Chapter 10

GEMMA

After Sophie left, Paul checked his agenda. There were no urgent projects waiting for him that week, so he spent the afternoon in the workshop behind the house. He was sanding the edge of a wooden sculpture when somebody knocked on the door. He wiped the wood dust from his hands with a cloth and went to answer it.

For half a second, his mind went exactly where it always went at that hour. Sophie had forgotten her keys, or left something in the car, or needed the ride she had sworn she did not need. He was already reaching for the familiar irritation when he saw Gemma Fletcher standing on his porch, and the ordinary thought fell apart before it could finish.

She had showered before coming. He could tell from the faint dampness in her loose hair, from the clean shine of her skin under the porch light, from the fact that she looked too deliberately put together for any casual visit. Her cheer hoodie was unzipped over her cheerleader uniform, and a small overnight bag hung from one shoulder like the explanation and the problem at the same time.

Paul’s hand tightened around the edge of the door. “Gemma.”

“Hi, Mr. Bennet.”

SOPHIE

Sophie stood outside Phil Fletcher’s open garage with her overnight bag in one hand and the calm face she had practiced twice in the rearview mirror already starting to fail. She had worked on that face. It was supposed to say confident, grown, absolutely not about to turn around and drive away.

Instead, the second she saw Phil under the garage light, with an old blue sedan open in front of him, her stomach flipped so hard she almost got mad at him for it.

He was just standing there in jeans and an old T-shirt, grease on one forearm, shoulders broad. He looked exactly like Phil. Gemma’s dad. The man who fixed things, gave blunt answers, and acted like emotions were something other people left lying around for him to trip over.

And Sophie wanted him so badly she almost forgot the speech she had not really needed anyway.

Phil heard her before she spoke. His head turned, his eyes found her, and the rag stopped moving in his hand.

“Sophie.”

“Hi, Phil.”

JESS

The doorbell rang at half past seven that evening, and John wasn’t expecting anyone.

He set down his mug of tea—still too hot to drink properly—and walked through the hallway, glancing at the stack of Year 12 essays he’d been avoiding all week. Through the frosted glass panel, he could make out a figure, slim and still.

He opened the door.

Jess Donovan stood on his doorstep in a pale yellow sundress, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. Open sandals. Painted toenails. She looked summery and deliberate in a way that felt oddly formal for a Wednesday night visit.

“Jess,” he said. “Hello.”

“Hi, Mr Carter.”

MIA

Mia stood on the pavement outside Jess’s house—Mike’s house—with her overnight bag cutting into her shoulder and her pulse doing something unfortunate in her throat.

She shifted the bag higher. Checked her phone. No new messages. This was fine. This was controlled. She’d thought it through. She would stick to their plan. Plans worked.

Her hand went to the gate latch, then stopped.

What if he wasn’t home? What if he was home but refused to answer the door? What if...

No. Stop. Mike would be here. He was always here on Friday nights. She could do this. She would do this.

Mia pushed the gate open and walked up the path. Three steps. Five. The porch light was on. She reached for the bell. Before she could press it, the door opened. Mike stepped out carrying a black bin bag, clearly on his way to the wheelie bin. He stopped when he saw her.

“Mia?”

GEMMA

GEMMA

She said it carefully, almost sweetly. And that was the first problem, because Gemma Fletcher was rarely careful unless she was aiming at something.

The second problem was that she had been aiming at him for weeks.

He had told himself she was just playful. That she was Sophie’s friend and a cheerleader and eighteen and used to being looked at, so of course she played with attention the way other girls played with their hair. But there had been too many moments. Gemma brushing past him in the kitchen when there was plenty of room. Gemma asking him to zip the back of her warm-up jacket before a game, then standing too still while his fingers worked at the zipper. Gemma hugging him after matches, her uniform damp with sweat and perfume and whatever sweet lotion she used, pressing close enough that the smell stayed on his shirt long after she pulled away.

That smell had nearly ruined him.

Hairspray, clean skin, fabric warmed by her body, the faint sharpness of effort under something vanilla-sweet. He had smelled her dirty clothes after Sophie brought it home. He had hated himself for rubbing her bra against his cock. He had hated himself more for dreaming about it, for waking in the dark with Gemma’s laugh still in his head and the phantom weight of her arms around his neck.

Now she was on his porch with damp hair, bare legs, and a bag.

His throat moved. “Sophie’s not home.”

“I know.”

Paul stared at her. “You know?”

“She told me she was going out.”

“Then why are you here?”

Gemma shifted the strap of her bag on her shoulder. For one second, her confidence slipped just enough for him to see the nerves underneath. Then she looked straight at him again.

“I came to see you.”

“No.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “No?”

“No.” He held onto the word because it sounded clean, and nothing inside him did. “Whatever this is, no.”

“I haven’t said what this is.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He should have closed the door. That would have been simple, if not easy. A decent man closed the door when his daughter’s beautiful eighteen-year-old friend showed up alone at night with an overnight bag and eyes that made the porch feel smaller. A decent man did not stand there remembering every hug, every brush of her hip against his counter, every time she had stretched in that uniform like she did not know exactly what she was doing to him.

But Gemma did not move closer. She did not laugh, did not try to slip past him, did not pout. She just stood there, waiting, and somehow that made it worse.

“You should go,” he said.

“If you really want me to, I will.”

Paul glanced past her toward the street. There was no car idling at the kerb, no shadow moving near the hedge, no phone screen glowing from the dark. Gemma saw him look, and her face changed.

“What?”

“Is someone out there?”

“What?”

“In a car. Around the corner. Recording.” His voice went flat because humiliation was easier than wanting her. “Is this a bet?”

Gemma’s mouth parted. “No.”

“A prank?”

“No.”

“Something you and the girls laugh about tomorrow? How far Sophie’s fat old dad got before he remembered what he looks like?”

The words hit her. He saw it happen, saw the hurt land before she could hide it, and for one ugly second he was glad. Then he hated himself for being glad.

Gemma’s voice came quieter. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make me mean. I’m not doing that to you.”

Paul looked away first.

“I know what I am,” he said. “I’m forty. I’m bald. I’m overweight. I have sawdust on my jeans and glue on this shirt. Girls like you don’t come to men like me unless there’s a punchline.”

“There isn’t one.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Yes,” Gemma said, and then her cheeks flushed as if she already regretted the next words before they came out. “Because I’m standing here with clean hair, shaved legs, and an overnight bag, and I would really love it if you didn’t make me explain the obvious like this is health class.”

SOPHIE

He looked past her once, toward the street, then back to her face. Car, street, driveway, girl with bag, no Gemma. She could almost see him counting the facts and disliking the total.

“Gemma’s not home,” he said.

“I know.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Did she forget something?”

“No.”

“You waiting for her?”

“No.”

He looked at the bag again. “Something happen?”

“Not yet.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them.

Phil went very still.

Sophie’s face heated. “Sorry. That was supposed to sound better.”

“It didn’t.”

“No. I noticed.”

He set the rag down on the workbench slowly, like even the rag needed to be put away properly before he dealt with her. “You need to go home.”

She had expected that. It still made her pulse jump. “I just got here.”

“That’s why now’s a good time.”

“Phil.”

“Sophie.”

The way he said her name should not have done anything to her. She adjusted the strap of her bag and stepped just inside the reach of the garage light.

“I came to see you.”

“I figured that out.”

“Good. Saves time.”

His jaw tightened. “Don’t get cute.”

“I’m trying not to panic. Cute is what came out.”

That made his expression shift, not soften exactly, but change enough for her to know he had heard her. Sophie grabbed that tiny opening before he could close it.