Chapter Text
*
They take JJ’s bike to the Boneyard. Kiara has to link her arms around his waist, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades. There are still the litter pickers in the van which JJ unlocks with keys he’s obtained from somewhere. It seems someone did a rudimentary job the evening before – they only fill two trash bags full of crumpled solo cups and cigarette butts. JJ undoes the tie of her bikini top twice with his metal pincers. She pushes them away, chiding, “gross, Maybank!” and then they end up squabbling, wrestling the metal between them until Kiara feints left, then right, then swipes his feet from under him so he tumbles to the soft sand.
There’s sand in her hair and up her back – she drives the van back and JJ speeds off on his bike. It makes her scowl after him, makes her want to give chase, but the van coughs in protest when she accelerates and she has to drop back down until the engine stops whining loudly.
JJ’s bike is abandoned in the driveway in a way that she thinks may be purposeful, judging by the fact he comes down from the porch to watch her trying to manoeuvre the van around it. Eventually she inches the van forwards and nudges the bike with its nose. JJ gasps and marches over as the bike tips into the dirt, but Kiara looks innocent as she jumps out and slams the door.
He’s still lamenting about her complete lack of respect when they clatter into the Chateau. Pope looks up from the couch, a plate of something which looks suspiciously like waffles balanced in one hand. JJ sniffs the air and bounds towards the kitchen. He returns with one plate and two forks – hands one to her and lets her steal bites of syrup drenched waffles.
“Sarah made them,” John B explains, and he has one in his bare hand like some sort of heathen. “She’s gone to see her sister. Pogue day?”
Kiara roots around until she finds an old cooler. Complains as JJ tries to wedge a bag of bait on top of drinks and fruit Sarah keeps buying in vain. John B and Pope are arguing loudly as they try to launch the boat – it involves a lot of swearing and grunting. Kiara cuts up a mango with a blunt knife. JJ steals a piece and smacks a kiss to her cheek in one smooth motion, retreating as she stabs at the air in retaliation.
“Go be useful,” she grouses, and although she did mean it, she’s a little sad when he traipses outside to assist.
The boat is bobbing in the water as she walks down the backyard, cooler in hand. JJ and John B are squatting on the deck of the boat, the engine exposed. She hears JJ saying, “just don’t tell Kie,” and then they’re covering up the engine and standing up in unison. Pope’s lips are pulled into an amused smile. Kiara hefts the cooler over the side of the boat, then jumps to follow it. As usual, it takes half a second to re-acclimatise to the movement of the boat; the gentle roll and rises as the water shifts them.
JJ takes the controls and John B and Pope begin a familiar conversation of the relative merits of Coke versus Pepsi. Pope brings up the inherent corruption and immorality of Coke as a corporate entity; John B refuses to accept that Pepsi is in any way a suitable replacement.
Kiara lies on the front of the boat, her shirt screwed up beneath her head. The familiar scent of weed fills the air and she cracks open an eye to slant JJ a look that is exasperated and disbelieving that he’s managed to roll whilst steering.
He’s looking at her, catches her eye. Smoke trickles from the corner of his mouth as he grins. He’s bare chested and bathed in golden light, a battered cap on his head and yellow tinted sunglasses over his eyes.
“Pope,” Kiara asks, “pass me a Pepsi?”
JJ laughs and John B reaches out, swats at her arm. Pope retrieves one from the cooler and throws it over, looking smug.
It’s not that Kiara doesn’t like Sarah. Sarah is sassy and fierce and her and John B have seemingly never left the honeymoon phase of their relationship. Just Kiara can never forget that Sarah dropped her without a word. A birthday party seems ridiculous, but it was so much at the time. To see it all playing out over social media and not even get an explanation for her sudden exclusion stung. To realise it may be because of Kiara’s newfound attraction towards girls and the apparent exclusion as a result of it hurt even harder.
It’s also just that these boys are hers. Have been, for years (apart from that one). She’s the one who’s tried to show John B how to cook, how to stretch leftovers and make dinners from the eclectic ingredients. It’s JJ who she first got high with, who pressed a hand to her shoulder and reassured her she wasn’t floating towards the sun. It’s John B she considered her best friend for years and years, who she confided in, who she had her first all consuming crush on. It’s Pope who helped her study when she fell behind at school, when chemistry threatened to overwhelm her. Pope who supports every half-thought plan with something concrete and solid, his logic unyielding.
The sun gets hotter as JJ decides they’re in the prime spot and cuts the engine. Kiara’s never been the biggest fan of fishing, but hearing the boys falling into familiar patterns of shit talking each other’s techniques and prowess makes her smile. They throw back any fish not big enough to eat quickly, before Kiara has a chance to snap at them for being cruel.
Kiara teaches Pope how to braid, starting with the threads of a friendship bracelet. Then she lies back and shows him on the bottom strands of her hair. John B and JJ exchange stories and accolades, JJ’s Juul on his lips, a watchful eye on the lines.
“Sunscreen, boys,” Kiara commands, as she squints at a gradually pinker patch emerging on John B’s shoulders. Pope throws her the bottle from the backpack and she covers John B’s shoulders. Moves onto Pope.
“I don’t burn,” he points out dryly.
“There’s still skin cancer,” Kiara persists. He frowns at her. “Hole in the ozone, Pope. Global warming. UVA and UVB. Y’know, the irreparable damage the human race has done to Mother Earth? Culminating in entirely preventable diseases such as skin cancer.”
“Oh my God,” JJ drawls. “Just do it to shut her up, dude.”
“It’s designed for darker skin,” Kiara tilts the sunscreen towards him. “You only get one skin.”
“Well, that depends on your definition of one skin. Because technically, your skins cells renew every twenty-seven days or so-”
The entire boat turns blank gazes upon Pope. He sighs. Holds out a hand for the sunscreen.
JJ’s last and he twists his shoulders away from her, complains about it. Kiara presses two fingers into his neck to keep him still; lets her nails drag over his shoulder blade just so he shoots her a look, eyebrows pulled together and the beginnings of a smirk on his face. He’s lit another joint – she takes it from between his lips and drops cross legged on the deck, handing the bottle out to him.
Pope watches as JJ abandons his line to cover her back – how she holds her hair to one side and tilts her head backwards, leaning into the touch. He snaps the band of her bikini against her skin and she knocks his shoulder with hers, leaves it leaning there for a second or two before relinquishing the joint and returning to her perch at the front.
