Most days I have the place to myself, for at least twenty minutes or so, before the young baristas appear, yawning and blinking into the disruption of sleep. Then the roller door goes up and the coffee machine hisses steam, as timber tables and plastic chairs are dragged onto sand-strewn paving.
This morning, as I prop my bike against the wall, there's one other bloke hanging around outside Cargo Cafe. He gazes out past the Shark Tower, either waiting for his caffeine hit or checking out the surf. The northeast swell that dominated the weekend has slumped into disappointment. There are a few diehards out there riding the scant offerings, but it's barely worth the effort. I flip off my thongs and take the steps to the beach, jogging toward the haze of Blacksmiths for a couple of Ks before turning and retracing my own damp prints.
I'm just off the sand and weaving through the early crowd when I see her, the wild wavy hair, the torn denim shorts. It can't be. A gate flies up in my mind, refusing to accept what my eyes are registering, but the starfish tattoo on her shoulder confirms it. It's Bec. She's leaning into the arms of the bloke I saw earlier. He winds a towel around her shoulders, she stretches up and kisses him.
I lower my head, fumble for my bike, and ride fast and wobbly, up the hill toward Beach Road.
At the end of Cowlishaw, where the street bisects the bike track, I stop. My legs tremble, more accustomed to a leisurely treadle than the manic dash I've just made from the cafe. I wait for my breathing to slow before I turn onto the track and let the downward slope carry me toward Belmont.
Luke met Bec six years ago, when she moved from Tasmania and started at Belmont High. They were "going steady"-as Mum loved saying-within a month of Bec's arrival, and she's been part of the family ever since.
Right now, Luke's sitting in a nest of books, paper, and general clutter studying for his uni exams. I saw light leaking from beneath his door when I left the house earlier. He's studying Marine Biology, and although he talks of a career path, he more often falls into contemplative conversation about the 'entire other world' that exists within and beyond the liminal line of the shore. He often quotes large chunks of Rachel Carson's The Edge of the Sea, launching into descriptive explanation that leaves me lost. My son possesses a connection to this natural world that I've never had. I just surf the surface, as I do with many aspects of life.
A long unpunctuated sentence of abuse jolts me from my thoughts. I've cut off a cyclist coming from the other direction, squeezed him out at the funnel bars near Jewells crossing.
"Sorry mate!" I shout as he disappears, an angry shiny beetle, into the tunnel of green.
If I tell Luke about Bec now I'll ruin his exam results. He won't be able to focus. It'll mess with his head. This parenting thing is hard. 'Getting it right' for myself is hard enough but making decisions that could 'make or break' my kid feels beyond me sometimes.
I've been lucky, Luke's never caused me any trouble, an all 'round Good Kid. In some ways this increases the pressure, there's always a shadow in the back of my mind that I'll stuff up, that I'll let him down.
Luke's mother Annie left us both when Luke was six months old. She slid out of the country without bothering to mention her plans. When I finally tracked her down, on the other side of the world, her explanation, delivered with impatient irritation was that she missed Denmark. It was as simple as that, she said. It was her mother who told me Annie had returned to a lover from the past, to whom she'd immediately fallen pregnant.
Neither Luke nor I have heard from her since. I want to make things right for him.
He's an adult now, but still ...
And then there's Mum. God. I'll have to tell her as well. Bec's been the daughter and granddaughter Mum always wanted. They often shop together and they're in the same book group. She'll be shattered.
I dodge a fallen banksia pod and skid through a sand drift at the edge of the track.
Luke's standing at the open door of the fridge, drinking directly from a milk carton, as I pass the kitchen window and lean the bike against the house.
"Sorry Dad". He turns guiltily when I walk in.
"What?"
He holds up the carton.
"Yeah, use a glass." I pour myself some water, and hover.
"What's up?"
I know I have to tell him. If I don't, someone else will. He can always re-take his Uni exams next year.
"I..." I falter, clear my throat. "I saw Bec this morning."
He looks away and puts the milk carton on the bench. "Did you talk to her?"
"No."
"Dad I've been trying to find the right time to tell you, but you've been working nights and ..."
"What?"
"Bec and I broke up. We'd lost our mojo. It was my idea, but she agreed. I knew you'd be disappointed, so was just trying to find the right time to tell you."
"Oh right." I exhale slowly.
"So, you're okay with it?"
"Of course. It's not about me."
I feel momentarily lightheaded, a rush of release.
"It's up to you and Bec. Your Nan will be pretty upset though."
"Nah, Nan's cool with it." He looks contrite. "Sorry, but Bec talked to her first and asked her not to say anything 'til I talked to you. Nan and Bec will still do their book thing together and stuff."
The catastrophic cargo I'd carried on the ride home disintegrates to dust. I pick up my keys.
"Where're you going?"
"I need a coffee."
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