A Quiet Kind of Thunder(59)

‘Have a think about it,’ Mum says. She picks up a dishcloth and starts wiping the counter, which means she thinks the conversation is over. ‘But the two of you going away alone is just out of the question, love. It’s just not a good idea.’

I stare at her, mute with frustrated annoyance. I can’t even argue, because she’s being so unreasonable it’s bordering on ridiculous. Finally, I manage, ‘Remember how you always wanted me to be more . . .’ I trail off, trying to find the word. ‘More . . . just more?’

Mum pauses, her fingers stilling over the dishcloth. But then she recovers herself, scrubbing harder at an imaginary stain on the countertop. ‘I wanted you to be able to talk. I like Rhys. You know I like Rhys. But I don’t think you want to go away because you’ve suddenly become braver and want to try new things and meet new people. I think it’s because you think it doesn’t matter any more, because you have him.’

There are a lot of things I could say to this, but none of them makes it past my lips. I swallow. ‘Are you telling me I can’t go?’

‘I’m not telling you,’ she says. She’s not looking at me. ‘I’m giving you my advice. As your mother.’ There’s a long pause and then she lets out a sigh that I hear from across the room, tosses the dishcloth on to the counter and turns to face me. ‘Steffi, I know I can’t make decisions for you. I know how exciting first love can be. But I worry that this relationship is making your world smaller, not bigger.’

I frown. ‘Smaller? How can it be smaller, if I want to see more of it?’

She shakes her head. ‘Maybe you’ll understand when you’re older.’ The most frustrating sentence in the entire world of parents and teenagers. ‘But I’ve said my piece now.’

I steam about this conversation for the next few hours. Have I suddenly become braver? No, but who the hell cares? Doesn’t the fact that I do the things I never did before matter more than the reason why I do them? Do I think talking doesn’t matter now I have him? No, but I definitely think it matters less than I used to think it did. Of course we have our own little bubble. But it’s a bloody nice bubble. Why can’t she just be happy for me? Who cares how big or small my world is, so long as I’m happy?





By February, Rhys and I haven’t made any progress on our adventure-seeking. At least, not in the real world. In fantasy land, we’re well away. Rhys has drawn a series of cartoon sketches of the two of us trekking the Inca Trail, piloting a space shuttle, discovering Atlantis, kayaking through the Bougainville Strait. We are Bronze and Gold, intrepid explorers, bound by nothing, cowed by no one. In our cartoon world, everyone speaks BSL.

In the real world, I sit on his bed doing my homework while he plays video games with the door open. I’m allowed in his room now, but his mother has a habit of coming in unannounced every twenty minutes or so. She always has a reason for this, albeit a flimsy one: she’ll bring us tea, then collect the cups. Ask if we want snacks, come back and ask are we sure.

Mothers, Rhys says, rolling his eyes.

But I don’t mind his mother. She’s taken to calling me Stefanie, which I love because no one else calls me that and it feels affectionate, and she learned how I take my tea after only being told once. I think she actually likes me, which is more than a lot of girlfriends get from their boyfriend’s mothers.

Aside from me and his mother, the other girl in Rhys’s life is Meg. I don’t see as much of her as I’d expected I would when we were first introduced, given that they’re meant to be best friends. But I quickly learned that their best friendship isn’t like mine and Tem’s – co-dependent – but far more chilled. They treat each other like family, dropping in and out of each other’s lives with the easy entitlement of siblings.

We pick up where we left off, Rhys says when I ask him about this. She’s like a life friend, not a day-to-day friend.

But still, in the handful of times we’ve met since Rhys and I got together, I’ve come to like her a lot, and being around her feels easier than it does with Rhys’s male friends.

It’s the second week of February, and Rhys and I have agreed to meet Meg for a drink in the pub near Rhys’s house. We make it a lunchtime drink to avoid me – the only one under eighteen – getting ID-ed on the door.

She’s running late, Rhys says, looking at his phone and pushing it back into his pocket. Typical. Let’s get a drink and a table.

The guy behind the bar looks a little familiar, and I squint at him as he serves the girl in front of us. He has ginger hair and a face that is all angles. A smile that sparkles.

‘Hey,’ he says to Rhys as the girl takes her drink and leaves. ‘What can I get you?’

Rhys opens his mouth to reply, but it’s me that speaks, and I do it in a burst of recognition. ‘Daniel?’

The barman looks at me and his face jolts in surprise. He slaps his hand on to the bar and then points at me.

‘Steffi?’ he half exclaims, half asks. ‘Little Steffi Brons?’

‘Oh my God,’ I say. ‘Hi.’

It’s Daniel. Daniel Carlisle, one of Clark’s old friends from secondary school. He was around our house so often he called my dad by his first name. He came to the wedding when my dad married Clark’s mum.