“You’re like some figurehead or something,” Pope tells Kiara as JJ reels in a line, crowing about his catch.
“Nah, a gargoyle,” John B deflects, and he’s throwing Kiara a sideways look.
“They’re supposed to protect people from evil,” Pope informs John B idly. “They’re mostly considered good luck, or protectors.”
“I’ve got something you can protect right here, Kie,” JJ calls. Kiara pushes up her sunglasses so he can see her pointed eyeroll.
John B pulls her up to dance to some peppy music. Then she pulls up Pope, holds his hands in hers and orchestrates something that’s more than a bop. Kiara sends him spinning under her arm across the limited room on the boat, reels him back in. He’s like a gangly new born deer – all limbs and wide eyes.
The song changes – Kiara recognises the opening bars of Pussy is God and turns a glare on JJ, who looks back in challenge.
She pulls him up then, fingers around his wrist, but he’s already half risen to meet her in the middle. Pope flops down next to his line looking relieved.
JJ shimmies his shoulders and hips with her – even gets on the deck in some semblance of a twerk, which makes her belly laugh. Grabs her hands and pulls her around in a loose bastardisation of a waltz – jerks at her arms when she trips over one of the lines and almost falls into a bait bucket. It’s unskilled and it shouldn’t work, but he has the familiar easy confidence and she likes him being close, likes the excuse to have her hand in his.
The song ends and they’re facing each other, shoulders heaving with deep breaths. JJ grins sharply as she drops his hands and she can’t help but smile back. Pushes at his shoulders so she can get past. He barely steps to the side.
Pope and John B are watching them.
“Are you guys together?” Pope asks bluntly. JJ’s next to her and Kiara doesn’t look, but she can almost feel him going still and tense; the air heavy with the sudden tension.
It’s silent for a long moment. JJ eventually mutters, “dude,” but it’s quiet and unsubstantiated.
“Yeah,” Kiara says. Her chin juts out. JJ’s head turns quickly towards her, his brow pulled into a frown. She looks back steadily, assured, chin high.
“Gross,” he complains, but he’s ducking his head down to hide a smile that is utterly blinding in its brilliance, wide and consuming. Kiara thinks that she’d like to bottle that look. Keep it on her bedside table forever.
“Fuck sake,” John B complains. “I owe Sarah. She called it.”
“I called it,” Pope protests. “Seriously. Going around the world together? JJ would follow you into Hell.”
“He’d probably follow any of us,” Kiara points out, and it’s a relief now, to sink to the floor next to where JJ’s taken residence and put her legs across his. His hand rests on her calves as though it’s second nature; he rubs a callused thumb against her ankle bone.
“True,” JJ agrees. “Though Kie looks the best from behind.”
Kiara sighs. John B scoffs. “I’ve been smashing the squats, actually-”
“Oh yeah? Fucking try me-”
Kiara’s legs are dislodged as JJ leaps up to the challenge.
Pope meets her gaze across the deck. “Congratulations.” They both watch as the squats become increasingly dubious. “Your boyfriend’s an idiot.”
The word falters in the air, twists. She sees JJ throwing a glance her way because of course he’s heard.
“The biggest,” she concurs. Tilts her head back to the sun, smiling faintly as John B and JJ start squabbling and critiquing each other’s form.
The hammock swings gently, later on; Kiara stretched out like a cat on the fabric. Pope and John B are constructing some sort of fire to grill the fish they’ve caught. They bicker about the most efficient way to stack the wood and light it.
The world tilts on its axis as JJ clambers into the hammock. It sways precariously before righting itself, swinging between the trees. Their collective weight means they’re pressed together; his ankles into her shoulders, his calves to her arm. Kiara loops an arm over his legs. Pushes her fingertips under the hem of his shorts to rest lightly on his thigh.
“Boyfriend, huh?”
He uncaps a bottle with his teeth and she gives him a look at the action. He’s not looking at her – he’s focussed on the bottles in his hands.
“Any other term you’d prefer?” There’s panic in her throat and chest but she tries to quash it. Tries to keep her voice steady. “Other half? Partner in crime? Significant other? Bro’s with benefits?”
“Boyfriend’s good,” he hands her a bottle, the condensation on the glass cool against her palm. “I wish I could go back to middle school JJ and tell him that it’s Kiara Carrera who’s begging him to be in a relationship. Mini JJ would lose his shit.”
Kiara scoffs. “I am not begging-”
“Oh really? Not how I’m seeing it-”
“So do you not want to? ‘cause I can take it back-”
He flicks at her ankle, leaves his hand there. It’s warm and soothing. She’s wearing one of his t-shirts and it has some oil stain right up the side. “I suppose it’s fine,” he sighs eventually. And although he has sunglasses on and has his head tilted back, she knows he’s watching her.
“How gracious of you,” she mutters.
Kiara tries not to overthink this new development. Mostly because nothing significant changes immediately. She’s slightly less conscious of being around JJ, stops feeling like she has to hide the way she leans into his side or the way his hands go to her hair and plait tiny braids out of habit. The way the fridge is stocked with full sugar coke’s and he knows precisely when to pull one out with a knowing look. It’s both of their first relationships which makes her panic if she thinks about it too much – there just feels like there should be some trial run before this, before falling into something with her best friend.
They grill the fish an hour later once the fire’s sufficiently hot. Kiara makes them grill asparagus as well, and then bullies them into eating mango for dessert. JJ tosses pieces into Pope’s open mouth, John B whoops every time he lands a shot. Kiara smokes too much of one of JJ’s superpowered joints and falls asleep on the couch on the porch. She wakes up with a blanket over her and a pillow half wedged under her head.
JJ’s in the kitchen when she stumbles up, elbow deep in a sink of soapy water. Kiara collapses against his back, her arms around his waist. The rest of the house is quiet, still – Pope’s snoring on the pullout, hands behind his head.
“Bedtime,” she announces into his shirt. JJ abandons the dishes to climb in next to her. They link hands (because it’s too hot for anything more) and she falls asleep almost immediately.
There are two missed calls from her dad when she wakes up, and then a text asking whether she’d mind picking up a shift at The Wreck. Kiara tries not to wake JJ as she climbs out of bed but he’s still an unnaturally light sleeper. One hand drags lightly over her hip as she escapes. He appraises her sleepily, eyes squinted. They darken as she pulls on a pair of his boxers in the absence of any clean underwear.
