Ignite

Chapter 18

Jake picks me up from Emmy's later that day, riding his bike over with a soccer ball wedged under one arm. I'm pleased when he comes in and says hello to Emmy's parents, falling into that easy affability he'd been famous for back home.

When we leave, Mrs Chang hands me several containers of food, and we both thank her and head out the door into the late afternoon sunshine.

"I was thinking we could head to Centennial Park and kick the ball around for a bit," Jake says, walking his bike alongside me. "I haven't left the house all day. Would be good to have a bit of a run around."

I agree, and half an hour later, we're making our way onto one of Centennial Park's many fields.

The grass is lush and green, preserved in a way that makes it obvious the drought was never allowed to touch it, and we spend the rest of the afternoon there, running drills and practicing shots. Jake is a born striker, and I feel an odd sense of pride as his kicks rocket past my goalie attempts. I feel an even more potent sense of pride when we practice defending and I get the ball off him every time.

The sun is setting, painting the field in elongated shadows, when we take a break. Jake collapses onto the grass, resting his hands beneath his head in a small patch of fading sunlight.

I sit next to him, pulling up strands of grass as I watch people stroll past. A small boy comes to a stop beneath one of the fig trees near us and looks up into its branches. His little limbs move, mimicking positions, and I smile as I realise he's imaging how he'd go about climbing it.

"Do you think you'll try out for a soccer team here?"

Jake's question drags my eyes away, and I glance down at him. His eyes are closed, his face calmer than it's been for many weeks now.

"Yeah, I might. I think I'd like playing here. There's so many people. Surely, the competition will be better."

"No one's competition for you, Claude."

I roll my eyes and glance back at the boy. His mum is pulling him away from the tree, forcing him back in line with his sister as they continue along the path. Other people surround them; some walking in groups, some jogging and pushing prams, earphones in.

When the boy disappears from view, I give up my people-watching and lie down beside Jake so my hair brushes his. The grass is soft beneath me, like a cool sponge.

"How's your training been going?" I ask.

"Good, I think. Sylvia keeps showing up to watch."

"Huh? Why?"

Jake shrugs. "I think she wants to know her investment in my boots is being put to good use. They weren't cheap. Didn't help that I lost the fifty dollars I was meant to spend when we went to Pitt Street Mall either."

"You did?"

"Yeah. Must've fallen out of my pocket."

My mind flashes back to the guy I'd seen Jake talking to when I'd come out of the bookstore, to the way he'd hovered at the edges, scanning the crowd.

"How was therapy this week? You've seemed happier lately."

Jake's words distract me. For a moment, I'm certain he's changed the topic on purpose, that he read my thoughts. But when I look over, his expression is filled with a sheen of exhaustion and endorphins after the run around, and I realise with some surprise that he's right. Since my panic attack last weekend, my dreams have gone on a much-needed break, and most days I've woken rested.

"It was good, actually," I say, pulling at a clump of grass. "Maybe Muhammad's onto something. How's yours going?"

"It's not. I haven't been in weeks."

I stop pulling at the grass mid-wrench and frown at him.

Jake sighs. "It's just pointless, Claude. It doesn't help me."

"Does Sylvia know?"

"'Course not."

"Haven't they called her?"

Jake has the decency to look guilty.

"They did once, but she was in a singing lesson. I deleted the message."

I'm quiet for a moment, but something is churning in my stomach — something filled with a dark, unsettled sense of foreboding.

"Maybe skipping isn't a good idea, Jake. They sent us to therapy for a reason. What if all that bullshit about healing and processing is true?"

"It's not," Jake says, and then he jumps up, grabbing the ball from the goals where we'd left it. "Not for me anyway. Come on, we should head back, Sylvia's probably wondering where we are."

He starts back across the oval, certain I'll follow. For a moment, he blends into the rest of the city, and I see him become just another stranger walking around the park on this lazy Friday afternoon. He looks normal, carefree.

It worries me more than I can express.