Fremantle, Western Australia. Thirteen years ago
NOT EVEN AS she stood outside Jake Donnerâs bedroom window, watching the flimsy and slightly askew aluminium blinds smack rhythmically against the glass in the gentle breeze, did Eleanor Cartwrightâeven for a momentâhave second thoughts.
Which wasnât to say she wasnât nervous. Of course she was. Declarations of love, she imagined, were always at least slightly nerve-racking.
But tonight, nerves didnât matter.
She had to do this.
You should tell him, honey. Love shouldnât be kept secret.
She hadnât paid much attention to her mum when sheâd said that a couple of months ago. She thought maybe sheâd even laughed?
I donât love him, Mum, donât be stupid. Weâre just friends.
And her mum had done that annoying thing where she raised her eyebrows as if she were the all-knowing, and gently shook her head. It had made Eleanor feel about twelve, not sixteen.
Whatever, mum. Heâs leaving anyway. Thereâs no point.
And maybe there still wasnât.
But the pointlessnessâor notâdidnât matter any more.
Since exactly twenty-nine days ago, a lot of stuff didnât matter any more.
Eleanor took a deep breath. She could do this.
Letting Jake leave Fremantleâand herâwithout knowing how she felt was no longer an option.
A larger pre-dawn gust of air made Eleanor shiver, and it slipped through the opening in Jakeâs window to make the blinds rattle loudly.
No sound came from his room. Which wasnât all that surprising, given it was about three oâclock in the morning. Plus, Jake slept like a log.
She stepped closer, the dew that coated the long, unmown grass around his house damp against her legs. Jakeâs bed was right below the window, so, on tiptoe, she slid it open. The windowâand the houseâwere old, and it gave its usual shriek of protest.
âJake?â she said, hoping the sound had woken him.
No such luck.
So she continued with her plan, gripping the edges of the window, and hoisting herself upwards. Then she would perch on the window sill, reach for Jake, and gently shake him awake.
This, however, was not what happened.
Instead, her momentum propelled her upwardsâand inwardsânot at all in the way sheâd imagined. In the cacophony of the blinds, her own surprised yelp, and then Jakeâs much louder shout, she found herself bounced from the bed and onto the floor, Jakeâs body pressed against hers from chest, to hip, to toes. Her glasses had parted ways with her face, but even so Jakeâs confusion was apparent even in theâslightly fuzzyâmoonlight.
âWhat the hell? Eleanor?â
She nodded, temporarily incapable of speech for two reasons: the impact of hitting the worn carpet, and the realisation that Jake was only wearing boxer shorts.
But then he was up, and away from her, the overhead light coming on a second later. She stared at the naked bulb, doing her best to breathe and think at the same time.
âEleanor,â he said, âwhy are you here?â
He crossed to her, reaching out and pulling her to her feet. He met her gaze with confusion. âWhy are you still in your uniform?â
She looked down, taking in her crumpled white shirt and knee-length tartan skirt. Sheâd barely registered what she was wearing. That day, the weekâthe past monthâit had all been a blur.
âI couldnât sleep.â
âSo you decided to jump in my window?â
Eleanor just looked at him.
Jake sighed, and he scratched at his belly absently. That belly had changed a lot since their many trips to the beach last summer. Now it was firmer, leanerâshe could see the angular jut of his hipbones just above where his boxers hung low on his body.
Following her gaze, he hooked a finger in the waistband and tugged them a little higher. But he didnât look embarrassed.
He never did.
In contrast, Eleanor usually felt like a walking bundle of self-consciousness.
His dark hair was a mess, but he still looked really, really great.
Eleanor knew she didnât look great. But at least sheâd washed away the eveningâs worth of dried tears on her cheeks. Besides, her mum had always told her that it didnât matter what she looked like. It was what was inside that counted.