“Do some laundry,” she commands.
“Where you going?”
“The Wreck. Dad’s asked.” She has her phone in her back pocket and stops in the middle of the room. Something seems awry, or awkward, like she’s too big and too small all at once. JJ watches as she marches across the room, as she braces one hand next to his head and drops a kiss to his lips. It’s quick, snatched – although his hand goes to her hair, traps her there.
“Give me five minutes,” his voice is husk with sleep and something else. “That’s all I need.” Kiara grins quickly, pulls away. He lets her go. “Fine. Three minutes. Two and a half, maybe.”
“A minute, more like.”
“You devastate me, Carrera. Besides, what’s a few minutes between friends?”
She takes his bike and rides fast to The Wreck. There’s some external convention going on that they’re also catering for – the kitchen is a mess of shrink-wrapped sandwiches and platters. Her dad pauses for half a second to acknowledge her presence before loading her up with platters to take to the truck.
The day passes quickly – she drives the food across to the five-year old’s birthday party over on Figure Eight and then busses tables and helps in the kitchen right up until close. Her dad pulls two Coors’ from the fridge beneath the counter and hands her one. There are clatters from the kitchen as the staff tidy up from the day. Mike circulates amongst them, handing out beers and debriefing the day.
“I’m getting too old for this,” he laments as he joins Kiara on the front step.
“You love it,” Kiara accuses. “Gives you that sense of importance. Besides, black don’t crack.”
“Reckon you’ll ever want to take it over?”
Kiara has thought about it. It wouldn’t be a bad life, a bad living. She enjoys cooking and adores The Wreck. “I don’t know. Maybe. I love it here, but I don’t know if it’s my calling. Perhaps I’ll just be a benevolent owner and get in a stellar manager. That could work.”
“I suppose it’s hard to run this place from another country,” she can sense her dad looking at her from the corner of his eye, judging her reaction.
Kiara shrugs. “I have no idea where I’ll end up. It could be here.”
“One day the decision will be easy. You’ll look around and realise where you want to call home.” He runs a thumb over the label on the bottle. “Where’s next, anyway?”
“India.” Kiara touches her tongue to her top lip. Stretches out her legs. “In two and a half weeks.”
“JJ going with you?”
“Maybe. Not sure yet.” Maybe it’s the uncertainty which is throwing her mental balance off. They both know she’s leaving again, and soon. But he’s been so happy and contented and Kiara doesn’t want to be the reason for bursting that bubble.
“I feel better that’s he’s with you,” Mike holds up a placating hand as Kiara turns a vicious scowl on him. “I know you can handle yourself – I know. It’s not just for safety reasons. Travelling the world alone would be so lonely. He’s – he’s not what I expected.” Kiara looks at him questioningly. He shrugs. “We’ve all heard about the Maybank’s. It’s no secret he was picked up for sinking the Thornton’s boat.”
“That’s only because they jumped Pope-” Kiara defends.
“-but after everything, after the gold and Sarah and John B going missing. After it all. He’s straightened himself out. And he makes you happy. So that’s good enough for me. Good enough for your mom.”
“Ah, male validation. Precisely what every woman needs.”
Her dad smiles at her. Puts an arm around her shoulder. “You know what I mean.” He touches a hand to her hair, holds her to his side. “Bring him round for dinner.”
“What, for an Anna Carrera inquisition? I’m good, thanks.”
“I can promise best behaviour.”
“You can promise no such thing.”
“I can promise I’ll be on my best behaviour.”
“It’s not your behaviour that’s the concern.”
“Fine, we’ll do a cookout. Invite them all. The parasites.”
Kiara grins at him. “May as well break him in gently, see if he sticks around.”
“He’d be a fool not to.”
Anna emerges from the house as Kiara parks on the driveway. She’s frowning at the bike. “I don’t trust that thing,” she tells Kiara, then pulls her into a brief hug once she’s dismounted.
“Trust me, it’s a hundred times better than the ones in Vietnam.”
“I don’t want to know,” Anna protests. Her arm’s still around Kiara’s shoulders and she guides her inside. “The less I know, the better.”
They make mocktails with fancy juices and sit in the back yard before Kiara’s bullied into cooking dinner. There are Thai spices and lemongrass in the cupboard – ingredients she’d mentioned to her dad. He leans against the counter and watches as she prepares a Thai green curry mostly from memory.
Her mom falters slightly at the suggestion of a cookout, but then warms to the idea. Checks her Outlook calendar and proposes two days’ time so she has a free afternoon to prepare.
Kiara posts it in The Pogues (plus Sarah).
John B [7:54]: Omg meeting the parents that’s some serious shit
Sarah [7:54]: we’re free!!!
JJ [7:55]: do i have to wear a shirt
Sarah [7:56]: yes
Pope [7:56]: Yes.
Kiara [7:57]: And shoes
JJ [7:58]: fucking kooks
Two days later, Kiara swings by the Chateau in her dad’s SUV after a shift at The Wreck to pick them up. Sarah, John B and Pope are pregaming on the porch. Pope rushes to hide his bottle when he catches sight of her, his eyes wide.
“Kie!” John B greets as she appears in the doorway. “We’re not pregaming because your parents are intimidating. Definitely not.”
“Really convincing,” Kiara tells him, but she’s glancing around. “Thank you for soothing any nerves I may have about this occasion.”
“JJ’s changing,” Pope informs her. “He’s changed his shirt like a hundred times already.”
“Dude,” the aforementioned blonde approaches, barefoot, buttoning up a navy button down. “Be cool.”
“She already knows you’re not cool,” Pope dismisses.
JJ bumps his hip into Kiara’s, musses her hair. “Good shift?”
“Long.” He retreats to the kitchen and Kiara follows; watches as he opens the fridge. Hidden from everyone else, he kisses her chastely, bottle in one hand. Kiara pulls him back towards her.
“You stink of fries.” Kiara moves to pull away but he traps her with an arm around her waist. “Nah, it’s good.” His teeth graze her neck and this time she does push him away. Keeps her hand on his chest as she surveys his outfit.
“A shirt? They’ll be honoured.”
