Storm Season Read online

  Praise FOR

  INTO THE BLUE

  PENE HENSON

  “[STARRED REVIEW] The plausibility of the miscommunications and the realism of the young men’s relationship and personalities are exceptional. Readers eager for more diversity in romance will appreciate the nuanced portrayals of the leads.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Into the Blue is the debut novel by Pene Henson, and it is stunning… Pene Henson is an author to put on your watch list, because if her first novel is this good, imagine what we can look forward to.”

  —USA Today’s HEA blog

  “FOUR STARS: Henson’s debut is a thoughtful, poignant story of love in its many forms, as well as a love story to Hawaii and surfing. It is a deeply satisfying novel, and a perfect bit of escapist reading. … Fans are sure to be swept away into this lush setting and the sensual romance.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  Copyright © 2017 Pene Henson

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN 13: 978-1-945053-16-0 (trade)

  ISBN 13: 978-1-945053-29-0 (ebook)

  Published by Interlude Press

  http://interludepress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and places are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All trademarks and registered trademarks are the property of their respective owners.

  Book and Cover design by CB Messer

  Source Photography for Cover ©Depositphotos.com/

  artistrobd/uha127

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Interlude Press, New York

  My darling Robbie, who always turns out the light.

  “There is a great deal of unmapped country within us”

  —George Eliot

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  The stereo’s up loud; the band’s a local indie outfit with tight guitars and an even tighter rhythm section. Lien flings the stained glass doors of her bedroom open to the narrow balcony and the nighttime noise and pace of the street directly below. The buzz of traffic filters through from Oxford Street. A bark of laughter sounds from the next house.

  Sydney’s full of tiny neighborhoods, interlinked islands of personality and culture. This one, Darlinghurst on the city side of the Eastern Suburbs, has been Lien’s home since she graduated from college. She knows its best qualities: the crooked Victorian terraced houses, the quirky shop-fronts and narrow tree-lined streets, the local cats who hold post on every corner. She loves the crowds and the dark bars packed with aging hipsters and hopeful writers and twenty-something white boys working out who they are over a schooner of craft beer. Sure, the rent's high for the small house, and the neighborhood is ethnically homogeneous after Hong Kong and Singapore, but it’s Sydney’s epicenter of artistry and music. Lien likes calling this area her home; she likes what that says about her. This is where she belongs.

  “Right,” she says aloud to the empty room. She doesn’t often talk to herself, but there’s packing to do.

  The room is lit by a frosted-glass ceiling lamp, which looks as though it came with the house, and strings of rainbow fairy lights that Lien looped over the window frames and along the picture rail when she first moved in. The lights turn the walls rose-gold and pretty. They don’t quite make up for the mess she’s making.

  Her bed’s covered with clothing, layer upon layer of it, all absolutely and inarguably indispensable for this camping trip. A belted all-in-one shorts-suit in olive green half covers a pale lemon crocheted cardigan she found in a garage sale on the Northern Beaches. She’s piled up an old army shirt with rolled sleeves, a short pleated skirt, high-rise 1930s shorts, and men’s khaki plus fours that button tidily at her knees. Lien might not want to go camping, not really, not one tiny bit, but her fashion aesthetic for the trip is entirely on point. It’s olive green on muted neutrals, lemon and lavender on white, vintage safari meets “this summer is too fucking hot to wear anything much.” Every piece is exactly right. The trouble is there are a whole lot of pieces.

  Lien flops onto her bed on top of them. She sighs aloud. She has to accept the truth. There’s no way she can fit all these clothes into her rucksack, and it’s been made very clear that she can’t take more than one bag. The car’s already going to be tight with four of them in it along with their camping gear. And they do probably need the tent and the bedding and the food more than Lien needs a third cute T-shirt with an old-style caravan on it or the amazing utility suit she got a deal on through eBay last week.

  Beau’s flawless golden-brown hair appears around her door before the rest of him steps into the room. The rainbow lights pick up his cheekbones and the perfectly landscaped stubble on his jawline.

  “Beer?” he asks, offering one to Lien. Both beer bottles are already open.

  “God, yes.” She sighs. “You’re a prince among housemates.”

  She takes the cold bottle and follows Beau to the balcony. Sitting on it, they’re mostly hidden behind the mottled trunk and shivering silver leaves of the gum tree that grows out of the sidewalk at the front of their house. Similar trees are set in front of every second house in the row. They lean over the narrow street.

  Lien and Beau perch on wrought iron chairs placed either side of a tiny wrought iron table. Lien looks up. The weather’s weird. The clouds are wild as they tumble across the dark sky. They reflect the city lights and shift between gray and orange. The air is heavy with humidity and something more, something charged. But the beer is crisp and refreshing, exactly what Lien likes. She looks down at the heads of passing pedestrians and admires a head of turquoise and purple mermaid hair. A shining pageboy walks past. Lien’s pretty sure she could get away with that haircut.

  She takes a mouthful of beer and scrunches her face to consider Beau.

