Unspoken Words

By K.M. Golland

From two-time Romance Book of the Year Nominee and bestselling author K.M. Golland comes an intense, coming-of-age love story with a Me Before You meets A Star is Born vibe. Perfect for fans of Colleen Hoover and Nicholas Sparks.

ELLIE
I fell in love with Connor Bourke when I was twelve years old.
We shared everything together:
first kiss,
first love,
first mistake,
and first regret.
I gave him my heart but he broke it.
Now he's back—music's hottest new thing—and he wants me by his side.

CONNOR
Eloise Mitchell was a blazing fire when my world turned dark. She shined so brightly and burned so fierce that the wall I built around me simply melted to the ground at her feet.
She showed me that music was my gift and to use it to speak.
She was my voice:
my one true love,
my everything.
Ellie's heart belonged to me, and even though I broke it, I was sure as hell going to piece it back together again.

 

"I have no words to describe this book, really. It's sort of like Jojo Moyes meets Nicholas Sparks meets Romeo & Juliet. It's most definitely a love story - a wonderful one, with a beautiful start and a scary, yet even better, ending." ~ Reviewer

• Language: English
• Publisher: Golland Family Pty Ltd
• Release date: Nov 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9780987636737

K.M. Golland

Born and raised in Melbourne, Australia, K.M. Golland is a best selling hybrid author and ranty, married mother of two with a very healthy high heel obsession. She's also a self-confessed car-aholic, choc-aholic, and bridge-aholic who drinks her weight in tea. To find out more, visit K.M. on her website.    You can also follow her on:  Facebook Instagram Twitter  Google+ Pinterest  Goodreads 

Book preview

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

ELLIE

Heat travelled the length of my body and fizzled at my cheeks, the incessant churning of my stomach, heavy and unforgiving. The air was thin, almost unbreathable, but it was the thrumming cacophony of screaming and swirling spotlights that had me dizzy and disoriented, my hand unsteady as it reached out to clasp the black velvet curtain, left of stage, that I was standing behind.

I love you, a girl called from the crowd.

Connor strode from his position, centre stage, to where I was standing in the shadows watching him perform his very first live show in front of thousands of people. I narrowed my eyes as he approached, finding his dimpled cheeks and mischievous grin. He was up to something. He hadn’t yet finished his set; he still had one song left to sing.

If you all don’t mind, he announced to the crowd as he neared me. I’d like to invite someone very special to the stage for this next song.

He clasped my hand. My body stiffened.

What are you doing? I whispered, reluctant to let go of the curtain I was holding on to.

He didn’t answer. He just kept smiling his infuriating smile and led me onto the stage, my hand clammy, my steps timid and unsure.

A blinding light illuminated my face, and I stumbled just slightly before raising my hand to shade my eyes so I could see where he was taking me.

Say hi to Ellie, everyone.

The crowd—all willing puppets on Connor’s strings—did his bidding and chanted, Hi, Ellie in unison, so I gave them a shy wave then turned to the puppet master himself and mouthed, I’m gonna kill you, the many ways in which I could suddenly flowing through my mind like a cartoon movie reel: strangulation with my bare hands, suffocation with a pillow… death by banging his bloody guitar over his head, Tom and Jerry style.

Connor chuckled and adjusted his mouthpiece. She just said she’s gonna kill me. He pouted then added, We can’t have that now, can we?

Eyes wide, I nodded frantically at the ten-thousand-plus screaming fans in the hope I’d miraculously win them over. But his pout was huge, way over the top, and bloody adorable. And my chances of winning this battle were as promising as snow in the height of summer, so I gave in and ceased my nodding when Connor and I stopped by the side of his stool.

He patted the black leather cushion and, like the gentleman he was, assisted me as I climbed on top. Everything around me tilted, and I swayed a little, my sense of balance worse than it had been backstage. I felt strange, unlike I’d ever felt: hot, lightheaded and nauseated but not entirely of this world, as if I were being pulled toward a darkness I did not want to enter, a darkness I knew was there but I’d not yet reached.