JJ’s gaze slides away. He bites his lip briefly. “A shirt’s not going to change much.”
It’s well worn ground from the past two days. “Just relax, don’t blaze up, and don’t get so drunk you puke. You’re good.” He meets her steady gaze eventually. “They know who you are, babe. No need to pretend to be anyone else. Don’t go weird on me.”
“Weird’s Pope’s niche,” his shoulders relax marginally. “I’m cool. Your mom’s hot, so I’ll just charm her.”
“You charm no one, Maybank. Let’s not pretend.”
“Charmed you, didn’t I?”
“It’s more like Stockholm Syndrome.” Kiara presses a kiss to his cheek, steps back. “I’m gonna go grab a shower. Get everyone ready to leave in fifteen?”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever, mom,” he dismisses as he leaves the room. He pauses at the doorway, shoots a look over his shoulder before disappearing.
There’s a miniature bottle of her favoured shampoo and conditioner in the limescale crusted shower. Kiara smiles at the sight of it. Roots through the myriad of clothes on the floor for a clean shirt. There’s a bralette she abandoned the other day – she pulls one of the t-shirts JJ’s slashed into a tank top on over the top. Tucks it into denim shorts and pulls her damp hair into a braid and a bandana on her head. There’s a bottle of cocoa butter moisturiser on the side.
JJ’s nervous energy personified – beer spills from the bottle in his hand as he waves his arms in animation. John B laughs at whatever tale he’s re-enacting, his arm firmly around Sarah’s waist. Kiara announces her presence with a jangle of keys, waits for the story to finish.
“Everyone ready?”
JJ twists the ring on his thumb in the car. Chews at the bands around his wrists. John B, Pope and Sarah all pile out as they roll to a stop on her driveway. JJ stares at the house, his shoulders square, set.
“JJ,” Kiara says, mostly to pull him out of his head. “It’s fine.” She curls a hand over his knee, smiles reassuringly. “You did a whole week with them at Christmas.”
His breath gusts out sharply. “This is different. We’re different. It’s weird.” His knee moves under her palm. “I don’t wanna fuck this up,” he admits eventually, quietly.
“You’re good. We’re good.” John B raps on the window with his knuckles sharply. Gestures towards the house. “Come on.”
JJ keeps a careful distance from her for the first hour. Accepts a beer with a flash of teeth that could be a smile or a threat and clutches the neck of the bottle tightly. Kiara exchanges a look with Pope who then takes up residence at JJ’s side. Draws him into a conversation with her dad about fishing or something.
Anna says, “Sarah, you look lovely!” and Sarah does – a red sundress and bare legs. Anna shoots a look at Kiara’s outfit. Plucks at the torn tank with a tsk. “You could have at least tried to look like you've made some effort, Kiara.”
John B is his usual charming self. Sarah bounces well off him, asking Anna about work and analysing the country club charity event. Kiara drifts between the two segments until Sarah pulls her down into a chair next to her, claiming her wandering is making her nauseous. Her back’s to JJ but she can hear his voice occasionally. Can hear him slowly unwinding.
Her mom ropes her into retrieving the food for the grill from the kitchen. They’re pulling bowls and plates from the fridge when her mom says casually, “you and JJ are together, right?”
Kiara fumbles with the plate in her hand. Grips it tighter. “Yeah,” she confirms. “It’s really new though, so…”
Her mom’s face is inscrutable. She looks considering. Resigned, maybe. “He hasn’t stopped looking at you.”
It makes her shy. Makes her eyes drop to the plate. “I like him, mom.”
Anna smiles then. “I know, honey. Just – be careful.”
Kiara carries the plates of meat to the grill where Pope, JJ and her dad are still gathered. Pope’s recalling some weird factoid about how pork’s the most similar in composition to humans. Her dad looks spooked but as though he’s trying not to show it. JJ’s hiding a smirk behind his bottle. Looks to her as she places the plates next to the grill.
“I tried to stop the burning human conversation,” he mutters to her. Kiara leans against him, arm to arm.
“Liar,” she accuses.
His lips quirk slightly before he takes another sip of his beer.
“Kiara!” Sarah calls. “Come make a cocktail!”
“Oh, JJ makes a mean cocktail,” John B trails out the house holding bowls. Places them on the table.
All eyes turn to JJ. He glances at Kiara. Shrugs a shoulder. “They’re alright.”
“Alright?” John B hoots. “So many people would only let him make theirs,” he informs Anna. “He was the best at – what was that one? Lemon and sh- stuff-”
“Lemondrop,” JJ supplies, but he’s narrowed his eyes at his friends as though trying to determine his ulterior motive.
“Them! Honestly, Anna, they are God’s gift to Earth.”
Which is how Kiara is treated to the sight of JJ shaking up cocktails with a cocktail shaker her dad pulls from a cupboard and rinses free of dust. His arms flex as he shakes them over his shoulder – he even goes a step further and requests sugar so he can dust the rim of the glasses. Bounces a lemon off his elbow just to show off.
It’s sweet and sour and laced with hard liquor. “You’ve been holding out on me,” Kiara complains to him.
JJ glances around briefly to check they don’t have an audience. Slings an arm around her neck and presses a brief kiss to her temple. “I definitely don’t hold out on you, Kiara Carrera.”
Kiara groans at the insinuation, swats his shoulder. “Kindly tell your mind to climb out the gutter.”
“Can’t help where I was born, bro.”
“Bro?”
“Bro,” he nods solemnly. There’s a pause and Kiara drops her head to his shoulder. His shirt smells like mango Juul. “Your mom said something about India,” he starts.
It’s not how she imagined this conversation going. Not in the corner of her backyard, a lemondrop cocktail in one hand and her parents frowning at food on the grill.
“I’ve booked two flights, just in case,” she says quickly, and she raises her free hand to rest it on the arm around her shoulders. “I just – you seem so happy here – I don’t want to assume that-”
“It’s cool,” he cuts her off. “I might join you.”
It’s deceptively casual, pointedly uncommitted. Kiara says, “cool,” and tries not to beam too widely about it. Fails, judging by the way her mom is looking at them across the yard. JJ drops his arm from her shoulders as though the look’s burned him. Runs a hand through his hair. Kiara rolls her eyes at him, presses a kiss to his cheek.
