What was that scar, Nora asks him. On your leg?
You’ve really been checking me out, haven’t you?
No, she says, and while he was just teasing, he’s also aware that they are both unsure of how to be together like this, in person; the conversation swinging between nonchalant and intense; small talk to wildly specific.
It’s just a scar, he says, with a shrug.
But how did you get it, she presses. It’s a bloody greatmassivescar, Bren.
I’ve had a few accidents over the years, Bren says. Occupational hazard.
What happened?
Bren slurps more of his coffee. It’s near heavenly after the cold water, warms his throat, the soft, numbed part behind his ribs. A few of them broken, in this same accident, from where he threw himself, hard, onto his board.
I got bitten by a shark, he tells her.
Funny, Nora says, breaking off another piece of pastry. What actually happened?
I got bitten by a shark, he repeats.
Bren, she says. Come on.
I know it’s something people say, Bren says, like, I was mauled by a bear, or lost a fight with a croc, but seriously. I got. Bitten. By a shark. In Australia, when I was teaching some kids to surf. About four years ago.
Nora stares at him.
It wasn’t a big deal, he says, leaning back on his stool. It was pretty small, probably old. It wasn’t like a scene fromJaws, or anything. I didn’t even pass out; I thumped it on the nose, and it swam away. They stitched me up, gave me some painkillers, and I was back on the surfboard a fortnight later. What? Why are you looking at me like that?
Her face looks strange. All affection gone; contorted, now, like she’s mad at him, rather than awed.
It was fine, Nora, he says. I’m fine.
Clearly, she says.
Nora, he says. What –
You email me aboutchocolate, Bren. And sunburn. And the nice view out of your window, yet fail to mention you got bitten by a freakingshark?
Stir of his coffee, mostly froth, now, at the bottom of the cup.
I knew it would freak you out, he says.
Knew it would freak my mother out.That you’d tell her.
But the ease of the past hour – the acceptance of him showing up, their shared swim, her laughter, the slow, hesitant reaching for some sort of normality between them – has vanished. Nora’s pink cheeks are flaming, now.
How are we friends if you never tell me anything real? Anything that actually happens to you?
Like getting engaged, you mean, Bren says, before he realises he’s going to. Or, I don’t know, moving in with your boyfriend?
I told you those things!
No, Nora, you didn’t. I just figured them out, from the new background on your webcam, or because my mum mentioned something on the phone. Or because you sent me an invitation, attached to a blank email.
Thatagain, Nora says.
What, you’d rather circle back to a senseless shark bite?
