That was only the first hurdle. The second was finding out Jake’s file also had a password. No amount of guesswork could get it open. My frustration reached critical levels by the eighth attempt when I heard a loud clank from the kitchen, followed by the soft bang of a cupboard door, then the whoosh of water gushing from the tap.
I was ten seconds away from getting found out. I utilised five of them to write down the name of Jake’s file—Jake Romero, De Luca, Melbourne—and tucked it inside the pocket of my pyjama pants. I used the other five to shut down the computer. There would be time later to find out what the name of his file meant.
Mum’s soft voice called out as I was leaving the study. “Mackenzie?”
She was standing at the kitchen entrance, glass of water in hand as she watched me approach. Her neat bob of hair was mussed and green eyes sleepy. My heart sank. I would miss my parents. They only wanted what they thought was best, but they were wrong and unwilling to listen.
Leaving was the only way.
“Hey, Mum.”
“It’s midnight,” she told me, pointing out the obvious. “What are you doing up?”
“I thought I heard a noise. You?”
“I couldn’t sleep.” Mum set the glass down and opened up her arms. I stepped inside them, and she wrapped me up. The scent of Chanel No. 5 was subtle and enveloped me as warmly as her arms. “I’m going to miss you.”
“Then don’t send me,” I muttered into the soft wool of her dressing gown, stubborn to the core.
She sighed. It was the exact same sigh Dad had made earlier that night and a reminder that they were tired of me and trying to change who I was. “Please, let’s not argue about this anymore.”
So I didn’t.
I simply untangled myself from my mother’s embrace, went upstairs, packed a small overnight bag and hid my bigger suitcases in the back of my closet. By the early hours of the morning I was gone.
I left them a note, telling them I had decided to leave for FDH early and caught a cab to the school. My explanation was that I didn’t want any weepy goodbyes. Of course, they’ll find out soon enough when the school calls to question them on my AWOL status, but I’m hoping by that time I’ll be with Jake and have some kind of plan.
“Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!”
The loud horn blasts me sideways, jolting me from the memory. The receding car gets my middle finger as dust swirls up, coating my face and dress and filling my lungs. “Asshole!” I wheeze.
The rumbling engine of another car sounds in the distance behind me. I stick my thumb out as I rummage through my bag for a bottle of water, or gum, or whatever I can find to remove the dust from my mouth.
After some investigative Googling upon my arrival in Melbourne, I found out that De Luca isn’t a suburb of Melbourne. It’s a surname. A further search found only a few in the area. The small number was in my favour but after hunting down most with no luck, I’m left with one more shot. I don’t have a plan beyond this. It’s my last shot and it has to work.
My handbag search produces an old, furry eucalyptus lozenge. I’m almost tempted, but I toss it away as the rumbling car gets closer. It doesn’t sound as if it’s slowing down. I jab my thumb out a little higher.
It doesn’t stop. The engine growls as it flies past. I spit a curse and choke on another cloud of dust. The car is a rusty vintage Holden, the body painted pale blue and the rooftop white. It’s a death trap anyway. I lower my thumb. I don’t need this. I need a payphone where I can call a decent cab and find my way back to Pube Hostel.
Ten metres ahead the Holden veers off to the side and screeches to a stop, skidding more dust and gravel in its wake. I halt on the spot, my gut giving me a fight or flight response. The male driver swivels in his seat. I feel his stare for several moments. I use the time debating whether to run in the opposite direction or walk toward the car. Just as I make the decision to turn and pretend I wasn’t hitchhiking at all, a tattooed arm comes out of the driver’s side window and opens the car door from the outside. A guy steps out. Dark aviators cover his eyes and silky brown hair falls in his face. He’s wearing low-slung boardshorts, flip-flops, and a loose muscle tee shirt that shows off thick biceps and tanned skin.
He starts toward me. That’s when I realise my mother’s warnings about hitchhiking weren’t helicopter parenting like I always complained but smart advice.
My hand tightens on my bag. I step back when he rips his sunglasses off and speaks as he walks closer. “What in the goddamn everloving fuck?”
A lightning bolt of shock zings through me as I look into a pair of beautiful dark brown eyes. My mouth falls open and my heart pounds a thunderous beat as he nears me. “Jake?”
“Hitchhiking?” he grinds out in a voice deeper than familiar. “Do you have a death wish?”
“I … I … No,” I stutter, caught in shock as he reaches me.
Had I wanted to find him so badly that I’m now hallucinating? I blink hard, but when I look again he’s still there. His chest rises and falls, and his pulse beats visibly in his neck. And those eyes. I know them. Stumbling across Jake along this road was sheer dumb luck. I can barely believe it. “I was—”
“You were what?” he shouts.
My eyes burn when I realise my mistake in coming here. In thinking it will be just how it was before. Jake is a stranger. His face has more angles and golden stubble lines his jaw. His frame is filled out. Shoulders rounded with muscle hulk over me, intimidating and overwhelming. Jake isn’t the sweet boy I remember, but a harsh, aggressive man.
“I was looking for you,” I answer.
Jake stares for an endless moment, his anger appearing to deflate. “Mac,” he mutters gruffly, his eyes roaming over my face. “You were looking for me?” His gaze shoots over my shoulder, searching as if he expects my brothers to appear from nowhere. “By yourself?”
I open up my heart. “I missed you.”
“Princess.” With that word Jake changes from a stranger to the boy I used to know. Joy washes over me. “Are you crazy?” he asks then shakes his head. “What am I saying? Of course you are.”
“No crazier than you,” I retort.
Jake’s eyes drop to my lips. “There’s that smart mouth I remember.” He crooks a finger. “Come closer.”
I take a step forward and he grasps my jaw with his thumb and forefinger, tilting my head upwards. He turns my head slowly left and right for a thorough inspection. “Goddamn, Mac.” A broad grin stretches over his face. It steals the breath from my lungs. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
Jake has. So much I barely recognise him anymore.
He lets go of my chin and steps back, eyes dropping to my chest. “Well, maybe a little,” he adds. “That flat chest has grown some tits.”
I fold my arms, which only serves to push them up higher. The tits are small and don’t appear to be growing any larger, but better some than none at all. “You like my tits?”
Amusement flickers across Jake’s face and his eyes rise to mine. “I do.”