Blinking, I sucked in a deep breath and tried to remain focused as Connor’s fingers crept from my hand to my arm, slowly turning it over to bare my wrist. Warmth danced along my skin as he pressed his lips to my tattoo, his grey eyes gleaming with possession. This song is for you, baby, he said, stepping back and letting go of my hand. Always.

Heat bloomed in my cheeks once again, and I couldn’t help but dip my chin and cover my eyes, giggling as I peeked through my spread fingers.

He smirked at me and then toward the crowd. She doesn’t want to kill me now, does she?

Laughter rumbled through the arena, his words and demeanour one of triumph. I chuckled. Truth be told, I did and I didn’t want to kill him. Sitting in spotlight in the middle of a stage, in front of thousands of people wasn’t something I’d ever aspired to do, but being serenaded by the man I loved, by the man thousands of people loved, definitely wasn’t something worthy of ‘accidental’ homicide either.

Shaking my head as if to say, no, I didn’t want to kill him, I chose to blow him a kiss instead, watching with indescribable love and awe as he swung his guitar across his chest and took a few casual steps before strumming the opening chords to Ever After—our song.

The sweet melody wrapped itself around my heart, squeezing tighter than ever before. And with our eyes locked, we spoke our unspoken words as the oiled timbre of his voice sang the opening lyrics.

Tears streamed down my cheeks. The quicker I wiped them the quicker they fell. Despite everything we’d been through and everything we’d lost, he was there—illuminated on stage—and I was right there with him, the way we were supposed to be. Together: Ellie and Connor, Connor and Ellie. Surreal and perfect. And yet, that mysterious darkness lurking in the shadows continued to beckon me. I could feel its icy sting, the uncertainty… fear. And I wanted nothing more than to let its call go unanswered.

Leaning forward, Connor stopped playing the song and wiped the pads of his thumbs over my cheeks before kissing me softly. The screaming, cheering, and wolf whistles quickly subsided until all I could hear was my heartbeat, loud and fast, hard and intense. A sharp pain seized my breast, and I flinched, wondering for a second if, during the day, I’d somehow strained a muscle. The sensation was severe and abrupt, and it caught me by surprise.

I raised my hand and rubbed the area, pushing the pain aside as I tried to refocus on the only man I’d ever loved and what we’d achieved together—our music.

Connor pulled back and broke our kiss, strumming his guitar louder and with more enthusiasm, his eyes wide, his smile wider as he turned to the crowd and sang the chorus. He held out the microphone so they could sing it, too—Connor one line, the crowd the next.

There was something superlative when watching a person exude talent, their body a slave to their instrument, eyes closed, completely lost in the moment. And when Connor untethered himself to the world like that, I anchored myself to him and his passion—his presence all-consuming.

Swaying to our song, my smile faltered when another bolt of pain hit my chest like a freight train. I clutched at my breast, dread and agony filling me. That lurking darkness all of a sudden blanketed my body, and my mouth fell open as I silently cried out, desperate for air I was unable to breathe.

Connor’s neck cricked just slightly, and he smiled but not like he normally did. Confusion crumpled his brow, and his hands wavered.

The crowd were so loud I could no longer hear them, no longer see them. I tried to call out to Connor and reach for his hand, but the edges of his body blurred with black fog that rapidly spread until it was all I could see, until the pain in my chest froze and held, my lungs heavy, my body rigid. Until there was nothing or no one left.

Until my heart stopped beating.

CHAPTER TWO

TEN YEARS EARLIER

Ten years earlier

So much green.

So much brown.

So. Much. Dirt.

This place is disgusting, I grouched, arms crossed, my nose upturned.

Dad wound down his window and drew in a deep breath as he pulled the car to a stop at our summer camping spot. How can nature be disgusting, Ellie? Look at it. Smell it. Taste it. Taste it? Yuk!

