Knowing Me, Knowing You Page 9

  I wasn’t going to go near that inflammatory comment, so I stood with my hand out. He glared ineffectually for nearly ten seconds and then pulled the shirt over his head and passed it to me. I told myself not to look.

  Shane the rebel.

  I held the shirt to my nose and didn’t even have to breathe deeply for the odor to hit. “Shit, Ambrose. When was the last time you showered?”

  Even his shrug was halfhearted. I stepped closer and leaned down. Yep. He definitely stank. It was so bad my arousal at his nakedness shriveled away. I sighed and picked up his crutches from the floor. He ignored me as I held them out.

  “You’re showering,” I said firmly. “My mother is here and wants to talk to you. Even if you can treat your own mother with disdain and swear at your oldest friend, you can’t do that to my mother.”

  The heat of his glare didn’t lessen, although I’m sure he knew I was right. Where Tracy was a great mum and you felt you could tell her anything, my mother had an air about her. I struggled to put a finger on it. Maybe fifty years ago you would’ve called her ladylike. She wasn’t cold, you just tended to mind your manners and be on your best behavior around her. No one ever wondered why I was such a bookworm and neat freak when they met my mother. In fact they probably wondered why I hadn’t been disinfected to death.

  Sometimes I wondered how she ever got pregnant. I couldn’t imagine my mother being kinky with some strange guy.

  Ambrose huffed loudly and pushed himself to his feet. He took the offered crutches from me, and I stepped aside as he moved awkwardly into the nearby bathroom. There was a clatter, so I went to make sure he was okay.

  “I’m fine. Just dropped the crutch.”

  I congratulated myself on not rubbing at my face to show my frustration. Ambrose was dressed in nothing but shorts, holding on to the vanity with one hand and a crutch with another.

  “Here. Give them to me,” I muttered as I took them from him and propped them up against the far wall. He tugged at his clothes, and they dropped to the floor. Without attempting to pick them up, Ambrose limped to the shower, opened the door, and reached in to turn on the water.

  “You’re doing that on purpose,” I muttered.

  “Nothing you haven’t seen before,” he said without looking over his shoulder.

  “I mean leaving your clothes on the floor. I don’t have a problem with the nudity. The stink and the bad temper don’t make you attractive.”

  I watched as he looked for something to hold on to as he navigated the step into the shower. I winced as the only thing he had was the glass shower door. But the glass held, and Ambrose got in. I scooped up his clothes from the floor—they were a trip hazard to him getting out—and turned to switch on the exhaust fan.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” I said and left.

  In the kitchen Mum and Tracy were chatting. They looked up as I passed.

  “Is that the shower?” Tracy asked.

  “Yeah,” I replied. “I wouldn’t go down there for a bit. Navigating doors isn’t working for Ambrose, so we’re doing nudist stuff.”

  They both laughed, and I headed outside, snagged a plastic chair from the patio, and took it back to Ambrose.

  He looked up with surprise etched on his face as I returned.

  “What’s that for?”

  “You to hang on to.”

  Tracy’s new house was plenty luxurious. The shower was big enough for a party, but I didn’t need thoughts like that, so I snatched open the door, shoved the chair in with its back to Ambrose, and got out of there.

  “Thanks.”

  Back in his room, I opened the window to let in some air and then stared at myself in the mirror. I was an Ambrose-aholic who was teetering on the edge of falling back into my addiction. I needed to move on. I was near thirty and not even close to having a permanent relationship. I hadn’t lied to Ambrose when I said I was watching my weight. Too many lazy days spent reading and not enough exercise, combined with poor food choices, had given me a few more kilos than I wanted. I’d heard some cruel things about online and app dating that meant my partner choices would be restricted when it came to right-swiping, unless I looked like… well, like Ambrose.

  Damn those muscles.

  “Shane?”

  I jumped guiltily and hurried to find out what Ambrose needed.

  “Yeah?” I stuck my head back in the bathroom.

  “Can you get me a towel?”

