‘GOOD MORNING, FAWN,’ Xander Butcher says, striding into the quiet dining room and joining me at the empty table, completely casual and friendly as though our relationship predates the awkward introduction from a few nights ago. My eyes shoot to Henchman Jeeves, who is quietly reading the paper on the far side of the room, before gazing at Xander over my half-eaten spinach and three-egg omelette. Still chewing the salty, creamy concoction, I work the food faster in my mouth and set the fork down on the placemat.
Xander rests his hands on the table. His eyes are trained on me expectantly, but his right one is puffy, painted in blues and greens from bruising that wasn’t there the other night. It doesn’t seem to faze him. He flashes a bright white smile at me that makes my stomach do flips. He looks like a younger, softer version of Clay… The man who hasn’t left my brain alone since I met him.
‘Ah.’ I swallow the food in my mouth, clearing my throat after. ‘Hi, Xander.’ I play with the ends of my hair at my waist, coiling them around my finger.
He squints, his gaze assessing. ‘You have killer eyes, Fawn. One green? One, like, cloudy blue? And you know what?’ He nods slowly, saying, ‘I can see Dustin in you. Good looking man. It’s not an insult.’
I beam at him. ‘Thank you. I always hoped I had a little bit of him, enough that maybe he’ll recognise himself in me. Do you think?’ I’m surprised by my candour, feeling the hope sparkling through my face, unable to stifle it. Kindness makes me dumb, too. He shouldn’t be so friendly. It’s odd.
His lips close, pursing on the same smile that flashed brilliant white teeth before. ‘Sure he will.’ I like Xander. He chuckles in a deep cadence before saying, ‘So, do you like the movie, Pretty Woman?’
I raise a blonde brow at him, not wanting to jump to conclusions about the random question, but not really being a great swindler of tactful responses. ‘Are you comparing me to a prostitute?’
Smooth.
He laughs out loud, and it’s hard not to let my own smile break free, refreshed by him. Sceptical of his motivations, but refreshed, nonetheless. He is nothing like his big brother; no stoicism to him at all. ‘No, Fawn. My best mate Stacey loves that film. And her favourite bit is the shopping montage. You know that bit? ‘Big mistake.’ It’s a thing, right? And well…’ He leans back casually, retrieving a card from his wallet. Holding it up for me to see, he says, ‘I got big Butcher’s credit card, and I thought you, me, and her can go rack up some mad dollar signs and give him a headache. What do you think?’
And there it is.
I shrink a foot.
Humiliation snaps at the heels of my pride. I don’t like the idea of accepting clothes at all. Not one bit. It sounds like swallowing a boulder of debt. ‘Ah. No, thank you.’
Again, smooth.
‘What?’ Thrown by my answer, his brows weave tightly. ‘Why not?’
I stand up and walk over to the dishwasher, bending to stack my plate inside and hide my pathetic, ungrateful face from him. Ungrateful maybe, but I’m not a charity case. ‘I can’t accept any—’
‘Fawn,’ he cuts in, ‘he wants to buy you clothes. He has guests tonight, and he wants you to have a dress at the very least.’
‘I have clothes,’ I mutter to the contents of the dishwasher, where even the dirty plates seem to pity me. With their shiny surfaces and scratch-free coating, they are a bunch of obnoxious, privileged dishes.
No enchanted crockery, my arse.
‘Right,’ he says, playing with the word, his response sailing over the countertop to where I frown at inanimate objects. ‘You know it’s okay to accept help.’
Inhaling courage, I straighten to look at him, finding knowing cool-blue eyes. ‘I am letting him help me, and I’m really grateful, but I’m just here to see my dad. I don’t need to be dressed. Or fed. Or—’ I run out of things to say.
Jasmine appears from the lounge room, her maid uniform on and a bottle of Spray and Wipe clutched in her hand. ‘You are letting him help the baby,’ she chimes in, and I deadpan. ‘You’re taking the absolute minimum even then.’
Contempt, whether misplaced or not, crawls its way up my spine, a sensation I’m unable to flick from my fingers. ‘I’m going for a swim.’ My words come out curt as I stride straight for the French doors of the mansion I live in for free, because I am a baby bird pushed from the nest, trying to fly but not able to and having everyone notice every fall and collision. My reality and efforts are merely failings in my spectators’ eyes.
I lock my teeth, bend to pull my shorts down my thighs, and wrangle my shirt over my head, my long blonde hair flicking free as I hurl it onto the lounger.
I dive into the pool in my underwear, the cool arms of her silky body enveloping me, smothering me, and for a few seconds, no one can watch me barely existing.
Watch me beg for the truth about that night. The crazy girl with no memory of how she got knocked-up. Improbable.
Watch me beg for an autopsy. The stupid girl who challenges the words of her two foster brothers, only to have the police sneer at her.
Watch the silly girl being coddled by a stranger twice her age who makes her warm and uncomfortable and all the while having another person’s kid growing in her uterus and no memory of how it happened.
Watch a lost cause.
Then it’s over.
Surfacing, I breathe in as the water slides down my face to return to the pool.
Laying on my back, I make water angels. As I close my eyes, the water muted trees clap to an otherworldly cadence. I never asked for handouts. Not for me. I’ve felt alone since I was ten, before that, really. Now, I may not have done a good job raising myself on judgemental words from my foster mother or the perpetual humility forced on me to the point of soul-crushing emptiness, but I kept myself alive on it. I didn’t give up. I didn’t shoot myself in the head like she did.
‘Hey.’
Within my watery self-therapy session, I hear the muted words of a man reach me. Opening my eyes and coming to my feet on the concrete pool floor, I glance up and see a pitiless gaze filled with interest.
I smile at him.
One of the gardeners has come over to the poolside, a mist of perspiration clinging to every muscle his singlet exposes. He’s cute. Young. Probably Benji’s age.
‘Hello.’ I splash water at him, a small amount hitting his skin. ‘You look hot.’ Oh my God. I inwardly groan but pretend the only interpretation of that was a literal one.
‘Thanks for the shower.’ He pauses with hesitation. ‘I’ve never seen you before, and I’ve worked here for years.’
‘I’m not staying long, just a friend of the family.’
He smiles easily at me.
Easy would be nice.
