It's a strange sensation, stepping out the front door to feel sand beneath the feet and a coastal breeze rushing across the face. We're from the deep country, where the wind runs differently along the flats and through canola and saltbush; where the air is flavoured with a myriad of organic scents, rot and growth alike. Here it's just salt and seaweed.
The biggest difference is the ground. Home is dirt and grit and the stability of endless rock below. Sand... it's much softer, like walking on an enormous blanket forever trying to draw you in. I don't mind it, even though it's hot enough to burn the soles of my feet in three strides, but it keeps my brother inside.
We come out here to the bay a long time ago. I'd only been five and Dion had been six, and to be honest I don't remember a whole lot about it, but apparently we'd had a wonderful time. Now that we're officially adults--me eighteen and my brother a year older--we came back for one last hurrah before I leave for university. Or, as dad put it; "One last chance to be with you guys before you find your own mob and leave me forever."
I told him not to be so morbid.
Of course we'll come back, every holiday and break
--we both love our old man dearly, and I couldn't admire him more after all he's done for us. But I suppose he's right; one day it'll just be "Dad's house", and time spent with him will be a luxury. That's just how life is.
"You having some kind of existential crisis or something?" My brother drawls as he peers over the couch at me, brown eyes narrowed under a furrowed brow. He's wearing a long-sleeve shirt, and I can see jeans sticking out over the armrest, despite the heat. His boofy hair bounces a bit in the breeze rushing in through the front door, and his eyes turn down to glare at the sand skittering in over the floor. "If you're busy thinking about the inevitable approach of death and despair, can you at least do it outside? You're letting the beach in."
I step back inside and stamp my feet on the bristled mat, but I don't close the door yet. Instead I take a deep breath in and stretch my arms up, trying not to wince from the sting of salt in my eyes and throat. "What are you talking about? It...
cough...
smells great! No damp leaves or manure anywhere."
"Ash, your eyes are turning red."
"It's 'cause I'm crying from how beautiful it is." I slam the door and drag my bare arm over my eyes. Unlike my dork of a brother, I've opted for a pair of trendy denim shorts and a tank top to combat the coastal heat, and while it leaves me more vulnerable to sand-blasting, I like how I look. It's nice to dress down sometimes. "Why do you hate the beach so much? Dad said you loved it when you were little."
"Dad also said I loved eating dirt. Young Dion was an idiot." He sticks a finger out at me, warning me against the snide remark hovering on my lips. "And actually I do like the beach... just from a distance. Preferably through the window of a penthouse. With hot babes on either side feeding me caviar."
"I'm afraid all I could afford was the hut," Comes our father's wry response as he emerges into the common area. "As for the babes, getting to know some women would probably be a good place to start."
"Hey..." I frown, feeling a little insulted at that. Obviously dad's talking about women that aren't his son's sister, but still. I'm not a girl anymore. I'm about to tell him as much when I look at him and pause. He's dressed in tan suit pants and a red button-up, a far cry from his usual shorts and dusty shirt. He looks handsome for an aging man.
Dad adjusts his glasses when he sees us both staring at him. He clears his throat and tugs nervously on the arms of his shirt and asks, "What do you think?"
"Very suave," Dion tells him. "I didn't even know you owned pants."
"I didn't until yesterday. There's a shop down in... Ashley, you're eating your hair again."
"Huh? Oh." Still a habit when I'm thinking. It's kind of embarrassing to be called out on it at this age, not that it's ever stopped me. "Just wondering if... try rolling your sleeves up."
"Eh? Hang on... like this?"
I give him a proud grin. "Perfect. You'll blow her away, dad."
Dion adds a thumbs up, but our old man doesn't look so sure. "I'd settle for vaguely attractive at this point. It's been a long time, I think I've forgotten how to do small talk. And are you two definitely alright with me doing this? I know we were supposed to be having this week to ourselves."
"Dad, I have literally never happier for you," Dion says earnestly. "You've spent the last, what, nearly two decades focusing on us. It's time to do something for yourself."
I feel proud of my brother for being so mature. Obviously I'm proud of dad too, and absolutely think he deserves another chance at love--and considering the sparks flying between him and the middle-aged dance teacher he'd met at the airport, a single parent just like him, that was a very real possibility--but I can't help the twinge of anxiety I feel about the whole thing. He's on the cusp of starting a new chapter of his life that doesn't have us intrinsically tied up in it. Is it hypocritical, considering I'm a few months from abandoning him overstate? Yes. It is selfish? Probably. At least I'll have Dion to cling onto, since we'll be rooming together.
"Alright, well, I guess it's time. I'll see you guys tonight."
"If you're not too busy with your new lady friend," I grin. "Did you remember protection?" When they both stare at me, I shrug. "Always gotta be careful. Do you have any?"
Dad is examining the floor very carefully when he gives the tiniest of nods.
"Good luck!" We follow him to the doorway and wave as he gets in the rental car. Just before he shuts his door I call out again. "And remember! Ladies love variation, so make sure you really put in extra time focusing on her--" I don't get to finish the sentence before Dion's hand clamps over my mouth and our furiously-blushing father accelerates onto the street.