Mike’s gone all out with the food – there are three different types of salad, one with grapefruit and avocado and raspberries, grilled lobster and asparagus wrapped in parma ham and fresh fish. Anna only makes two comments about eating salad and vegetables. Looks like she bites back a couple more.
After they’ve eaten Anna drags JJ inside, demanding he shakes up another cocktail. Kiara is trapped in her seat between Sarah and Pope. She still cranes her head to keep an eye on proceedings – Anna is handing JJ liquor and looks like she’s conducting an inquisition. JJ’s back is to the double doors but his shoulders are tense.
Eventually her anxiety gets the better of her and she goes into the kitchen. Catches JJ saying, “yes, ma’am,” to her mom, which makes Kiara feel strange because of this newfound meek JJ.
“I hope you’re playing nice,” Kiara isn’t precisely sure who she’s speaking to. Judging by the way they both look at her innocently, neither do they.
“Just talking about your tattoos,” her mom explains quickly. JJ’s is stark on his forearm. There are flashes of Kiara’s as the tank top shifts with her movements. When they’re in bed, JJ likes to lay his forearm along her ribs so it looks like the dolphin’s in the sea.
“It was a reputable place,” Kiara begins defending. Anna laughs, cups her cheek.
“I was just saying, they kind of match. A bit like you two do.”
Kiara can feel the flush starting on her neck. Can see JJ’s brow furrowing, unused to any inference of intimacy or anything more.
“Mom,” she complains. Anna drops her hand to pat her shoulder on the way past, lemondrop clutched in her other one. “Sorry,” she apologises as Anna disappears out the double doors. “She’s a lot.”
JJ shrugs a shoulder. He’s still got the cocktail shaker in his hands. Keeps twisting the lid on and off. “She really loves you.”
“I’m the best thing in her life. Of course she does.”
JJ scrunches his nose. “Loving the confidence. You do you, babe.”
As promised, John B corners her about JJ. It’s an awkward and disjointed conversation. John B continually expresses his surprise at the match. Even says kinda thought you were into me and it’s enough to make Kiara hit at his shoulder, push his face away. So what if she thought she had been, once upon a time?
“It’s ‘cause you’re shit at macking,” she tells him, and they’re heading back to the Chateau and in earshot of Pope and JJ on the porch.
“Oh shit!” Pope grins, makes some weird gesture with his hands which she thinks is a bow and arrow. “She’s shot you down there. Hook, line, sinker.”
“She has also macked you,” John B points out. He swats at JJ’s legs where they’re leaning on the railings, stretched across the expanse of the porch. JJ doesn’t move them. John B sits on them until they tremble and JJ gives in.
“Pope was passable,” Kiara judges. She collapses onto the couch next to JJ, presses her shoulder into his side. He presses a kiss to her hair idly, brings his arm around her so he can keep rolling the joint on his knee.
“But I’m obviously the best,” JJ surmises. “I’m the only one that’s stuck.”
“So far,” Kiara reminds him, and she smiles sweetly at the look he gives her.
This time, she trusts him to pack his own backpack. Pope texts her the things he’s including. Pope also send links to horror stories from tourists about India. He’s aghast that they’re not considering signing up to any tour provider, despite JJ informing him that Kiara wanted to experience some goddamn culture, Pope, not that you’d understand.
Her parents drive them to the airport and she gets an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. JJ agrees with her. His foot is tapping against the side of the car but he even speaks to her parents in the overly polite way she’s still getting used to. Plays rock, paper, scissors when she gets bored and demands he does. He catches her fist when she wins with rock and tries to knock his hand out of contention.
Their first flight leaves at 2am, so they reach the airport at midnight. It takes a whole twenty-six hours, four separate flights and three airports to reach Mumbai. The border control agents are solemn and unmoving; examine their passports with vigour and disdain.
They get an Uber from the airport which Kiara usually tries to avoid. She calculates she’s had approximately ten hours sleep in the past two days, and JJ’s even worse at sleeping on public transport. He slumps into the Uber like his bones fail to hold him upright.
The first thing that stands out is the traffic. The roads are crammed full of bikes, of rickshaws with flashing lights and boom boxes blaring music; of Uber’s. Horns blare all over. It begins raining whilst they’re halfway to their hostel – big, fat raindrops that thrum onto the roof of the Uber and bounce off the road’s surface. The driver turns up the music he has playing, drums his thumbs into the steering wheel. He’s wearing linen pants and shirt. Keeps shooting JJ looks in the rear-view mirror.
The host is unfailingly polite. Rushes out into the monsoon to assist with their bags, drenched through to the skin. Says, “no, no,” in protest when JJ tries to help by pulling his out the trunk.
India is loud and brash and so unlike anything she has ever experienced. There are power chords twisting between buildings – dozen upon dozen from each power lines. Some are exposed to the elements and the power tends to blind on and off during monsoons. Kiara gets distracted on every street by elaborate temples and buildings. It becomes second nature to slip their shoes off in museums or places of worship.
Mumbai never sleeps – the roads are constantly rammed with vehicles. They see the Koli Fisherman community who have their own language deviations and entire culture – JJ likens them to the locals of the Cut, which makes Kiara shoot him a dismissive look. She doesn’t think the Cut would gather together and play music and dance. He defends them. Cocks his head, eyes sharp in defence.
The food is a blend of spices and fresh flavours. Kiara’s better at heat than JJ – she samples everything they buy before he tries it himself. He mutters about having a sensitive palette and pouts when she mocks him.
They get around the city by trains known as the local trains. They apparently carry over seven million commuters a day; Kiara thinks most of them are on her carriage as she ends up wedged in a corner. They have to battle to get on or off – for the most part the crowds open up around them as obvious tourists. Kiara stops taking pictures of every single temple because they’re likely to turn the corner and discover an ever more elaborate one.
It becomes natural to eat with their hands and use squat toilets. Phone reception is variable. JJ starts downloading maps of the area to use offline. They visit the Sanjay Gandhi National Park and follow a so called naturalist, a tour guide who leads them on a hike of the trails. JJ bounds all day long, peppering their guide with questions. Kiara’s calves ache around hour five. They have to drive to caves and JJ’s thumbs dig into her calves as he glances at her, still talking avidly to their guide.