My body shivered, voluntarily, so I positioned my headphones over my ears in the hope I could block everyone and everything out. And was about to press play on my Walkman, Dad pointed to a group of campers who’d already set up their tents and chairs. There they are.

Who? my brother, Chris, asked, his neck craned.

I, too, stretched for a better look.

The Bourkes. Their son, Connor, will be starting at my school this year. He’s the same age as you, Ellie.

I pretended I couldn’t hear what was being said because, honestly, I didn’t care who this Connor kid was. What I cared about was how I was going to survive the next fourteen days in a grotty, insect-ridden dump. There were trees, sticks, and shrubs everywhere, and it was going to be the worst summer holiday in the history of summer holidays.

Pressing fast forward on my Walkman, I mentally calculated it would take roughly fifteen seconds to reach Holiday. Ironically, Holiday was my favourite Madonna song. I idolised the Queen of Pop. She didn’t take crap from anybody and certainly wouldn’t be caught dead spending her summer holidays without electricity or a proper bed. Madonna wouldn’t do anything she didn’t want to do because she was Madonna.

I wanted to be her.

Does this Connor guy like footy? Chris asked, scanning the towering boy with his narrowed eyes. Chris rotated the football in his hands once, twice, before handballing it in the air and catching it again.

Not sure. Apparently, he can play basketball though. Dad’s smile bounced from the rearview mirror before he nodded in greeting to who I assumed were Connor’s parents.

Chris shrugged. Basketball is for pussies. Anyone can bounce a round ball and throw it into a hoop.

Language! Mum snapped. That just earned you dish duty, young man.

I scoffed, my smile bold. I’d earned dish duty earlier in the day and knew, at some point, my stupid brother would earn it from me.

And that still applies to you, too, Eloise. I haven’t forgotten your outburst this morning. One of you can wash and the other can dry.

I’ll dry! both Chris and I yelled simultaneously.

I glared at him. I said it first.

Who cares? I’m older. Oldest always wins.

Does not.

Does too!

Enough! Dad swivelled in his seat to face us. You’re both acting like toddlers.

"Elliephant is a toddler."

I am not. I’m nearly thirteen. And don’t call me Elliephant.

Elliephant, he muttered.

Chris, you can wash. Eloise, you can dry.

Chris clamped his ball with his hands. But, Daaad—

No buts, Chris.

Dad’s eyes shot from my idiot brother to me and then back again as if he were watching a tennis game and we were the players. But they soon relaxed, and a small smile crept in at the corners of his mouth. I wasn’t sure why, but Dad really loved camping. Nothing could ruin his happy nature vibes. Not even us.

He sighed. Look… the Bourkes are new in town, and Mrs Bourke is my new school librarian. When she mentioned she and her husband enjoyed camping, I invited them to join us for the holidays.

Of course you did, Chris retorted.

I couldn’t help but giggle. Luckily, I suppressed it before my true I’m-really-not-happy-to-be-here feelings were betrayed.

Connor has just been through an unimaginably tough time where they used to live, Dad added. So do me a favour and be nice, make friends… enjoy each other’s company, okay?

Bull crap! I’m staying in my tent.

He better like footy, Chris mumbled before opening his door and exiting the car with Mum and Dad.

Before Mum closed her door, she paused, her eyebrow arched. You coming?

I shook my head and diverted my gaze to a barren tree.

She sighed and made her way to my side of the car before opening my door and leaning forward to pluck my headphones off my ears. Wrong answer. Mum placed her hands on either side of my face, forcing me to look into her green eyes. I know this is not what we promised, sweetheart. I know we said we would spend the summer holidays at the beach. And I know you hate us right now because we broke that promise—

I don’t hate you, I mumbled, wiping the tears pooling in my eyes.

Mum’s fingertips were delicate as she helped rid them from my face. Good, because you’re not allowed to hate us.