  “Can you give me a please?” I sniped back. I was his oldest friend, but that didn’t mean he could get away without me teasing.

  “Please…,” he said, and I moved to the cupboard to find a fresh towel. But he couldn’t let it go. He had to follow up. “… don’t be such an arse.”

  One part of me was happy. It sounded like the old Ambrose was coming back. The depressed Ambrose was a stranger to me. I pulled out a towel and noticed his phone sitting next to the basin. I picked it up. Would it still have the same passcode? I typed in seven-four-two-six.

  “What are you doing?” Ambrose demanded.

  It let me in, so I tapped the camera function, held it up, and focused on Ambrose through the shower glass.

  “Hey,” he shouted and turned his back. I snapped a pic. It wasn’t very good—it was too steamy to see anything.

  “Now, do you have an Instagram?” I pretended to muse aloud.

  “Shane,” he implored me.

  “Maybe a group email?”

  “Okay, I’m sorry,” he said.

  I tapped a few more times and put the phone down as he turned off the shower.

  “It’s a photo to remind you that you were once clean, because, in your current mood, I’m not sure when it will happen again.” It was a big hint. I moved forward and opened the door to the stall. “Pass me the chair.”

  I positioned it slightly outside the glass so he could grip it for balance as he stepped out. Then I placed my knee on it to give it weight so it wouldn’t move.

  “What did you do with the photo?” he asked grumpily as he used the chair. From there, he could reach the vanity, and he hopped forward and leaned against it. Then I passed him the towel.

  “I set it as your wallpaper,” I told him with a grin.

  “Arsehole.”

  “Now, now,” I chided.

  Once Ambrose was dry and had navigated his way to the bedroom, I pulled out clothes for him to wear and helped him put his underwear and pants on. He thanked me by saying, “You’ll make someone a great wife one day.”

  “You’d better believe it,” I said, refusing to be drawn into a fight. “Now all I need is the rich husband who’ll keep me lush with books.”

  Ambrose straightened on the bed. He seemed to remember something at my comment. “Oh yeah, that reminds me. I found your present.”

  “What present?”

  “Your birthday present. You didn’t think I had forgotten it, did you?”

  I was shocked. My birthday had been a month before, when we weren’t talking. “You didn’t have to buy me a present.”

  “Nevertheless I did. Now go and look in that wardrobe. It’s in a black bag at the bottom.”

  I wasn’t mature enough that the thought of a present didn’t excite me. So I dove in, found the bag, and bounced down on the bed beside Ambrose to open it. Ambrose did get me the best presents.

  I pulled a package out. It was wrapped professionally in gold paper, which I unceremoniously ripped as I dashed to find what my gift was. And then suddenly I was looking at a Funko Pop figure of Thorin Oakenshield.

  “Holy shit, Ambrose. This one’s worth over a hundred dollars.”

  A blush graced his cheeks. “I know.”

  I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. How did he know? I turned the box over and over in my hand. The last time I went to look for this figure, people were paying around $190 for it.

  “Open your other present,” he said gruffly, and I put my hand back in the bag to pull out another package. It was square and flat. I ripped the
paper off that one too. Then I stared.

  “Is it authentic?”

  He shrugged. “It doesn’t have any sort of certification, but I checked out the seller. They’re a big Rings fan and were selling some of their stuff.”

  It was a framed photo of Legolas, like the poster they give out at movie showings. Only the size of a piece of paper, and through the glass I could see the original poster had a few rips, which would usually turn a collector away. But this poster had something else. In the middle of the paper, written with black marker, there was a large O and some swirls. Was it personally signed by Orlando Bloom?

  I threw myself at Ambrose, and we fell on the bed.

  “Thank you,” I squeezed out.

  He wrapped both arms around me, and we lay on the bed and hugged for long minutes.

  Chapter Eleven

  I REMEMBERED the long years between us—the childhood years and the teen years. In my mind it changed when I admitted I had a crush on my friend. From the time Ambrose was not quite fifteen to when he left for Melbourne as an eighteen-year-old, we were close, but I felt a distance between us as I fought my feelings for him.

