Page 27 of Free Wind (Lifeguards of Barking Beach #2)

She shrugged again. “You’re allowed to go out sometimes. I’m not a little kid anymore.”

That just made him feel worse, because she was a little kid. “Next time, text me right away if he’s acting up.”

Another shrug, which was not reassuring. Then she asked, “What’s her name?”

Tension zipped through him. “Huh? Who?”

“Who?” she parroted, her voice high and thin. “The girl you obviously met at the club on Friday.”

“Didn’t meet a girl on Friday.” It was the truth, at least.

Tabby rolled her eyes. “Suuuurre.”

“Not seeing a girl.” He could just tell her, but… What if it didn’t work out with Blake? It had been less than a week. Was he being a coward by not wanting to rush into announcing it? If Blake was a chick, would he keep her secret for the moment?

Maybe? Probably? He didn’t have a bloody clue.

“Well, you definitely aren’t dressed for a date.” She eyed him with a frown.

In reply, he let out an epic burp and tugged on her ponytail. Laughing, Tabby shoved at him. “You’re so gross!”

They were wrestling when their mum stepped out of the house. Tabby straightened, and Damo said, “Hey, Mum. We were just—”

“Did he eat? Tramadol PNR?”

Damo nodded. He didn’t have to ask his sister. “PNR” was a medical term for “as needed,” and he knew their father always needed his pills.

Still wearing her scrubs, Mum rubbed her face. “Great. Thanks.” Her hair had once been golden like Damo’s and Tabby’s, but now it was a mix of fake blonde and dull, gray-brown roots.

“I kept Tabs up,” Damo said, waiting for Mum to notice.

She turned back. “Hmm?”

“Nothing,” Tabby said. “Did you have a good day?”

Mum smiled weakly. “Busy. The ICU is full again. How about you, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” Tabby replied. “Busy.”

“How was work?” Mum asked Damo, coming over to smooth a hand over his hair like he was a kid.

“Same old. Pulled tourists out of the rips.”

“That’s good.” She frowned and looked at her watch. “Tabby, you should be in bed. Damo, are you on an early shift tomorrow?”

He would’ve argued that he was an adult and didn’t have a bedtime anymore—certainly not before ten—but he was just glad for the attention. Tabby kissed their mum’s cheek and disappeared.

Damo motioned to the couch. “Sit. I’ll heat up your dinner.”

Mum had been gazing into the distance and refocused on him. “I need to have a shower. It’s okay. You get to bed.”

“Go have your shower, and I’ll fix you a plate.”

She smiled tenderly. “Thanks, darling. What would I do without you?”

In the kitchen, Damo was relieved to see Tabby had apparently made a stir fry.

He nuked it and grabbed one of the microwave rice packets from the cupboard while trying not to feel too shitty that she’d had to make her own dinner while he had delicious restaurant food.

He had to make sure he was home tomorrow night to cook and deal with Dad.

As he poured a glass of white from the goon sack in the fridge, a shout almost had him dropping the glass. He let go of the plastic spout in the bag and froze, listening. After a few moments of silence, Dad’s voice boomed again.

Still holding the glass, Damo crept down the hall. He always felt like a kid when his parents fought. It took him right back to those months after the accident when his dad became a stranger.

No more barbecuing in the yard. No more sweeping Tabby into his arms and spinning her around while she shrieked with laughter. No more watching the footy with his brickie mates, shouting at the TV and dancing with joy.

No more giving Mum a big kiss when he came home and calling her “Mrs. Claus.” No one ever called her Christine, but since Chrissie made everyone think of Christmas, Dad had given her the Mrs. Claus nickname years before. It had been their special thing, with Mum calling him “Mr. Claus” in return.

“Give it here, you bitch!”

In the hall, Damo winced at the hate in his father’s voice. Mum’s reply was too soft for him to make out, though soon her voice rose.

“You’ve had enough!” Mum wrenched open the bedroom door, jolting when she spotted Damo.

“Sorry!” He thrust out the glass, wine sloshing over the side.

In her cotton nightie covered in little pastel ice cream cones, hair wet and face grim, Mum shut the door behind her and tried to smile—failing miserably. She took the wine and started down the hall. “Thanks, darling.”

“He’s worse.” Damo hadn’t planned on saying it, but there it was.

