That night, Sparrow thrashed and kicked against her covers, unable to find a moment of stillness or peace.  She’d snuck away from the party early after her embarrassing conversation with Thomas, leaving him and the others around the beach fire.  Unlike the day before, he’d been animated and comfortable.  Clearly, she wasn’t needed.

Around 4am, about the same time the birds began to stir, she gave up.  Pulling her patchwork quilt around her shoulders, Sparrow padded downstairs to the front room.  In her tank and boy-legs, she stepped into her meditation corner, the nook by the window that caught the first rays of light.  It was the one spot she asked to remain undisturbed in the house; she’d been known to give up her bedroom to visitors before, but the circle of crystals was Sparrow’s sacred place.

Sitting cross-legged on the quilt, she slowed her breath and closed her eyes.  In the years following her lowest fall, she’d discovered meditation as a cure for many of her ills; anxiety, aggression, blame, depression.  She’d been one of those people who studious avoided too much time alone inside their own heads, unconsciously because she was afraid of what she’d find there.  Now, Sparrow knew that her mind could keep her safe and sane, even when the outside world brought her to breaking point.

The sound of her breath was soothing, rasping in and out of the back of her throat, and the fluttering inside her skull started to calm.  There, Sparrow thought smugly, I’m fine.  Thomas isn’t affecting me at all, I’m not even thinking about what his lips would taste like or how his hands would feel on my… dammit!

She struggled for hours, trying to bring her monkey brain under control unsuccessfully.  By the time the sun was high in the sky and Meg stomped into the lounge, Sparrow was already on edge.

“Sparrow,” Meg said, flopping onto the old futon couch, trying to catch her attention, “we need to talk.”

Sparrow ignored her.  Meg knew the meditation corner was a bubble – if Sparrow was in there, she couldn’t see or hear anyone outside.  Everyone in the house was used to seeing her sitting in the circle for hours, not acknowledging anything, usually just wearing whatever she’d slept in, which was often just underwear and a tee.

Today, Meg was apparently intent on bursting the bubble.  “Sparrow, the real estate lady is coming at the end of this week, and since no one else is making an effort, I’m taking matters into my own hands.”

With her lids closed, Sparrow rolled my eyes.

“I’m going to make up a job schedule for stuff that needs to be done.  There’s the kitchen, we need to paint the entrance hall, get the carpets cleaned, kick the cats out of the downstairs bathroom, scrub the walls.”

We have no money for cleaning stuff, Sparrow thought absently.

“And, of course, we have, like zero bucks for anything.”

Ha.

“So, I asked Thomas last night for money.”

“What?”  Sparrow spun around to face Meg, her face instantly horrified. 

“Oh, so you can hear me,” Meg said superciliously.  “Look, the dude is rich, we’re not.  We were talking about Haven, and how we might lose it if we get kicked out, and he wanted to know what he could do to help, so I told him.  We need money.”

“Meg!  What is wrong with you?”  For the first time in years, Sparrow could feel true rage building inside her, hot and fierce.  “What you’ve done goes against everything Haven stands for!  The whole point of this place is about not allowing money to control us.  By asking Thomas for cash, you’re violating our entire lifestyle!  We’ll either lose this place or we won’t – begging for cash won’t change that.”

“Grow up, Sparrow,” she spat back, her dark ponytail flicking back and forth in irritation.  “You’re not above money, you’re just hiding from it!  Money controls us, whether you like it or not.”

“You, maybe, but not me.  And I’m not hiding!”

“You’re so full of shit.”

“And you’re so full of fear and petty attachment!”

They were both yelling, the sounds of fury echoing around the house, which explains why Thomas made it all the way into the lounge without either girl hearing him.  “Uh… hi?  Everything okay in here, ladies?”

It was Monday morning; he should have been at work, not standing in her house, wearing a faded SoundGarden tee and jeans.  His strong arms were planted on his hips as he looked between Meg and Sparrow. 

Meg spoke first.  “Nothing at all.  Just Sparrow spazzing out because I told her I asked you for money, because she’s so enlightened, she doesn’t need to trouble herself with trivial concerns like food or clothing or shelter.”

“Life is about more than food, and your body needs more than clothing,” Sparrow snarled at her, hating that there was so much ire seeping from her.

“And what about a roof over your head, Sparrow?  I should be allowed to fight to keep my home!”