Scoffing mildly, I deliberately avoided her emerald gaze. It was a gaze that had you forgetting your annoyance and thinking about nothing other than row upon row of leafy evergreen trees, merry little leprechauns, and the Emerald City in Wizard of Oz. My mother’s gaze was magical. Hypnotic. And like my mother, I, too, had vivid green eyes and red hair, red hair I hated with a passion and would be dying as soon as I was old enough to do so.

Apparently, the age of ‘nearly’ thirteen wasn’t quite old enough.

Ellie, honey, please don’t be upset. The way I see it, you can be miserable and have a miserable time, or you can accept that sometimes things don’t pan out the way we want them to and, instead, make the most of a crappy situation. She smoothed my hair and cupped my cheeks. So, what’s it gonna be?

I shrugged.

Well, until you decide, I want you to get out of the car so that we can introduce ourselves to the Bourkes. After that, perhaps you could go for a walk and think about how you’re going to play out the next two weeks.

I rolled my eyes. Fine.

She pressed her lips to my forehead then smiled. Good start.

Mr and Mrs Bourke seemed like nice, quiet, loving, Carol and Mike Brady types. As for their son, Connor, he definitely wasn’t part of the Bourke Brady Bunch. When Dad introduced both Chris and me, Connor met our gaze for the briefest of seconds before asking if he could be excused. Talk about rude and disinterested.

I guess I couldn’t blame him for wanting to escape the campsite, though, which was exactly what I’d done shortly after he had. I wasn’t in the mood to be sociable either, not to Mr and Mrs Bourke and certainly not to my parents or my football-kicking douche brother. I was in Hell. A mosquito-ridden, dirty, smelly hell, and no one seemed to care but me.

Now gazing over the river, which snaked through several mountains flanking our campsite, I reluctantly admitted to myself that the sparkling water rapids were kind of pretty even though they weren’t the beautiful, blue ocean I craved. So were the many towering gum trees lining the riverbanks, together with bottlebrush shrubs dotting the area like chocolate chips on a cookie. In fact, the entire scene before me was soothing… in a dirty poo-brown kind of way.

I sighed for the gazillionth time that day and collected a stick from the ground before stepping onto a fallen tree trunk, which jutted out over the river from its embedded position in the dry bank. Jumping once, twice, and happy it was sturdy, I slowly edged along it until I found a spot where I could safely sit and swirl my stick in the water—a perfect place to sulk. Eventually, I would read or write in my notebook, for both things were as natural to me as breathing.

I loved reading and writing… and music, Madonna, and pizza. But words were everything. They were stories, history, songs, the news, and law. The written word was our past, present, and future. And in my future, I was going to be a writer. I may have only been ‘nearly’ thirteen and unfamiliar with much of life and the world we lived in, but I knew that. I knew deep within my heart that I would write till I died.

No one would stop me.

Opening the page of my Christopher Pike book, a gentle breeze blew along the river, carrying what sounded like the strumming of a distant guitar. My head snapped up like a meerkat, and I looked in the direction I thought it was coming from, angling my left ear toward the sky. The tune was sweet, inviting, and yet it also sounded a little sad, the tempo slow and sombre. It was beautiful, and I had to know where it was coming from and who was playing it.

Gathering my stick, book, notebook and pen, I stood up, stepped off the dead fallen tree, and then made my way along a barely formed dirt path through thick brush, the perfectly timed notes of the guitar growing louder with each step I took.

It is someone playing a guitar, I murmured to myself as I pushed aside the foliage of a bush, spying Connor perched on a rock in the sun, guitar in his hands, the worries of the world seemingly absent from his face as he played.

The river’s reflection glittered across his skin and hair, which rested comfortably on his shoulders—longer than what most boys his age wore—flecks of amber shining through warm, brown strands lightly blowing with the breeze. He looked… magical, like a paranormal character in one of my books, and I wondered for a split second if he was human.