  Then there was that night.

  That. Night.

  And after nine years, I still didn’t understand.

  It had been emotional. Ambrose was leaving for Melbourne to pursue his dream of playing AFL at the most senior level. Being picked in the draft was a miracle—Ambrose Jakoby, scrawny seventeen-year-old son of a single mother from Perth, Western Australia, being chosen to play for Hawthorn on the other side of the country?

  By the time he had to leave, he was eighteen but no more mature. And so he slept with me and then dashed before I woke. To say I was confused over that episode was an understatement.

  When he came home after that first season, we slept together again… until I realized it wasn’t anything to him. He wasn’t going to introduce me to his friends. It was exactly like high school, and it broke my heart. I withdrew all my feelings and hid them.

  For the next seven years, I kept a tight lid on my thoughts. I was happy for him on the field, and I would send him messages of support and congratulations. When he came home between seasons, I made time for him. And if some of those days ended with us having sex, then I was happy to take it. I didn’t feel that he was obligated to me, and he was free to date as he wanted. I was free to do that too, and I did.

  But deep in my soul, I knew I wasn’t over him. And why? Because he could be a fucking thoughtful guy. The last months between us had been cold because I thought he’d lost that. I had thought he’d gotten too big for his boots and that he thought Shane would be available to him whenever he wanted because I’d always been before.

  So I tightened my arms around him and knew we were moving into another phase. I didn’t know what phase was, but I dropped the last barrier of my reserve and let him in.

  “Thank you, Ambrose,” I muttered against his chest. “You shouldn’t have. But these are so cool.”

  He smelled a lot better than he had twenty minutes earlier. I closed my eyes and remembered the times we’d rolled around on a bed with a lot less clothing between us. Once I had my own place, Ambrose would sometimes come and visit me and stay the night if he was home from Melbourne. But the times I remembered the most and with the most fondness were when he took me away with him.

  “Road trip,” he’d tell me with a grin. “I’m headed down to see the surfing at Yallingup. I’ve booked a house, and you’re coming with me, right?”

  Sometimes he’d say it over dinner, and Tracy would admonish her son. “You do realize that Shane works. Have you asked him whether he can take time off work before you drag him on a boys’ weekend?”

  Or the time Ambrose told me he’d rented a cabin in an out-of-the-way fishing spot and my mother said, “I didn’t realize either of you fished.”

  Neither of us did, although Ambrose gave it a try. I spent most of the weekend curled up on sun loungers or spread out on a blanket, reading a book. Ambrose did some of the active things—bushwalking, swimming, and kayaking. He dragged me along for the walking, but otherwise I either observed from the shore or told him I’d see him when he got home. And no one would’ve guessed we were anything but friends—no touching or kissing until we headed to bed at night. I wouldn’t even touch him when we were alone in the house, only in the bed we shared.

  That trip held special memories for me. It was the first time Ambrose bottomed.

  That still confused the heck out of me. Had it just been experimentation for him? Was the whole thing some bi-curious adventure?

  “Five-minute warning.”

  Tracy’s voice penetrated my memories, and I moved off Ambrose. He looked peaceful for the first time that night, as though my hugs had put something right in him.

  “We’d better get moving,” I said.

  “For some that’s easier said than done.” He sat up and reached for his crutches.

  “I’m sure a big, strong man like you can handle it,” I said with a mock-sympathetic pat on his shoulder.

  He got to his feet and glared at me. “Watch it. I can still beat you any day.”

  I scoffed and preceded him out of the room. “Yeah? You think so?”

  “You’re asking for it, Shane.”

  I could hear him crutching up the hall behind me. “You’re all talk.”

  I had turned the corner and could see our mothers in the kitchen when Ambrose retaliated. Suddenly my foot wasn’t where it was meant to be, and I fell forward, knocked into a wooden coffee table, and landed with an awkward thump on the ground.

