking me for the last year. For not seeing the signs about Tristan. For how easily my parents took his side.
“Do… do you want some water or something?”
What I want is for him to leave me to rot in peace, but I’ll settle for water.
“Yes, please.” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. The barber disappears into the building, and I wonder if he’s actually getting water or calling the police to say a crazy woman is puking upa storm behind his establishment.
I sit, listening for the sound of sirens, but as the seconds pass, my breath softens.
I think of Mum and Dad and Tristan. Of Jenny. Of Jake. Of Davis slamming the door as he walked away from me. Fuck them. Fuck them all. I amdonebeing a fucking walkover.
The barber returns with a bottle of Mount Franklin. Now that adrenaline isn’t running the show, I can see he’s young, maybe early twenties and not half as disgusted with me as he should be. Maybe he has sisters or something.I bet he doesn’t rip them off in rent.
“Do you want to come in?” he suggests. “Maybe wash your hands before…?”
I manage a tiny smile. “I touch a clean bottle of water? Yeah, thanks, that would be nice.”
He leads me into my old workplace, though it’s completely different now. Bright white walls with graffiti art lead the way to the bathroom. I go inside and rinse my mouth under the tap before scrubbing my hands with fancy liquid soap. The barber is waiting for me when I emerge.
He hands me the bottle of water. “Better?”
“Yeah, thanks.” I crack the bottle and drain half.
“Anytime.” He hesitates. “Is there anyone I can call for you? You need anything else?”
I look at him over the water bottle. Do I need anything else? I think of Davis asking me almost the same thing, and my heart aches. He had a point, though. And so does this guy. What does Cece Taylor need?
“Yeah,” I say, after I’ve swallowed every hint of my weakness, packing it up and shoving it under the blankets of my consciousness. I don’t need that shit cluttering up my already racing brain right now. “Have you got anyone here that can do a blowout? I need to look really, really, good tonight.”
20
Ada
Idon’t know where I’m going. Google Maps is guiding me, but the backroads to Thompson Farms are unsealed and seem specifically designed to make me veer into a ravine and die. I’m less than fifteen minutes from the town centre where we’re staying, but I might as well be on the moon.
Not that I was ever familiar with Pukekohe. I was watching Cece when we drove past the ‘welcome home’ sign that sits on the outskirts of town, and she smiled like she was thinking,‘thanks, it’s good to be home.’
I don’t feel that way about anywhere. I don’t think I ever will. But especially not here.
For no reason, I remember Jake, braced above me, naked and smiling. The feeling I had when he first sank into me in the missionary position, how it felt like I’d returned to a place I’d never been. The urge to drink rises like a tidal wave, making me wish I’d taken the bus to the farm with a handle of vodka.