It’s humid and the air is sticky like treacle. More often than not her shirt sticks to her back with sweat. She buys cotton pants and shirts to try and shade herself, copying the locals. JJ’s accustomed to it, accustomed to the looks they attract in the street; so obviously Western tourists. Some locals approach and it’s hard to disengage from them, hard to look past the more blatant poverty and wealth divide. JJ struggles with the homeless and the beggars who approach, hands cupped and eyes averted.
JJ presses coins into their palms and Kiara tells him they’re told not to, to prevent trouble. The hotel owner has regaled them with tales of how the homeless are usually in gangs and have to give up their daily earnings to the mobsters above them.
JJ shrugs when she points this out. “They might spend it on food, they might give it to their boss. It’ll help them out either way.”
“It’s just perpetuating the cycle of abuse.”
“If you ignore people, they don’t just go away. Maybe the gang’s protection is better than nothing.”
It’s enough to make Kiara feel sharply ashamed of herself. Something in JJ’s jaw ticks when he sees injuries on people – when they’re alone, Kiara presses her thumb to where the skin jumps when he’s holding something back.
They get used to carrying bottle of water everywhere. To checking the seals on freshly purchased bottles. The waste annoys Kiara, but after a close call with some potentially contaminated water and having to spend a solid twenty four hours in the immediate vicinity of the toilet, she accepts it as the lesser of two evils.
The train station is confusing to navigate. Kiara squints at the writing and JJ comments something about this is how he feels all the time when she complains she can’t understand the signs.
She thinks they’re on the right train. There’s a basket with a chicken inside it between the man sat next to them’s legs. A woman runs down the platform, offering Styrofoam cups of chai through the open windows in exchange for a few rupees.
JJ sticks his head out of the train window like a dog, his hair streaming in the breeze. Kiara takes a quick picture before pulling him back inside, chiding him about the obvious dangers. There aren’t neon signs announcing stops – they’re lucky if they have a metal sign. The dialects vary all around India, making comprehension even harder.
There are cows on all the streets in Delhi. They’re revered as sacred animals by Hindus. Cars veer around them if they amble into the roads. Food is served on banana tree leaves which are then tossed into the street as cow fodder.
They stand in front of the Taj Mahal and JJ informs her he’s never going to build anything like that for her.
“Aw,” she coos, “don’t you love me enough?”
It’s a joke, teasing, but his gaze slides away from her and he shifts away too. “Definitely not,” he deflects easily.
“She was his third wife and she was an amazing chess player and strategist. Died giving birth to their fourteenth child.” Kiara tilts her head, struggles to comprehend the scale of the palace before them. The white marble’s warm beneath her bare feet. “Imagine what she could have achieved if she hadn’t been constantly pregnant. If she hadn’t just been some baby machine.”
“She got a really cool building out of it, though.”
“Probably would have appreciated it more if she’d been alive to see it.”
They have to get rupees from specific conversion booths that definitely overcharge them with the conversion rate. JJ’s card gets declined twice and he’s distant as he tells her. Kiara can’t really understand why – they spend a similar amount, roughly split all expenses down the middle.
She frets that maybe he’s been scammed, had fraud carried out on his card. He has a banking app and she scrolls through the recent transactions.
There are regular monthly payments to L MAYBANK which makes her stomach clench but she swipes over them. Besides that, there are recent payments to something she has to Google. It’s a charity which deals specifically with the homeless in Mumbai.
Kiara tells him about the transactions, checks it’s him who’s made them. He twists the ring on his thumb and shrugs, looks into the middle distance.
Her throat closes and she thinks she will never stop being surprised by JJ Maybank. “We have a charity fund,” she reminds him. “We can ask Sarah and make regular donations.”
He takes his phone back off her and locks it. Kiara’s arms band around his waist and pull him close, chin on his shoulder. “We love you,” she tells him. Swipes a hand down his spine. “Just let Sarah know which charity you want.”
The hostels they stay in are more people’s homes with spare rooms. At one, there’s a dance rehearsal taking place in the living room. Their host spots them slinking past, drags them in by their hands despite their weak protests. The dancing is energetic, all consuming – a lot of wrist and hand actions matched with complicated steps. They’re walked through the opening steps carefully, the music starting and re-starting until they have them nailed. A monsoon starts outside, pounding against the windows. Being white, blonde haired and blue eyed, JJ always attracts more attention. Indian women crowd him, press their hands to straighten his wrist or lift his arm higher.
Kiara is considered proficient first – their host cheers and claps her hands as she nails the opening sequence. She meets JJ’s gaze and grins at his wrinkled nose, his groan as the music starts once more.
“This is the worst,” he complains as they’re allowed to stop for water.
“You love it.”
He’s looking at her, then past her, where the gaggle of women are drinking water and eating slices of fruit. “Something like that.”
India’s hot and strips their bodies of any form of hydration. They’re targeted in markets or crowded areas. JJ takes up permanent residence behind her, eyes sharp on the people flanking them. A guy tries to slip Kiara’s bag off her shoulder and JJ slams towards him, a whirlwind of fury and anger. Kiara snatches his hand up and pulls him out of the crowd; pushes him against a wall. His shoulders are trembling and he has the awful blank look on his face, his jaw tense.
“You need to get your shit together,” she tells him in a low voice. “I am not a babysitter for when you can’t exercise control.” He still hasn’t looked at her and that annoys Kiara. Makes her place a gentle hand on his chin, tip his face towards her. His gaze is hard and unforgiving. “I’m not fucking around, JJ. You need to look at therapy or something. I’m your girlfriend, not your counsellor.”
He scoffs and shakes her off. But she sees him later on, looking up online courses. On a Thursday they have to search for reliable Wi-Fi and a quiet place. Most of the time he’s quieter afterwards. Kiara keeps a careful distance until he leans into her or curls an arm around her shoulders or waist.
“Is it helping?” she asks after the third Thursday. It’s raining heavily outside, the power blinking on and off. Somehow the TV keeps working. They’ve hopped through tens of channels and come across Mean Girls with Indian subtitles. The familiarity makes her homesick.
The ceiling fan has sputtered to a stop. Sweat collects across the back of her neck and on her forehead. JJ drags a hand across her spine.
“Kind of,” he says eventually. “Lot of work to do, apparently.”
Kiara’s lips twitch. “Well, you don’t have to be a qualified therapist to appreciate that.”
There’s silence. JJ pinches the ends of her hair and rolls it between two fingers. “Do you think I’m fucked up?”