  “Ow.” I landed on my hip, and as the haze of pain cleared, I looked around to see what I tripped over. There was nothing… apart from Ambrose, his crutches, and that damn smirk on his face.

  “Oh, Shane. I wish you’d be more careful.” My mother said with a note of despair. Tracy hurried over and righted the table. Ambrose didn’t move, and neither did the smirk on his face.

  No one bothered to ask if I was okay or help me to my feet. I stood gingerly. My left wrist ached, I’d scraped my forearm on something, and my hip was going to be bruised.

  I glared at him. “You know, you’d think people who got free rides from the airport would be more grateful.”

  He grinned harder. “I needed to get you back for the new wallpaper my phone is rocking.”

  Never back down. Wasn’t that the motto of childhood friends?

  “True. I guess you’re Ubering for the near future, then.”

  I tried not to limp as I walked away from him. “No. Hey! That’s not fair,” he cried as he came after me.

  “Tell that to my hip.” I sat at the table where Tracy had already laid out all the plates and examined the graze on my forearm.

  I half listened as Mum asked Ambrose how he was doing. He submitted himself for a quick hug from her, complimented her on her hair—yes, he learned that one from me—and sat next to me.

  Tracy bustled around putting out bowls of salad and a large lasagna. Mum went on about Ambrose’s operation. I rubbed my arm and poured water in our glasses from the decorative bottle on the table. Tracy cut the lasagna, Mum passed the plates one by one, and Ambrose served himself some salad and passed the salad bowl to me.

  “You’re not really going to make me Uber, are you?”

  “I think I’m busy when you need a ride,” I said.

  “You don’t know when I need a ride,” he said outraged.

  “So when do you need a ride?”

  “Saturday morning?”

  “I think I’m meeting my friends then. We’re going to a new hipster café.”

  So I was being petty. The length of our friendship allowed it.

  He narrowed his eyes. “I thought you wanted help with your wallpaper?”

  “No. Not this weekend. I may be going on a trip.”

  “Will you be taking lots of photographs on this trip?” he snarked back.

  “It’s nice to see them arguing like old tim
es, isn’t it?” my mother remarked loudly to Tracy.

  I sat back and shut up, although I was the one wronged. Ambrose asked Mum if she’d ever helped with the legal paperwork to set up a charity because there was someone he knew who was looking into it. I zoned out a little as Mum began explaining stuff that sounded really boring. There was a muted beep from Ambrose’s direction and he reached for his phone to check it. When Tracy turned to me and asked about my job, I tried to make it sound scintillating.

  When my phone vibrated in my pocket, telling me I had a message, I ignored it. Ambrose finished with his phone and rejoined the conversation, and I forgot about the text message until we ended our meal and I helped Tracy take the plates to the kitchen. While Tracy pulled a cake from the fridge for dessert, I took the phone from my pocket and checked.

  It was a text from Ambrose with a photo attached, but no words—it was the photo I took of him in the shower.

  “Chuck the kettle on, will you?” Tracy asked me. “I’m partial to a tea tonight. Ambrose? Elaine? Would you like a hot drink?”

  Why did Ambrose send me that picture?

  “Shane? It’s actually helpful if you put water in the kettle before putting it on the stove.”

  “What?” I looked up from my phone to see Tracy regarding me with a smirk.

  “Water? Kettle?”

  I looked and realized I had put an empty kettle on the gas flame. I blushed as I quickly yanked it off and thrust it under the tap to fill.

  “What’s got you so enthralled on that phone, anyway?” Tracy remarked as she put the cake on the table and began to slice it. “Secret boyfriend?”

  Suddenly all three sets of eyes were looking at me. Put on the spot, I stuttered, “Ah. Umm. No. Not really.”

  “Not really?” Mum asked with interest in her voice. She’d come a long way since the night I showed her the inside of my closet. “Not really is not a negative. It’s more an agreement with part of the statement. Since there were only two parts to the statement—secret and boyfriend—that narrows it down to a boyfriend who is not a secret, or a secret who is not a boyfriend.”

  My mother had been working for lawyers for too long.