  “So, I’m packing.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “I’d noticed.”

  “It is not going well. There’s so much stuff I need.” She frowns. “And Nic says it’s ridiculous to take a vintage safari suit camping.”

  “Nic’s not wrong.”

  “Beau.” Lien huffs air through her nose. “I don’t know why I assumed my best friend would understand.”

  “Even though your girlfriend doesn’t?” He tips back in his chair and sucks on his beer.

  Lien fixes him with a glare.

  “Li, it’s a safari suit.”

  “It’s vintage Hermès.”

  “And you want to take it camping?”

  She plants her beer on the table and counts on her fingers. “Number one: I battled peak hour on William Street in torrential rain to purchase that safari suit. Annie called me the second it arrived at Clothes Were the Days. It would’ve been gone if I’d waited until morning. Number two: I have never overlooked an opportunity for fashion, even when that opportunity involves a camping trip in the middle of summer. In any case, this trip’s work for me. Once we’re at the festival, it’s my job to look the part.” She can’t expect up-and-coming indie bands and critically acclaimed musicians to tak
e her seriously in just any old dusty shorts and flannel shirt. She takes a breath and remembers to add, “Number three: Nic is not my girlfriend.”

  “Hmm. That’s not what she says.”

  Lien would rather keep arguing about the safari suit than talk about her relationship with Nic. But she has to ask, though she’s already resigned herself to Beau’s answer. “Yeah?”

  “Nic chatted to some of the guys that night last week when you were home on a deadline.”

  “Oh.” Lien thinks back and shudders. “Oyster’s summer fashion issue.” She stayed home to finish it for more days and nights than she likes to recollect.

  He nods. “So unless she’s seeing some other former pro-soccer-playing fashion-and-music journalist she met at the Australian Institute of Sport, then you two are girlfriends, in Nic’s head at least.” He peers at her. “Um, congratulations?”

  “Damn.” Lien gusts out a sigh. She likes Nic, likes her enthusiasm and self-confidence and her truly exceptional abs. She likes dating someone who’s not one of their usual crowd. But the two of them have only been together for a couple of months. Lien’s not one to leap into being anybody’s girlfriend.

  Beau shrugs. “What can you do, babe? It’s not your fault you’re irresistible.”

  Lien rolls her eyes. “Shut up. It’s not like that. You know it.” She guesses that she should start thinking more seriously about this girlfriend thing. Nic’s great. She’s sweet and gorgeous. Only it’s so soon.

  Lien and Beau fall into the friendly, noisy silence that’s possible between people who know one another well and are surrounded by the ceaseless clamor of a busy city. An ambulance wails as it races toward the hospital. Someone walks by talking into their phone. “Yeah. I’ll be home next week, Dad. Promise… No, it’s not that I don’t want to come.”

  “So, I’ve resigned myself to this trip,” says Beau after a time.

  Lien gawks at him. “You’ve resigned yourself to—? What the—?”

  “The way I see it, we live in this huge, beautiful country. Somewhere out there are sweeping plains and red deserts and giant monolithic rocks and a whole endless outback, but all I ever see is this one tree.” He pats the branch jutting past him. “And the tiny sliver of sky above the city. You and I could do with some space and quiet campfire conversation. Some hiking and nature and stuff. We’ll get to know our land. It’ll be good for us.”

  Lien narrows her eyes. “Unbelievable. You made me come with you… you’re forcing me to camp somewhere in the middle of nowhere just so you can invite my girl Annie along. And now, now you tell me you’ve resigned yourself to it.” She raises her voice. “You made me come camping with you, Beau.”

  Beau has the grace to blush to his ears. “I know. I know, Li. It was kind of a spur of the moment thing. The others were going and Annie—Well, she came out with us that night and I idiotically watched her be adorable and somehow I danced and laughed and talked with everyone who wasn’t her, again. I need a change. Camping sounded romantic: a new place, strange night noises, starlight.” He takes a breath. “If I’m going to ask her out, I’ll need to do something out of the ordinary. Fuck, Li, I’ve had a crush on her for about a hundred years.”

  It’s only maybe two years really. But his eyes are pleading. They’re gold and brown in the streetlight. Lien touches the back of his hand. She’s known him since she was nineteen and he was twenty-one.

  “Sorry,” she says, though she has nothing to apologize for. But all his immaculate suits and bravado don’t mean he’s worked out how to talk to a boy or girl he finds cute, especially when they’re out at a noisy club and everyone’s around. Camping in the middle of nowhere will, at least, be different. “You’re right. This plan sounds good. We’ll get out there, do something a bit new. Mix things up and see what happens. Annie’s a darling. And you’re my favorite boy in the whole world. It’s not a problem.” She takes a sip of beer. “Camping will be… fun.”

  Beau’s shout of laughter echoes against the terraces across the road. “I know you, Lien Hong. You don’t need to lie to me.” He’s quiet for a second. “I really appreciate you coming. It’d be hard without you. I mean, I don’t have any idea what she thinks about me.”

