Page 122 of When Lemons Give You Life

“Thanks for coming, mate.”

“No worries. I’m so glad you called.” He pops the boot and lifts my bag inside. As I climb into the passenger seat, he gives me a sidelong glance. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” I lie.

Back at the unit, I make us both a cuppa.

Scotty sinks into the armchair with his mug, surrounded by half-open boxes. “So,” he says, “talk to me. How are you really going?”

I lower myself onto the couch, my hand instinctively going to my side as the stitches tug. “Lisa found out.”

His eyes snap up. “About the donation? The faking? How?”

“A nursing student let something slip.”

“Far out! How’d she take it?”

“As you’d expect. She’s furious and so hurt. Wants nothing to do with me.”

“Bloody hell. But I guess it would’ve felt like someone coming back from the dead.”

“Only to be buried all over again.”

He nods, silent for a moment. “Did you get a chance to tell her why you did it?”

“Not in full. But I’ve no doubt she knows.”

His gaze lingers, thoughtful. “Maybe she just needs some space. How long have you got this place for?”

“Until the end of the month. They’ve got another booking after that.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“I don’t know,” I say, staring out the window. “Now I know there’s no hope with Lisa, I’ll probably stick with the original plan and move out west. Someplace where no one gives a damn who I used to be.”

We sit in silence for a while sipping our tea.

“So tell me, how was your first day at Lorraine?” I ask, keen to change the subject. “You started last week, right?”

He leans in, his eyes lighting up. “It’s epic! The kitchen, the thrill . . . My feet hurt, and I’m dead tired, but I’ve never felt so alive. Matilda is amazing! Thank you so much for setting it up with her, that can’t have been an easy call to make.”

“It’s my pleasure.” I smile, recalling the strange and embarrassing call with my former sous-chef. We’d had to FaceTime twice before she could believe it was true.

I get up and cross to the corner where the box marked “Lisa” waits. Inside are a few mementos of Beau I hope might bring her some joy: a few photos, the old map of Canberra I’d taken down after he died, the viola. I couldn’t be the one to comfort her now, but maybe he still could. “Would you give these to her, please?”

“Sure.”

I jot her address on a scrap of paper and hand it to him.

“Don’t be a stranger, Griff.”

I nod and clasp his shoulder. “Take care, mate.”

The door clicks shut behind him, and I sit back down. The tea is cold. The silence, complete.

And I realize that I already am a stranger. To Lisa. To myself. To everyone who ever knew of me.

I open another box and pull out a photo of Beau and me. He’s laughing, doing a silly pose. I study the man beside him—sharp suit, clear eyes, standing tall. I run my thumb over his face. Even Beau wouldn’t recognize me now. Not in the man who ran, who faked, who disappeared and stayed gone even when he came home.