“Okay, let’s just take a moment, shall we?”  Thomas was immediately in mediation mode, using soothing gestures and a calming voice, as if he was defusing an argument between frontline staff over annual leave.  “Meg, I’m not giving Haven any cash, because I understand how Sparrow feels-”

“Oh, well, thanks for nothing!”

“-But, but, I have something else to give instead.”  He pointed out the front windows to where his Range Rover was parked against the curb.  “I went to the hardware store first thing this morning, and bought paint and cleaning supplies, and hired a carpet cleaning machine.  I want to donate that stuff to Haven, plus lend you my time this week in the mornings and evenings, to help get the place up to scratch.”

Meg squealed in excitement.  “Oh my God, really?”  She raced outside to inspect, leaving Sparrow alone with Thomas.  Clearly, the guy had mad management skilz.

“Is that okay, Sparrow?” he asked gently, his hands open as he approached her, as if she was an actual sparrow who might take frantic flight at any second.  “I spend a lot of time in real estate, and I know what a property manager will be looking for.  I knew you wouldn’t want cash, and I get why, but I want to help you guys.”

“Why?”  She was never normally suspicious; people donated to Haven all the time and she’d never questioned their motives.  “You barely know us, and we’re not exactly ‘your’ kind of people.”

“Honestly?  I like you guys.  I like what Haven stands for.  I like how different all of this is from my normal life.”  He reached for her fingers, and Sparrow let him intertwine his hand with hers.  “I like you.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?  Is that all I get?”

“I like you too, Thomas.”  The problem was, she might have more than liked him by that stage, falling too quickly into feelings she couldn’t comprehend or control.  “Thank you.”

He smiled, and his face illuminated, making him ten years younger.  “You’re welcome.  So, I was thinking you and I could paint over that graffiti in the entrance – we can do the first coat this morning, then a second one when I finish work this afternoon.”

Our hands were still interlaced, and she stared at his pale fingers crossed over her tanned ones.  Delicately, she rubbed her thumb along the back of his hand, feeling his vibrations that were so in tune with her own.  “Sounds good.  Let’s start.”

“Uh, do, um…”  At his stammering, Sparrow glanced up to see Thomas’ face, beet-red.  “Do you think you might put some pants on first?”

She burst out laughing, and it felt like the balance was being restored to her emotions.  She was so comfortable in her skin, she’d completely forgotten she was only wearing panties on her bottom half.  “What?  Don’t you like what I’m wearing?”

“Sparrow, if you wear that outfit while we paint, I can guarantee, I’m not going to be very productive, because I’ll spend the entire time staring at your butt.”  His words were thick, as if the lust had clogged his throat.

“Fine!  Give me five minutes to change.”

As their hands separated, her skin tremored, unhappy to be separated from the man who both aligned her universe while sending it spinning hopelessly out of kilter.

***

“Whoa, you guys.  Just…  Whoa…”  Thursday evening, Kimble put down his filthy cleaning cloth and stared in every direction, as if the house had only just appeared around him.  “Look at this place, bro!”

From her perch on the step ladder, Meg nodded, finally happy.  “I have to admit, I didn’t think we had a chance in hell of pulling this off, but the house looks good!”  She screwed back in the light shade, now empty of dead bugs, but wobbled as she tried to descend.

“Hang on, girl, I gotcha.”  Kimble swiftly raced to her side and lifted her legs, cradling her in his arms and lowering the little brunette to the ground. 

“Thanks, Kimble.”  There was a breathy note to Meg, a softness that only crept in when she spoke to our Kiwi housemate, and Sparrow knew they were so close to admitting how they felt.

Rather than make either of them feel awkward, she diverted her gaze to stare around the transformed front rooms.  “Everyone has worked so hard – I know tomorrow is going to be fine.”

Surely, the real estate agent would be happy; after all, Haven looked better than when they’d first moved in.  The walls were cleaned, patched and painted, the carpets fluffy and clean.  All the cats had been relocated to a shed in the garden with cushions and scratching posts, and the kitchen shone, with the years of grime scrubbed away.  Sparrow knew the faux-pristine appearance wouldn’t last, but for now, it would be enough.  “Thanks so much, guys.”

“Don’t thank us,” said Meg, dismissing her.  “The real saviour here is Thomas.”