Unable to help myself, I tucked the stick and my book under my arm and hid behind a large gum tree before opening my notebook. My fingers itched to jot down what I was seeing, which was what I used my notebook for. Kinda like a journal but not really a journal. More a written collection of what I encountered in my everyday life.

I can see you, Connor called out.

I flinched, dropped my pen, and quickly pressed myself against the tree trunk, praying he wasn’t referring to me despite the odds of that being worse than a dolphin emerging from the river and neighing at us. 

Really? You’re gonna pretend you’re not there? Okay, let’s do that then.

Silence settled like a winter blanket, and I couldn’t breathe yet alone answer.

Trees don’t wear shoes, you know, he added.

Glancing down, my face contorted when I noticed my well-worn Chucks peeping out at the base of the trunk.

You may as well come out, Eloise.

Connor chuckled for the slightest of seconds but then stopped, and I almost questioned whether I’d heard it or not, as if he hadn’t meant to do it in the first place. It made me curious, so I stopped acting ridiculous and left my hiding spot, tediously stepping out while cradling my book and notepad to my chest. They were my shield; my protection against everything.

I-I heard you playing the guitar, I stuttered, avoiding his gaze while toeing a pattern in the loose dirt at my feet. You’re really good.

"I like to play… alone."

My head snapped up at the sour tone of his voice, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. Sorry. I didn’t mean to spy. I-I was just a few metres up the river, reading. I—

I meant thanks, he added, cutting me off and avoiding eye contact while tightening his guitar strings.

I pressed my lips together and nodded, unsure whether to stay or leave. He hadn’t exactly made me feel welcome, but then I didn’t think he wanted me gone either, his mouth twitching with what appeared to be pending conversation he couldn’t quite release.

Maybe he’s just shy?

I stood still and waited but he just ignored me and kept turning his guitar pegs.

Maybe he’s just a jerk?

Stepping back, I turned to leave.

What’s that? he asked.

I turned back to face him. What’s what?

He nodded toward my chest, to where I was cradling my copy of Chain Letter.

This? I held it at arm’s length. It’s just a book I’m reading.

No, the other thing.

The only other things I possessed were my notebook and the stick. The stick was clearly a stick, so I figured he was referring to the notebook.

This?

He nodded, once.

My notebook.

What’s it for?

For writing in.

Connor scoffed and rolled his eyes. No shit, smarty-pants.

I glared at him. I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant I use it to write stuff in.

What kind of stuff? He removed the guitar from his lap and propped it against the rock he was sitting on.

I shrugged. I dunno. Stuff I see, smell, hear, and touch.

Connor’s curiosity was weird. It also made me a little nervous, and I was never nervous, especially around boys. Boys were kinda dumb and boring.

He scratched his head. So it’s your diary?

No, not really.

I don’t get it.

You don’t neeed to get it, I said, defensively.

I know, but I saw you write something when you weren’t ‘reeeally hiding’ behind that tree, he said, copying my smarty-pants tone. What did you write?

Oh, my God! Rude much?

Nothing. I shook my head, heat rising to the surface of my cheeks. What I wrote in my notebook was private.

Connor picked his guitar up and twanged a string. You’re lying.

"I am not. I mean I did write something, but it was nothing."

That doesn’t make sense.

Oh, my God, he’s so annoying.

Huffing, I opened my notebook to the page I’d just scribbled on. Fine. It says magic, honey, giant, sunset, sweet and beautiful. The very second those words left my mouth I wanted to pull them back in, chew them like a toffee, and swallow them whole. They’d sounded so dumb said aloud. They’re just… stupid words, I mumbled, snapping my notebook shut, the simmer in my cheeks now searing to a burn.

I spun on my heel, ready to run all the way home if I had to. I didn’t care how long it would take. An hour. A day. An eternity. I wanted to flee this hellhole and be far, far away from this magical, annoying boy.