Kiara sits up, turns towards where he’s leaning against the headboard. Blinks a couple of times. “Not – not fucked up as in like, mean – but-”
“But fucked up?”
Kiara narrows her eyes. “You have coping mechanisms and defence reflexes that are understandable, but not the healthiest,” she settles on eventually.
JJ hums. “Are you sure you’re not a therapist?”
He’s relaxed enough that she knows she can climb into his lap without repercussions. “I’m definitely not a talking therapist.”
They see a lot of the same people who are also travelling around. They seem to follow the same vague trajectory. There’s a British couple called Will and Jenny who are Kiara’s favourite. Mostly because Jenny’s opening line is, “God, your boyfriend’s really fit,” which apparently means hot, and Kiara can only agree. It’s a commentary rather than anything with intent.
They end up splitting the fare for a guided tour of the Thar desert. It’s via camels, and the amount of pictures Kiara makes JJ take is beyond reasonable. The camels are lurching and not the most comfortable experience. There’s a picnic dinner under a parasol their guide produces from one of the pack camels.
“This is insane.” JJ looks around at the expanse of sand around them, formed into dunes by the wind. Two stray dogs have followed the group – their tour guide tells them not to feed them, and Kiara pretends not to notice as JJ tosses some of his chat to them.
The temperature drops at night dramatically. So much so that they are bundled in jackets and a sweatshirt. JJ challenges Kiara to a handstand competition. She kicks at his legs to try and throw him off balance; ends up collapsing into the sand by overbalancing herself with the motion. JJ cackles, face flushing from the rush of blood.
Then Vihaan their guide brings out two rigid sheets of plastic and challenges them to surf down the sand dunes. Jenny and Will approach the act with trepidation, sliding down in seated position. Kiara goes on her stomach; keeps her head high so she doesn’t nosedive off. JJ’s the one to take a running start, challenged only by Vihaan who has perfected his technique from the run up to the dismount.
Kiara stomach hurts from laughing. JJ keeps going, well after Jenny and Will have collapsed into the sand. He challenges Kiara to a race, tries to use his sheet like a skateboard and overbalances, grunting as he ungracefully eats sand.
They sleep under the stars, wrapped in sleeping bags on woven mats. She jumps awake when a sand flea hops across her face.
JJ almost steps on a snake the next morning – twists away with a sharp intake of breath. Immediately holds out a hand to stop Kiara stepping forwards. Vihaan nonchalantly grabs it from the sand – a hand directly behind the head, another on the tail. Places it far from camp. Jenny and Will say it’s the first wild snake they’ve seen.
“JJ’s always bringing them in,” Kiara complains. “He’s obsessed.”
“Only the non-venomous ones.”
“Apart from that rattlesnake-“
“That was one time-”
“John B said you saw that copperhead and tried to catch it-”
“Think of the chickens, Kie!”
“You two are cute,” Jenny interjects their bickering. They’re packing up camp – rolling sleeping bags and mats into small parcels to attach to the camels. “You been together long?”
JJ’s quiet like he always is when someone addresses their relationship. “Few months,” Kie decides eventually. “Unfortunately, we’ve been friends for much, much longer.”
“Unfortunately?” JJ flicks her shoulder as he marches past. “You were blessed with my friendship.”
“Blessed?” Kiara scoffs. “I keep telling him it’s Stockholm Syndrome,” she explains.
Later on, when they’re knee to knee on their camels, JJ says, “been together months, have we?”
Kiara flicks at the tasselled reins she holds in one hand. “Probably since Thailand.”
“Oh really?”
“Do you disagree?”
“Just wanted to confirm you’re the one longing after me. Have been for months.”
“Oh, my God – you literally said fifth grade, dude. Nothing more embarrassing than that.”
JJ shrugs. “Just thought you were hot.”
“In fifth grade?”
“What can I say – I was an early developer.”
“You didn’t develop anything until at least like fifteen. Maybe fourteen in the right lighting.”
It takes three months to do India justice. Something about their travelling has slowed down, turned down a gear. They travel to villages and national parks. See their first wild elephants in Chandaka Elephant Sanctuary which makes Kiara want to cry. They’re sat in the top of a soft top Jeep, the roof folded down. Kiara leans against JJ instead. His hand sweeps across her neck, holds her securely.
From India they cross Nepal and into China. China is a complete cultural shift once again. The disparity between the cities and the villages and smaller towns is vast. JJ gets mobbed for pictures in the remoter areas. He ends up helping someone with a boat engine on the outskirts of Beidaihe and they get a free ride for their troubles. There are fishing murals and dedications to the sea all over the village turned cultural resort.
Kiara walks a vast stretch of the Great Wall of China in flip flops out of sheer willpower and stubbornness. It rubs her toes raw and then she complains about the wounds for days.
They celebrate Christmas in Tianjun and exchange apples printed with messages on Christmas Eve, which is apparently a new Christmas tradition. They go to McDonald’s on Christmas Day because it’s what the receptionist on their hotel reception says people do. McDonald’s is decked out in festive decorations and they can only find a table in the corner. Non-American McDonald’s still fascinate Kiara; she has a taro pie and a German Sausage Double Beef Burger, which does not correspond to any of the alleged ingredients.
JJ joins Kiara on the Facetime with her parents and she cries for twenty minutes once she hangs up. JJ holds her tightly, rubs a palm across her back. Presses feather light kisses to her eyelids.
Outside of the main cities, China is often difficult to navigate around. The symbols instead of Western lettering are confusing and due to the differing and hierarchical education system, English isn’t as widely spoken as other places.
They miss their third train through miscommunication and Kiara wants to scream.
“Babe,” JJ says from next to her, as she throws down her pack. “It’s fine. Look, we’re simulating the local economy with all these train tickets.”
“Stimulating,” she corrects, then kicks her backpack for good measure. JJ loops an arm around her shoulders, kisses her temple. He’s becoming gentler, more used to casual affection and touches. It scares her, sometimes, when he looks at her with trust and weight.
“We’ll get on the next one. C’mon.” He brings out his phone, scrolls to the train website and clicks translate. It still takes a while to decipher – the translation is piecemeal and meagre, but they manage to muddle through and get a train two hours later.
In February, JJ declares he wants to surf. They fly to Australia and hire a van and two surfboards in Sydney. Travel and hit all the best surfing spots along the coast.
