You Had It Coming by B.M. Carroll (snow like ashes series .txt) 📗

services before, other projects coming and going without any mention of whether Alex might be suitable for the job. Jess and Alex are not sure if this change of heart means that she has finally accepted that he’s here to stay, or if it’s coming from a belated sense of politeness. Maybe it’s a means for her to keep an eye on him and come up with a fresh list of reasons why he’s all wrong for her daughter.

It should be an easy answer. Jess has nothing pressing to do. The fresh air will be good for her. God knows, she is overdue a visit home. But it’s not easy. It never is with her parents.

Okay. If you think you need a bodyguard.

Jess slides back the passenger seat of the ute, so she can stretch out. There’s something tucked underneath: a black puffer jacket.

‘Where did this come from?’ she asks, holding it up.

Alex gives it a quick glance, takes a moment to think. ‘Ramsey must’ve left it when we were out last week.’

Jess brushes loose soil from the polyester fabric. Small brown stains persist. ‘Well, it’s going to need a wash.’

‘Ramsey won’t care. Probably something he wears at work.’

Ramsey works in construction; Alex is right, he won’t be put off by a bit of dirt.

Jess rolls it up and puts it on the middle console, where Alex is more likely to remember to return it.

Alex pulls out from the kerb, pressing heavily on the accelerator. He usually drives with little regard for the rules of the road, but today is another level. Orange lights are a challenge, as is the slight loss of control on rounding corners. Of course, he’s driving too fast on entering her parents’ driveway. Gravel sprays in all directions. Jess can picture her mother’s pained expression.

‘Fucking hell, babe.’ She gives him an angry stare. ‘Stop giving her something to complain about.’

The front door opens before they’re even close to it. Yep, she definitely heard their arrival. Margaret Foster’s frown says more than any words.

‘Jessica, I wasn’t expecting you. Don’t you have work?’

‘Day off,’ Jess replies in a tone that doesn’t encourage further questions. She doesn’t want her mother to know about the migraines. She’ll only get started on all the reasons why she should never have stepped into a boxing ring in the first place.

‘Come through,’ Margaret says, waving them into the hall.

Alex glances at his work boots. ‘I can go around the side if you want?’

‘Oh, it’s fine. The floors need a wash anyway.’

Margaret has never been pedantic about cleanliness, which probably saved her sanity when the house was full: four children, two dogs, school friends constantly coming and going. Jess’s dad used to call the house Central Station. Now it’s so quiet it’s like a morgue. Even the dogs are gone. Her mum and dad like to travel, so when Poppy and Samson died of old age, they decided not to replace them.

Jess and Alex follow Margaret down the hall. Framed photographs line the walls on either side. Natasha and Edward receiving their Doctors of Medicine (Natasha is an oncologist now and Edward is in cardiology, like his father). A black-and-white photo of Angus in action with his clarinet at the Sydney Symphony Orchestra. They’re a family of music and medicine. Even her father, when he’s not performing bypass surgery, enjoys a tinkle on the piano.

Jess is last in the line-up of family photographs. Sweat glistening on her face, her lower lip swollen but still grinning from ear to ear. The referee is holding up her arm to signify the victory: her first Australian title. Not a musical bone in her body. Not a jot of interest in biology, chemistry or anything to do with medicine.

Where did you come from? Margaret used to ask in a perplexed tone when Jess was younger. She still has the same question hovering on her lips, but knows better than to vocalise it these days.

The kitchen is Jess’s favourite part of the house. White country-style cabinetry, pale-grey subway tiles and a solid wood countertop: rustic charm with a price tag. The kitchen always had the reassuring smell of food, a curry simmering on the stovetop, or muffins baking in the oven. If her mother wasn’t with students in the piano room, she could be found in the kitchen, her bony fingers gripping a wooden spoon, preparing to feed the hordes.

Margaret yanks open the sliding doors that lead to the backyard.

‘Over here,’ she says, striding towards the pool. ‘This whole area needs work, Alex. The retaining wall is crumbling away, and this garden bed needs rebuilding. I want to put in some screening, mature trees that won’t take a lifetime to grow.’

‘Planning on some skinny-dipping, Margaret?’ Alex asks cheekily.

Jess smothers a laugh. He shouldn’t tease her; their relationship isn’t good enough to withstand it. Right from the start, she made it clear she didn’t like him.

Very rough and ready, isn’t he?

I suppose your connection is a physical one, rather than intellectual.

Little seeds of criticism, planted suitably apart, like fledgling trees!

What’s in this relationship for you, Jessica? I see what’s in it for him – free rent, et cetera – but what do you get out of it?

They were at a family barbecue when she came out with that one. Jess flounced off without vocalising her response. This is what’s in it for me, Mother: great sex, no criticism or hassle, someone who lets me be me.

Alex runs his hands through the soil of the garden bed, presumably checking its quality. He uses his phone to take photographs of the wall, which looks like it needs to be repointed. Then he produces a measuring tape from his pocket.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Margaret says abruptly. ‘Come on, Jessica. Let’s get the kettle on.’

Jess perches on one of the kitchen stools while her mother empties the kettle into the sink and refills it with fresh water.

‘Been a while since we’ve seen you, Jessica. I thought you might have at least phoned