Wait! he called out. I, uh, I sing the things I can’t say.

I paused my retreat. It was such a strange confession, but it was the honesty and apprehension in his voice that had me slowly turning back to face him. That’s… er… pretty cool.

Connor looked away, stood up, and went to leave instead, and strangely enough, I didn’t want him to go either. He was odd in an interesting and mysterious way, and I was suddenly keen to discover more about him, starting with his unspoken words.

Quickly changing the subject, I asked about him moving to Greenhills. So, where did you used to live?

Portsea. He picked up a rock, stepped to the water’s edge, and skimmed it across the surface. It bounced three times before it disappeared into the river.

Oh, that must’ve been awesome! I’ve always wanted to live by the beach. I will one day, you know.

He nodded then shrugged. It’s okay… if you like sand.

"I love sand!"

I did. It was so much better than poo-brown dirt.

Connor smiled for the first time, and the sight of it made my heart dance in my chest. He had dimples—two large dips of cuteness on his cheeks. I loved dimples nearly as much as sand. His eyes were also sparkling, and they made me gulp. Maybe he is a paranormal creature?

I gulped again. No, he’s not. He was just super cute. And maybe, just maybe, not all boys were dumb and boring.

Snapping my wide-open mouth shut, I tried to act normal but fumbled and dropped my stick into the water when I climbed onto another dead tree. Crap! I stomped my foot as I watched it float out of reach. I liked that stick.

Then go after it!

What? Are you nuts? That water is disgusting. I’m not going in there.

Why’s it disgusting?

I placed my hands on my hips. It’s brown.

So you’re saying all brown things are disgusting?

No, because then I’d be saying chocolate is disgusting, and it’s not.

He chuckled, and unlike last time, he didn’t stop himself from doing it. So why is this brown river disgusting?

Look at it. I gestured to the liquid yuckiness. It’s dirty and gross. It’s not blue like the ocean.

Connor shook his head and playfully rolled his eyes. Well, last chance. Your stick has nearly reached the current.

I sighed and watched it gradually bob away. I’m not going in there.

Typical girl, he muttered.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I glared at him. Typical know-it-all boy.

He took in my defensive stance, and I could tell he was trying not to laugh because his face slowly started to scrunch up.

What’s so funny?

You.

What about me?

You get snooty real easy. It’s funny.

I do not! I stepped off the tree trunk, bent down, and picked up a rock. Then, shifting my weight onto my back foot, I launched it while stepping forward, watching eagerly as it soared away from me and landed in the water with a thud.

Connor snorted at my pathetic skimming attempt, which annoyed me even more.

Why’d you move away from the beach anyway? I snapped, turning to face him with my shoulders squared.

He immediately stopped snorting. No reason.

"There’s always a reason."

No, there’s not.

This time I was the one who snorted. Did you get kicked out of your last school? It’s okay, you can tell me.

No, I didn’t.

Were you bullied?

No! He turned around and walked away.

Now who’s the snooty one, huh?

Connor stopped and braced his hand against the tree I’d tried to hide behind. His shoulders slumped, and for a second I thought he was going to keep walking, but he didn’t. He just stood there, like a sad European statue.

I felt bad. Are you okay?

No words passed his lips as he turned to face me. And when the complete and utter sorrow in his eyes met mine, my chest tightened, almost to the point of pain.

I-I didn’t mean to offend you. I was just mucking around.

His lifeless eyes stared back at me, or more accurately, through me. They were empty. Hollow. Or maybe I was empty and hollow and that’s why they were staring right through me. I couldn’t quite tell at that point. There was no more laughter. No more happy. No more sparkle. And the fact I’d somehow caused that change felt really awful.

I just… I just wanted to get to know you a little better, I explained, dropping my gaze to my feet. I really am sorry. I say stupid thing sometimes. That’s why I like to write my words. I’m an idiot. My mouth makes me an idiot.