JJ gets towed out to some of the bigger waves behind a jet ski. Kiara retreats to the shore and watches with increasing anxiety as the waves tower, way beyond those found at Outer Banks. It’s thousands of tons of water and weight and she thinks her heart stops several times when he disappears. It’s two whole hours before he’s riding on the back of the jet ski back to shore, board under one arm. He collapses in the sand next to her, all energy dispersed. There’s still enough to talk avidly with the jet ski rider, who enthuses about his apparent ability. JJ pushes a bandana into his hair and grins along with the conversation, slings an arm around Kiara’s neck and an easy kiss to her lips.
They stumble into the surfing shoot the next day. Are busy bickering on the sands of Byron Bay, strapping their boards to their ankles and pushing each other into the sand. JJ’s insisting that Kiara’s snoring kept him up – Kiara insists that he twitched in his sleep excessively, kicking her awake.
They catch some waves, then they notice the photoshoot on the beach. There’s a collection of photographers and models, a stylist darting in between each shot. They take to their boards in the sea and it quickly becomes apparent that they either grossly exaggerated their surfing ability, or had never been asked about it.
Kiara’s not surprised when JJ’s approached as he’s re-waxing his board, hands smoothing the bar across the surface. He’s lithe, banded muscle and tanned limbs. Long blonde hair and a ready smirk. She is surprised when they also gesture to her, to where she’s sitting on her board in the sea. It’s perhaps a dick move, but surfing in on a wave and then jumping off her board and wading through the shallows seems like the only fitting entrance when JJ waves her over.
“They want to know whether we’d be interested in joining the shoot,” JJ informs her. His lips are quirked and she can tell he finds it intensely amusing. It becomes a barter – they refuse payment. Eventually they settle on dinner in some exclusive Sydney restaurant, because one of the stylists can pull some strings.
From then, she has to change behind a wind break screen into branded bikinis and wetsuits and use their pro-offered board. It takes a wave or two to adjust to the new board – she can see them exchanging a look as she surfaces from being wiped out. JJ nails each one from the off, because of course he does. He does a cartwheel whilst he’s waiting for Kiara to change and the camera lens doesn’t stop clicking. They even take some candid’s whilst the other models are being used. Kiara crowds around the camera, shades the screen with her hand. There’s one where JJ has his arm wrapped around her shoulder, his mouth close to her ear. Her nose is screwed up and she’s laughing. It’s imperfect and the bikini would not be her first choice, but it’s natural and she thinks they look good together, leaning in towards each other – the photographer promises to send them over later.
JJ tells her he loves her when she hits her head in their small van whilst struggling into a hastily bought fancy dress for the high end restaurant. She’s rubbing the spot and cursing and frowning at him, and he stares at the roof as though he hadn’t spoken at all.
(He whispers it again, later on, whilst he’s got his arms bracketing her head and her legs around his hips, and she ignores that too, because men say a lot of things during sex and most of them lack the necessary intent).
They get the edited pictures a week after the shoot. Kiara posts an inordinate amount to her Instagram. JJ posts a sole one of her walking across the sand towards the camera with a single heart as the caption. It makes her stall when she sees it. She thinks twice before double tapping to like it. Flirts with the idea of responding with a single heart too. (In the end, she settles for idiot and all of the Pogues respond similarly).
His picture gets the most likes of any he’s ever posted. Hannah from Cornwall comments my fave and most beautiful couple. JJ shows her, says, “see, you are super hot,” and Kiara finds a quarter of herself agreeing.
It’s when Kiara gets wolf whistled in Melbourne and JJ just throws an arm around her and pulls her in that she thinks oh. When he says, “you okay?” because he knows she hates being objectified. When the most he does is give the perpetrator the middle finger and tell him to fuck off.
She thinks oh and then she thinks oh shit.
They’re still in the van – there’s something about the freedom that’s endearing. JJ’s bought battery powered fairy lights and taped them to the roof, basking them in a warm glow when the sun sinks down on the horizon. Sometimes he goes off and surfs and Kiara moves from battered paperback to battered paperback, basking in the sun. Sometimes he turns up music and shout-sings and drives without knowing where he's going.
It’s whilst he’s away that she Facetimes Pope.
“I think I’m in love with JJ,” she announces grandly, and Pope rolls his eyes. His image on screen jerks, gets stuck, then re-animates.
“You only just realised?”
She doesn’t tell him for a couple of weeks. They keep going along the coast. They see their first great white shark off the south coast and JJ listens patiently to her rant about the misconceived ideas about sharks, and how Jaws really tarnished their reputation.
“So, you wanna try and go surfing now? If they’re really so nice and all?”
“Absolutely not,” she confirms.
He grins. He has a beer bottle in one hand and a tank top on. There’s a faint breeze which stirs the strands of his hair. They’re sitting on the clifftop, overlooking the beach. The sea and beach are empty; closed due to the shark sighting. Occasionally they squint, point at something that could be a fin or a trick of the light.
She thinks perhaps she should be bored of him by now. Or he should be bored of her. There have been people, many people, along the way. They discover they have a similar taste in girls. Kiara notes she seems to be an exception to his usual type. JJ comments that he’s definitely her exception, because everyone else of her type possesses a vagina. They bicker daily and disagree the majority of the time. He wants to go to New Zealand and go bungee jumping from a bridge he’s seen. It scares her, but she reckons she’d give anything he wanted to do a go. A lot of her thinks she’ll always be safe with him.
His limbs are looser, languid, one arm pitched directly behind hers, their elbows crossed. He's been humming the Jaws theme tune for a while, but finally fallen silent. She’d been grouchy earlier and he’d pulled out a coke. Had disappeared into a store and come back with another battered paperback. They have reams of notes in her phone of places they want to visit. He takes pictures of her doing handstands in increasingly weird places.
“Hey,” she says, and he doesn’t move his head, just looks sideways at her. “I’m glad it’s you. Who came with me.” He’s still, quiet. “You know I love you, right?”
His chin drops to his chest but she can see the dimples that emerge due to the sheer force of his grin. “Yeah,” he confirms. “I know.” He flicks his bottlecap at her forehead and she bats it away. “You’re alright too, I guess. Until someone better comes along.”
“I’m as good as it gets.”
“Oh, I know.”
Fin.