She was right.  Their new friend had slaved around the house every morning and evening for three days, only leaving for work or sleep.  After the first morning, Sparrow made a point of not pairing up with him all the time, and he’d spent equal shifts laughing with Kimble or speaking halting Chinese with Shen.

“Did I hear my name?”  Like he’d been conjured by her thoughts, Thomas appeared at the door, hefting four enormous reusable shopping bags.  “I come bearing dinner!  I thought we could celebrate the end of the big clean with Italian food and wine?”

“Man, you are my new favourite person!” cried Kimble, relieving Thomas of the bags and inhaling deeply.

Meg was quick to retort, “Uh, hello?  I’m standing right here!”

“Girl, you know you’re my favourite chickie.”

“Chickie is a completely sexist term, Kimble.  My fore-mothers didn’t fight for the vote so you could call me chickie.”

“How ‘bout babe?  Sweetheart?  Honey-buns?”

“Kimble!”

He laughed, a rolling sound.  “Alright, woman, come help me get some glasses and plates.”

It was one of those idyllic nights where the candles burned and the food was good.  They sat around the low coffee table on the mismatched but cleaned couches, and drank and argued and theorised long into the evening.

Shen had come, eaten and disappeared, along with Mrs Hentley, who helped herself to cannelloni and a hank of garlic bread then headed home.  But Kimble, Thomas, Meg and Sparrow were in for the long haul.

Meg poured herself another glass of cab-sav, saying, “It just doesn’t make any sense, Sparrow.  There’s more people on the planet than ever before, so how can past lives be a thing?  The maths just doesn’t add up!”

“You’re thinking of time in a linear sense,” she countered.  “Our human brains like to think in straight lines – beginning, middle and end.  But the universe is so much more layered than that.  Even the Bible talks about God being above time.”

“What do you mean, linear?” asked Thomas, from the other side of the room.  She’d made sure to put some space between them, otherwise Sparrow found her hands returning to him again and again, and she didn’t want to give off any more signals than she already had.

She tried to explain, using a left-over piece of spaghetti.  Splaying it on the table, Sparrow said, “We think of time like this, a long line.  Here’s where the big bang happened, here’s the dinosaurs, here’s Jesus, here’s us, here’s the future.”

She stuck her finger into the soft strand at different intervals to illustrate.  “But quantum physics, as well as almost every religion and higher source of knowledge tells us that time is more like a spiral.”  There was a bunch of pasta at the bottom of Kimble’s bowl, and she nabbed one of his Spirali Calabrese.  “Everything happening at the same time.  Time itself doesn’t exist.  All things possible at every moment.”

Twisting the pasta spiral between her fingers, Sparrow smiled wistfully.  “It means, right now, your younger self might be about to do something stupid, and if we had the right know-how, you could actually speak to yourself and change your course.  Save yourself so much hurt…”

The room had fallen silent around her.  Of course, Meg was the one to break it.  “Waffle!” she said, shaking her head.  “Total bollocks.”

“I don’t know,” said Thomas quietly.  “I don’t know enough to say it’s true or not, but I’m not sure I’d want to fix my past mistakes.  The stuff I’ve screwed up has made me who I am today.”

“Yeah, bro,” said Kimble.  “Like, everything happens for a reason, you know?”

“Seriously?  What about herpes, Kimble?” Meg snorted.

Kimble shrugged.  “Maybe herpes is telling you to stop having sex without a rubber.”

Thomas had been sipping from his wine, and his laugher almost made him choke.  “I’ve got a mate who learned that lesson the hard way.”

“Or, you could just not have sex.”  Meg sounded very superior, as if she was far above fleshly desires.  Too bad Sparrow had seen Meg’s e-book collection on her Kindle once – and it was erotica heavy.  She’d claimed it was investigation for her novel; her pinkened cheeks told a different story.

“What’s the point of life without sex?” said Kimble, sounding genuinely confused.  “Sex is awesome!”

“It’s not that awesome.”

“Girl, you’ve been doing it wrong then.”

“Oh?  And I suppose you know how to do it right, Kimble?”

His dark eyes flashed as he said, “I do, chickie.  Want a lesson?”

Sparrow would have sworn Meg’s reaction was going to be thermos-nuclear.  Instead, she said coolly, “Well, I suppose, in the name of research for my book, I should experience the full bohemian life-style, including casual sex.”