The tops of Connor’s sneakers stopped adjacent to mine. I looked up, which was when he gently coaxed my notebook from my tensely clamped fingers. Strangely enough, I didn’t wrestle it out of his possession. Had any other person taken it from me, I wouldn’t have hesitated to wrench it back. But, for some reason I couldn’t explain, I knew his intentions in that moment weren’t malicious. My notebook was safe. My thoughts, sights, and feelings were safe.

Connor was safe.

Squatting down, he picked up the pen I hadn’t realised I’d dropped then opened my notebook to the very last page, pausing and momentarily closing his eyes. I held my breath and waited, which was when he opened his eyes and scribbled something down before handing it back to me.

You want to know why we moved? he asked.

I nodded.

That’s why, he said, gesturing to the notebook now pressed to my chest.

I swallowed heavily, and it wasn’t until he’d walked away, disappearing as quickly as the breeze had brought his music to my ears, that my grip relaxed. Wow! That was intense. Eloise, you stupid idiot, learn to keep your mouth shut.

Slapping my hand to my forehead, I swiftly opened my notebook and flipped the pages until I found his note:

My best friend was murdered by a jerk called cancer.

I gasped and snapped shut the book.

And that was the very first time Connor Bourke stole my air.

CHAPTER THREE

ELLIE

By the time I got back to the campsite, Dad and Chris had set up the tents, and Mum was organising our makeshift kitchen.

Nice of you to join us, Eloise. I take it you thought about what we discussed in the car? She was giving me the mothers-know-best look: lip slightly raised, eyebrows arched, head wobbling from side to side.

 I nodded, sheepishly.

And? she probed.

And… I glimpsed toward Connor. He was helping his father set up the portable shower tent.

He looked my way.

I smiled, meek.

He did the same.

And…? Ellie, and what?

Oh, and… I’m going to make the most of it, like you said. I’m going to try and enjoy our holiday.

Good. She smiled but her emerald eyes narrowed like blades of grass before they glanced in Connor’s direction. He’s an interesting boy, isn’t he?

I shrugged. I guess so. We chatted by the river. He seems nice enough.

Mum’s eyes widened. He chatted to you?

Sure.

Huh. She pressed her lips together and carried on arranging plastic plates and bowls in a storage container. That’s good. I’m glad.

Whyyy?

"It’s just that Raelene and Curtis mentioned Connor’s been through a lot recently, and he isn’t talking to anyone, even them. They said he’s barely spoken two words since—"

Mum cut herself short, and guilt swept over me like a rush of wind from a passing train.

I lowered my voice. You mean since his best friend died?

She nodded and cast a sympathetic frown in Connor’s direction. Brain cancer. It was high-grade and very invasive. The poor little angel lasted just under six months.

Oh no! My eyes found Connor once again, my heart heavy, my guilt heavier. He didn’t tell me any details, I mumbled. "But that’s… that’s so horrible. I couldn’t imagine if any of my friends died."

Mum reached out and pulled me to her chest, hugging me tight.

Beth, would you like me to get the fire started? Dad called out.

We both turned our heads to where Dad was holding up a shovel as if he was wielding a sword ready for battle.

Mum giggled. Yes, please. Roger that, Roger.

I groaned and rolled my eyes; my parents were dorks.

What was that groan for? A knowing smile played at the corners of her mouth as she leaned forward, kissed my forehead, and then released me from her hold.

"You’re both so embarrassing. No one else’s parents say stupid stuff like that."

Sure they do.

Sure. They. Don’t.

We conducted a stare-off when my brother slumped with a thud into a foldout chair beside us. That Connor kid sucks, he grouched.

I scowled at him. No, he doesn’t.

Yeah, he does.

What would you know?

Everything. Chris waggled his eyebrows then tossed his footy in the air, his eyes following each rotation it made before it fell back into his hands. The guy doesn’t like football.

So! I placed my hands on my hips. Not everyone does.

