A Thousand Perfect Notes(41)

There are animals absolutely everywhere.

He’s in a lounge with a hammock full of cats in one corner next to a wall of windows, and the remaining walls are covered in handmade shelves. A woven rug is on the floor and a battered coffee table sports a bonsai tree, a mess of magazines and an unmoving turtle. The ugliest dog Beck’s ever seen nestles on a sofa. It looks like something’s chewed off its nose and glued it back on.

‘That,’ August says, noticing his stare, ‘is Stuart. Excuse his face. He’s been beaten half to death by a disgusting human. We rescued him and while he loves me, he hates men. Don’t pet him.’

Beck takes a step back as Stuart snarls.

‘And this is Tortle.’ August picks up the turtle and strokes its shell. ‘We didn’t know if he was a tortoise or a turtle when we found him, so we covered both bases.’

‘Clever,’ says Beck.

‘Exceptionally.’ August sets it back down. ‘Plus, with a free-spirited name like Tortle, he won’t conform to stereotypes. Look at him now! He’s embracing his life with no stereotypical box!’

‘Does he own a box?’

‘Actually, no.’ August beams. ‘He’s always free. I’m so proud.’

‘Question.’ Beck squints at the unmoving shell. ‘Is it alive?’

‘Oh stop it.’ She gives his shoulder a gentle, playful nudge. ‘You’re just jealous of my divergent pet.’ She twirls, her gargantuan jumper billowing, and dances down the hallway. ‘Hungry?’

‘I already ate.’ He feels like he’s never eaten in his life.

‘Does that stop you eating again?’ August says.

Unless he wants to stay and get licked by two or nine dogs, Beck has to follow. Every inch of the hallway wall is covered in mismatched photo frames, most starring August pulling faces or cuddling a frog or with green goo mushed over her baby face or her arms draped over her dad’s shoulders while she kisses his cheek.

‘But first – the bathroom.’ August takes Beck’s hand and gently pulls him into it. ‘Don’t even protest. I am excellent at first aid.’

He wants to do more than protest. He wants to run. But he finds himself perching on the edge of a bathtub while August cracks a cupboard door and pulls out a battered first aid kit. This is ridiculous. He’s being needy, he—

She rests a hand under his chin and tilts his head upwards. A frown creases her eyebrows. He wishes he wasn’t causing that.

‘Your cheek isn’t too bad,’ she says, voice serious, soft. ‘Bruising, and a small cut.’ She’s got a small cloth and she dips it in antiseptic and wipes it across his cheekbone. It stings like fresh hell but he doesn’t flinch. He refuses to flinch.

‘I can do this myself,’ he says.

Her concentrating frown remains. ‘I know. But I’m taking care of you for just a hot second, Beck. Let me.’

He does.

Never mind that he can’t breathe because her hand is cupped under his chin. Never mind that her skin sets his alight in a way that has nothing to do with stinging cuts.

Please don’t stop.

Please don’t let go.

Please hold on to me.

She steps back, her brow smoothing. ‘Less blood. Still battered.’

She’s still holding his hand. He’s still letting her.

Her voice drops to a whisper. ‘Beck, are you sure I can’t—’

‘I can handle it. It’s not that bad.’

Her smile is very small and very sad. ‘Well, I’d better introduce you to my parents before they wonder if we fell down the bathtub plughole.’

She releases his hand and it is a relief – no, no it’s not. It is the worst thing.

August leads him to a tiny kitchen, smothered in pot plants and ripe with the juicy odour of lasagne. Music hums softly in the background.

Her dad, an older man than Beck originally guessed from glimpsing him in the car the day August busted her foot, stands at the bench and chops lettuce in an apron proclaiming ‘QUEEN OF THE GRILL’. His hair, longer than August’s, is looped back with rawhide and the edges of tattoos peek from the collar of his shirt. With a smile, he sets down the knife.

‘Hello, hello,’ he says, with the kind of voice that would calm an anxious pitbull. ‘To whom do I owe this pleasure?’ There’s a flicker of concern as he looks Beck up and down, and Beck wishes he could dissolve.

‘This is Beck,’ August says grandly. ‘Beck-from-school. You know, the one I gab about all the time.’ She winks at Beck. ‘Just kidding. I don’t talk about you that much. He’s here for dinner and you absolutely are not allowed to ask questions. He wrestles crocodiles.’

Her dad’s eyebrows quirk, a gesture Beck knows well from August. And then he just shrugs and keeps chopping lettuce.

‘Crocodiles, eh?’ her dad says.

‘I get into these fights sometimes,’ Beck says in a rush. ‘It’s stupid. I’m stupid.’

Her dad pauses his chopping. ‘Really? Doesn’t seem like you fought back, son. Did this happen at home?’ His voice softens slightly. ‘Because I am more than willing to—’

‘Those are questions,’ August says. ‘Please don’t scare him off, Dad. Please? He’s like a delicate, rare flower.’