"Do you always have to be so gross?"
"Mmffmgfh, gfeeth offvh." I try to bite his hand and he pushes me away. I cross my arms and lean against a wall and look him up and down. My brother would be handsome too,
very handsome,
if he put any modicum of effort into his appearance. But then again, maybe there's something cute about his dishevelledness. "Why don't
you
ever dress nice?"
"No one to dress nice for." He holds my gaze. "What's your excuse?"
"Oh, well, that's... rude." I stick my tongue out at him and head for our room. "I'm going for a swim." I know he was joking, but it still stung.
When I get back an hour and a half later there's still no rental car at the front. That's a good sign. I open the door and find Dion on the couch where I left him, and the only hint that he's been up at all is his change of outfit. Now he's wearing pyjamas, thin flannel ones with a little sheep on the left breast.
I'm still annoyed with him. We exchange snide remarks all the time, it's one of the things I love about him, but for whatever reason his last comment stuck with me through my stint in the water. I've still got the taste of stained salt in my mouth, and I'm extraordinarily sweaty from just the hike up to the house. I'm dripping water, even though I've wrapped my hair inside my towel and rolled it around my shoulders, so I make for the bathroom. Halfway there and my brother starts to say something.
"You were ages. You put on sunscreen right? Dad'll flip out if he sees you... uh..."
I turn around to him with an annoyed look, half expecting another insult. His expression is quite the opposite of smarmy. "What, Dion?"
"...sees you burnt. Um, what's that?"
I look down and see nothing out of the ordinary. "What's what?"
He clears his throat and looks back at the TV. "When did you buy a bikini?"
It's not a bikini, not really. It's a bikini top, sure, albeit one that's a tad more modest than some of the outfits I was out amongst. But the bottoms are simply short shorts. I'm not courageous enough to show off what is probably a pretty pale butt. "I dunno. A while ago."
"Haven't seen it before."
"You never come to the pool." Actually, I didn't wear it there either, preferring to stick to my one-piece and boardshorts that comes to just above my knees. Tomboy? Maybe. Not a very good self-image? Definitely.
I turn to go and he adds, "It's nice. You look nice."
With my face away from him, I don't try and stimmy the flush that rises in my face. Sure, it's from my brother, but I'll take a compliment when I get it. "So I
do
dress nice sometimes?"
"Huh?" I can imagine him looking my way with that confused squint of his. Maybe he's even glancing up and down my body. For some reason, that thought sends a little bout of tingles down my back.
I've never thought of myself as pretty, not really. Maybe that was high school, where even our rural town had its beauty queens and airy delights wondering around campus. With everyone in the same school uniform, and rules against makeup, it was hard not to judge yourself against others.
But maybe I'm not so bad. I turn this way and that, looking in the mirror and trying to see myself as a guy would. Or a girl, I guess, I've never really tried that alley to know for sure. I like my hips. They're not those big curvaceous things women online show off, or lusty dudes refer to as
childbearing
in their rambling posts about ethnic attractiveness. But I think they have a nice line. And my face isn't so bad. Still a few acne marks, and my eyebrows might be a bit bushy, but I like my nose.
I slip my top off and turn side-on. Breasts... well, not really much luck there I guess, as far as the size competition goes. They bounce a bit if I wiggle, but when I lie down they all but disappear. If I ever get naked in a bed with a guy, I think I'll have to sleep side-on. Or maybe he wouldn't care. I guess that's the dream.
I'm rambling and I'm the only one in here.
Screw it, this is what I've got, and if a guy hasn't noticed me yet, I've got the rest of my life. I ditch my bottoms and step into the shower.
I guess one guy notices me.
I wonder why Dion's never had a girlfriend. Is he gay? Probably not, we shared a laptop until a few years ago and the search engine autocomplete often came up with some... fruitful suggestions that were almost exclusively hetero. Maybe he's in the same boat as me; too plain to be noticed, too polite to ask, and too chill to worry about it all that much.
I wash my face, my armpits and chest and stomach and then a hand runs across my pubic hair. It's chestnut brown like the curls currently stuck to my back, and it's thick. Another reason to not wear a bikini bottom. I've never shaved it beyond convivence, despite religiously removing my underarm hair. But maybe...
I look at the razor I've been keeping in the shower rack, next to Dion's. I chew my hair.
"Jeepers, you took ages. And why are you walking funny? Are you alright? Did you hurt yourself?" Dion is sitting up and looking concerned. Ever my caring older brother.
"I think I made a mistake," I tell him. "But I don't think you want to know."
"Is it something serious? Should I call someone?" He scoots over and lets me gingerly perch on the couch next to him. "Are those my boardshorts?"
"You were never going to wear them. I need them more than you." I needed something loose to wear, and none of my clothes fit the bill.
"You're giving me a lot of hints but I'm not getting anywhere."
Jeez he's oblivious sometimes. "Don't worry about it. What are you watching?"