"Every boy does."

No, they don’t.

Pussies don’t.

Chris and I both flinched at the loud, sudden bang that cracked behind us. I spun around to Mum, her hand tightly clenched around a plastic cutlery container she was pressing firmly against the tabletop.

If I hear that word leave your mouth one more time, Mum seethed. She stepped up to Chris, her pointed finger cautioning him. So help me God I will tape your lips shut. Have some respect.

Their eyes locked, her brows pinched, his arched taller than the M of a McDonald’s sign. Chris went to say something but decided against it, opting to twirl his ball instead.

Do you know why Connor is so quiet and withdrawn? Mum whispered, a snake-like hiss to her words.

Chris shook his head and deliberately kept his focus on the spin of his ball.

His best friend just died of brain cancer, that’s why.

The ball stopped spinning, and a cool breeze blew through the annex connected to our tent. It also blew with it an eeriness that was so unsettling it made me turn around to find Connor standing within earshot—his smile gone, his eyes hollow once more.

His lips parted, and I waited for his words, but they never came. Instead, he dipped his head, walked to his tent, and disappeared behind its murky green canvas walls.

Connor didn’t re-emerge for the rest of the night, and I worried it would remain that way for the next thirteen days. Not even twelve hours into my summer holiday, and his presence had made camping bearable. It wouldn’t be bearable if he stayed in his tent the entire time.

I really hoped he didn’t.

I wanted to talk to him again, to make him laugh and see him smile. Because according to Mrs Bourke—when she bailed me up at the toilet block and questioned me with concern and excitement about Connor speaking to me—it was clear he didn’t do those things anymore, which was why I’d come up with the best idea

A note, to him—my unspoken words.

What are you doing? Turn the flashlight off, Chris grouched.

I shined it directly into his eyes. Shut up. I’m nearly finished.

I’m gonna wake you up by farting on your head.

My face contorted. You’re so disgusting.

And you’re so annoying. Turn it off!

In a minute. I’m just reading it over.

No one reads over their diary.

I shined the light back into his eyes. "It’s not my diary."

Then what is it?

I’m writing Connor a note about grief. I’m hoping it will help him feel less sad.

Chris’s sleeping bag ruffled as he turned over. So what does it say?

I knew my brother better than he knew himself, and this was him feeling crappy for thinking badly of Connor. As stupid and as gross as Chris was at times, he had a conscience; a small part of his small brain that was capable of small love and small remorse.

 You really wanna hear it? I asked, unsure. It’s kinda lame. I just don’t know what else to say. Apart from losing my Barbie and Ken dolls that time in Queensland, I’ve never lost anyone before. I don’t really know what grief feels like.

He snort-laughed. "That was so funny. You were like, ‘My Barbie! My Ken!’ Chris pretended to wail like an eight-year-old girl who’d left her two favourite toys under the hotel room bed by accident. My Barrrbieee. My Kennn."

Are you done? I deadpanned.

Yes. Please continue. I want to hear it.

Don’t worry about it.

His sleeping bag ruffled again. Suit yourself.

Argh! He was so stupid and annoying.

"Fine. It says, ‘What’s gone isn’t gone until you let it slip away. Hold on to your memories. Hold on. Always.’"

Chris scoffed.

It sucks. I knew it. I tore the note from my book and went to scrunch it up.

Wait! Don’t. It’s really good, Elliephant.

I paused, shocked. You think so? It’s not—I pointed two fingers at my mouth and made a gagging gesture—it’s not vomit material?

A little, but it’s good. Now turn the flashlight off and go to sleep.

I smiled to myself and smoothed the creases of my note then wiggled out of my sleeping bag. Be right back.

Where are you going?

Nowhere.

I unzipped our tent as quietly as possible then stepped out into the campsite, the moonlight illuminating a visible pathway to Connor’s tent.

Ellie! Chris whisper-shouted, his head poking through the open flap of our tent. Come back!