Night Beach Read Online Free

blood
in
two
of
my
toes;
    they’ve
turned
fluorescent
white.
    He’s
standing
by
the
open
door
of
his
ute
watching
me
in
a
way
that
makes
me
feel
like
a
    bug
being
pinned
to
a
display
board.
I
must
look
pretty
glam.
Wet
hair,
nose
running.
    Shaking
and
shivering.

    ‘Come
on,
hurry
up.
It’s
not
that
cold,’
he
mutters.

    ‘Are
you
kidding?
It’s
freezing.’
Contorting
my
body,
I
roll
the
wetsuit
over
my
hips,
    careful
not
to
collect
my
bikini
pants
on
the
way
through.
‘I
hate
wetsuits.’

    I
plonk
my
butt
down
on
the
pine
rail
and
start
working
the
wetsuit
over
my
legs
and
    feet.
Kane
leans
forward
and
gives
the
wetsuit
a
tug
so
violent
that
I’ve
got
to
lean
back
    and
grab
hold
of
the
rail
to
avoid
being
pulled
onto
the
ground.
    The
suit
peels
off
my
feet
and
I’m
free.
    On
the
way
home
Kane
drives
fast,
but
not
stupidly.
I’ve
got
his
damp
towel
wrapped
    around
me,
but
it’s
not
doing
much
to
warm
me
up.
All
the
heater
vents
are
pointing
my
    way
and
my
toes
begin
to
burn
as
the
blood
returns
to
them.

    The
longer
we
go
without
talking
the
harder
it
is
to
speak.
    At
least
between
the
fan
of
the
heater
and
the
blare
of
the
radio
I’m
not
suffering
in
    silence.
But
I
feel
choked.
Inadequate.
All
the
usual
feelings
I
get
around
him.
Nothing’s
    changed,
even
if
I
am
in
his
ute
and
he’s
broken
up
with
Lauren.

    I
stare
out
the
window,
watching
the
apartment
blocks
stacked
along
the
beach
slide
by,
    and
I’m
thrown
up
hard
against
the
door
when
he
weaves
around
roundabouts.
I’m
    nothing
like
Lauren.
When
I
was
thirteen,
I
used
to
cut
pictures
of
girls
like
her
out
of
    magazines
because
I
wanted
to
look
like
them.
Kane
started
up
with
Lauren
in
May,
    when
it
was
still
warm
enough
to
wear
a
bikini
on
the
beach.
I
saw
him
collect
her
after
    a
session.
She
got
to
her
feet
as
he
approached,
seeming
hesitant,
and
with
good
reason
    because
he
didn’t
kiss
her
or
anything,
just
stood
there
with
his
board
tucked
under
his
    arm,
looking
impatient
while
she
gathered
up
her
things.
    She
was
wearing
this
delicate
little
bikini
that
was
all
the
colours
of
a
sunset,
and
you
    knew
just
by
looking
at
her
that
she
was
a
girl
who
was
up-‐to-‐date
with
her
Brazilians.
I
    envy
her
body.
If
you
were
sitting
on
a
seat
next
to
her,
you’d
look
down
and
wonder
at
    the
slightness
of
her
thighs.
That
day
she’d
gathered
her
shoulder-‐length
blonde
hair
    into
a
loose
knot
on
top
of
her
head,
and
bits
of
it
had
come
free
and
were
brushing
her
    shoulders.

    My
hair
is
long
and
dark
and
thick
with
a
fringe,
which
I
do
dead-‐straight
and
across
    when
I’m
going
out,
but
most
of
the
time
it
falls
apart
like
two
curtains.
My
face
isn’t
    heart-‐shaped
like
Lauren’s,
it’s
oval.
My
nose
is
straight,
but
it’s
not
particularly
delicate,
    and
I’ve
got
round
cheeks
not
high
cheekbones.
I’ve
got
full
lips,
which
bird
girls
like
    Lauren
don’t
have,
and
people
say
I
have
a
nice
smile,
so
there’s
that
at
least.

    But
my
body
could
never
be
considered
fine
or
delicate.

    I’m
short
and
curvy
with
generous
breasts
–
if
I
hold
them
in
my
hands
they
swell
    without
me
having
to
plump
them.

    Because
of
surfing
and
all
the
bike
riding
I’ve
done
back
and
forth
between
the
break,
    I’m
fit
–
no
jelly
bits
–
but
I’m
not,
and
will
never
be,
birdlike.
When
I’m
around
girls
like
    Lauren
I
feel
like
a
clump.
    ‘You
right
if
I
switch
that
off
now?’