Kimble pulled her to her feet, and kissed her deeply.  Meg went limp in his arms, caught up in a world where only she and Kimble existed.  He released her, saying, “Meggie, I promise: nothing about sex with me is going to be casual.”

They left without a backwards glance, leaving behind a room filled with sexual potency for Thomas and Sparrow to wade through.  He looked over at her.  “You totally called that.”

“I did.”  Sparrow wanted to be happy for her friends, but the pulse that beat inside her was so strong, the cry of her long-neglected libido, and it made it hard to think.  All she knew was she had to get Thomas out of the house, as soon as possible.  “Hey, you must be exhausted after this week of helping us, and you’re still working tomorrow.  I should let you go.”

She’d expected him to give her grief, but instead he said softly, “Okay.”

They walked to the door, her resolve to allow him to leave strong, which was why even Sparrow was surprised to find herself saying, “Hey, tomorrow night, I have a regular gig fire-dancing at the pub, in exchange for a feed for everyone.  Will you come?”

“Of course.”  She couldn’t read his expression, which shifted like sand from frustration to elation to emptiness.  He leaned down and placed a single kiss on the centre of her forehead.  “Good night, Sparrow.”

Wait! she wanted to cry.  Instead, she watched him leave in his shiny car, leaving her in the shiny house, to spend a night of listening to her friends discover what made each other shine.

***

In the morning, everyone was wearing their Sunday best – or at least, clean clothing with no offensive words on them.  When the knock came, Meg practically pulled the arms of the dining chair she was sitting in off.  “Oh my God!  It’s her!”

“Meggie, babe, you need to chill.”  Kimble rubbed her shoulders and gave Sparrow a pleading look.  “Sparrow?  Can you let her in?  I’m worried this one is going to have a meltdown.”

“Hey!”

“It’s fine,” Sparrow I said, grinning and heading for the front door.  The day felt good.  The sun was up, the full moon was due that night, and she’d be seeing Thomas again soon.  Once the inspection was done, she would be free from worry.

Walking through the house, Sparrow couldn’t help but see Thomas everywhere; down on his knees, scrubbing clay out of the carpet, recovering cushions with freshly-washed covers, drinking bottled water with his head thrown back and sweat from genuine labour beading on his brow.  Somewhere along the way, she’d forgotten he was rich, she’d forgotten about her pledge to keep him from infiltrating her world.  It’s already happened; I might as well lean into it.

Sparrow opened the door, gleaming with gloss, her head full of plans to spend the night with Thomas.  “Hello?”

A woman with a sour aura stood on the doorstep, her short burgundy hair slicked back.  “Good morning.  I’m the property manager, Whitney Murphy.  We sent out an inspection notice last week about entering the premise today?”

“Yes, we received it.  I’m Sparrow - won’t you come in?”  Sparrow tried to expand her good energies to help negate the other woman’s negative ones, and ushered her through.

Gingerly, Ms Murphy stepped inside, looking around as if something might bite her.  “The owner will be joining us today as well.  He’s looking at potentially selling several of his holdings in Bateman’s Bay for development, and your property is high on the list of prospective candidates.”

Sparrow’s stomach twisted in anguish.  Development?  The beach-side location of Haven would make it a prime candidate for sale and demolition, and she could see a twenty story apartment building towering over the beach, casting a cold-hearted shadow on her pretty little town.  Meg was wrong.  No matter how well we cleaned up, we could never have changed this.

“Ah, here he is now,” simpered the older woman, staring along the path at the familiar vehicle pulling up.

She can’t be talking about him, Sparrow thought desperately.  No…

But sure enough, as Thomas reached our side, a distressed look on his face and explanation brimming in his eyes, Ms Murphy said, “Good to see you, Thomas!  Sparrow, this is Mr Walsh, the owner of the property.”

“Nice to meet you,” Sparrow choked out, before turning away.  “Please excuse me.”

She fled, running through the house, past Kimble and Meg’s confused eyes, out into her garden and down to the beach.  She kept running, hoping that if she ran for long enough, she might be too tired to feel any grief at the twisted ways of the universe when it came to her happiness. 

Hey lovely reader!  Please remember to vote by clicking the little star before you move on.  Cheers!

Thank you so much for reading and supporting what I do!  For those who’ve added this book to your reading lists or told your friends about it – thank you!  Happy days - Kate