Mum glanced at Tabby’s closed door—the old pink nameplate Dad had nailed on it when she was little still hanging there—and nodded toward the living room. Damo picked up her dinner and a fork on the way.

Before she could sink onto the couch where she’d spend the night, he said, “Let’s go out. Fresh air’s good for you.”

Her slippers scuffed the floor rhythmically, and a ghost of a smile lifted her lips as she followed him outside. “Never had to tell you that. It was all I could do to get you back into the house at the end of the day.”

“And look how good I turned out.”

“You did.” She put a hand to his cheek. “You really did.”

Not sure what to do with the rush of emotion, he ducked his head and cracked a joke. “Not too late for me to start a life of crime.”

With a faint chuckle, Mum took the plate and sat at the round table. There was enough light through the sliding door without turning on the overhead.

Damo pulled out a chair, the iron leg scraping on the concrete.

The clothes horse that was never folded away anymore was full of dry laundry he’d have to take in before bed.

The square of grass was dry and yellow, though the desert plants that circled the yard in long brick planters Dad had built were still going strong.

They hadn’t gotten attention in years but were apparently too prickly and tough to kill.

Like Dad.

The rush of guilt this time hit like a surfboard in the sternum. Still, Damo managed to say, “When’s the next appointment?”

Eyes on her plate in the moonlight, Mum finished chewing. “A fortnight.”

“Are you gonna tell the doc?”

“Tell her what?”

He bit back a surge of frustration. “That Dad’s worse than ever. Forget about doing his exercises—he barely gets out of bed.”

“Because he’s in pain.”

Damo muttered, “Don’t see how he feels anything with all the pills.”

Still not looking at him, Mum toyed with a mini corncob, stabbing it with her fork. “It’s a problem. I know.”

“Do you? You’re hardly here.” He winced, wishing he’d bitten his tongue.

She glanced up sharply. “I’m very aware. You think I like working double shifts at the hospital so we can keep this house?”

“No. I know. I’m sorry.” Shame heated his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

“Oh, bub.” She grasped his forearm with her small, warm hand. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I know it’s not fair on you and your sister. You do so much around here. You both do. You should be out with your mates, not home cooking dinner and taking care of your father.”

Of course, he hadn’t tonight, which made him feel even worse. He’d left it all to Tabby. He shrugged. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not.” Mum took a big swig of wine. “Seven years now, and it’s only getting worse.”

“He’s addicted to those pills,” Damo whispered.

“Yes.”

Pills are all he cares about now.

Damo couldn’t say that part out loud. “He’s just never been the same, and now—” he motioned with his free hand.

Mum nodded. “I wish I had the answer.”

“It’s not your fault.”

She gazed at him seriously. “It’s not yours either. Or Tabby’s. Or your dad’s.”

Eyes burning, he nodded, thinking about who his dad used to be and how much he’d fucking loved that man.

“Get to bed. Thanks for dinner.”

He kissed her cheek and escaped, shutting himself in his room. He’d grab the laundry tomorrow. He got out his last fresh uniform for the morning and checked the surf report.

Damo wished he could remember the last time he and his dad had gone surfing. It had to have been that week of the accident. It might have been the day before, but he couldn’t be sure.

At the time, it had just been another awesome day at Barking, paddling out with his old man in the sunshine. Nothing special. The way it’d always been and always would. He hadn’t known it would be the last time—how could he?

But he wished so fucking hard that he had. That he’d appreciated it. That he’d known it was the end, and that life would change to Before and After.

Damo flopped on his stupid twin bed, the springs squeaking. His phone pinged, and his heart lifted as he read the message from Blake. It was just a simple good night and:

Thinking about you.

Damo replied with a “ditto,” and then let himself think about Blake, locking up everything else into its little box that was fuller than ever.

He didn’t want to take Blake for granted. Didn’t want to forget any of the moments they’d shared.

Part of him wanted to race back outside and tell his mum all about Blake and being bi. Because it seemed like, yeah, he was bi. But it wasn’t the right time. For now, Blake was just his.

With his headphones on in the darkness, Damo opened his music app and found the song from Blake’s car.

Closing his eyes, he imagined the wind in his hair and salt on his skin as he and Blake paddled out beyond the breakers. In his head, he kissed Blake as the ocean swelled under them, not giving a shit who was looking.

One day, he’d do it for real—and he’d remember every second.