  “Annie thinks you’re incredible.” Her best friends might not know one another super well but they’re her favorites for good reasons. There’s no way they don’t admire one another. “You’re hot, funny, smart, sweet. A gentleman. A thinker. How could she think anything else?”

  Beau shrugs his shoulders and looks out over the street. “Of course she does. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “You want to know if she’d date a trans guy?” Lien asks. Beau meets her eyes. “I mean, I’ve never brought it up with her, but I’m sure.” She thinks. “I can ask if you want.”

  “Nah. It’s not like I care whether she’d date just any old trans guy.”

  “You care whether she’d date you.”

  “Yeah.” Beau toys with the label on his beer.

  Lien tries to be stern. “Seriously. She’d have to be flattered. You’re amazing. Gorgeous. You’re pretty much annoyingly perfect.”

  “She’s really smart.”

  “So are you. I’m not friends with stupid people.”

  “She’s on her way up in the world. She has career plans. She’s studying to be a lawyer of all things.”

  “So what? You don’t care about that shit. You have ambitions. And talent. And creativity. Annie’s told me she’d never date a lawyer anyway. They talk too much.”

  Beau nods as he takes this in. He smiles, swallows the last of his drink, and stands. “Right then. Well, thanks for that pep talk, lovely. I’d better get back to work.”

  “Anytime. Wait. Back to work? I’m sure you’re already packed. If I know you, you packed last month.”

  Beau twinkles at her. “Hardly. Accurate weather reports aren’t available that far in advance.” She’s pretty sure he’s teasing. “I packed last weekend. And amazingly, I managed to avoid taking a safari suit. Vintage Hermès or otherwise.”

  “You’d look good in one,” Lien says, considering him with her head to one side. His long torso is well-defined. The boy works out.

  Beau holds up a hand. “Nope. Definitely not. No way.”

  “Fine, fine. But you, my dear, are distressingly unimaginative. You’re stuck in a fashion rut.”

  “You call it a rut; I call it classic elegance,” Beau says. He smooths his shirt at his waist. “Just ’cause I don’t buy any old vintage knickerbockers that catch my eye and figure they’ll look great with whatever argyle crop top I found at the charity shop. You’re a magpie, Lien.” She opens her mouth, but he keeps talking. “Anyway, let’s not argue when I’m clearly right.” He grins as she glares. “Tonight I’m working on getting all our playlists and some new music merged into one mega-list. It’s essential road trip prep. You’ll thank me tomorrow when we’re halfway there, and no one’s arguing about the tunes.”

  He goes inside but sticks his head back through the open door. “Oh yeah, by the way, they’re predicting rain up there for the week.”

  Lien groans.

  Beau shrugs. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m holding out hope. Meteorology is an arcane art, and the weather people are often just plain wrong.”

  He disappears through the door. A siren sounds up on Oxford Street. There’s a hum of activity from the bars on the square. The noise calls to her. It’s not late. The night won’t quiet down for a while. Lien swallows the last of her beer and pushes back her chair. This is a holiday. She doesn’t need to rush with her packing. Later there’ll be time to decide what shoes are right for outback camping and whether she needs the pith helmet Annie found in the back of the vintage shop where she works.

  “Beau!” she calls. She steps inside. “Do you want to go up to Gigi’s? Xian Lo is deejaying there, and I want to check her
out.”

  “No can do. Playlist, remember?” Beau says from his room. “And you’re supposed to be packing.”

  “I’ll pack later. These are our last few hours in civilization, Beau Michaels.” Lien leans against the door frame of his room. He’s cross-legged at his computer. “The night is young. We’re young too. All that other stuff can wait till we get back.”

  He hesitates. “I’m not that young.”

  “We’ll get home early,” she says.

  His hands are on the keyboard, but his eyes are on her. She beams at him and bounces on her toes.

  It’s only a few minutes’ walk to the bars of Oxford Street and Taylor Square. People are queuing outside Gigi’s: about thirty people in line on a Thursday night.

  Lien slows down. “I guess—”

  “The club puts you on the list at the door for a reason,” says Beau, taking her arm. “Come on. Might as well make use of it.” He steers her toward the front of the queue.

  Lien flushes as she passes all the people. But she offers the bouncer a confident nod. “Hi,” she says.

  “Hi.” He’s new. He tilts his head, waiting.

  “I’m Lien. Lien Hong. I’m on the list.”

  “Just a mo.” The bouncer’s called Winston according to his nametag. He’s bulky but not as huge and beaming as Jimi, who’s usually on the door here on Thursdays.

  “Jimi off tonight?” Lien asks.

  “Yeah, he’s back home for a week. Something’s up with his dad.” Winston runs a slow finger down the page on the clipboard. “You said your name’s Leanne?”

  “Lien,” she says. About five hundred people glare at her from the front of the line. She reads the list upside down. “There.” She points out her name. She’s not sure what worried her. Her name’s always on the door here and at a bunch of other places. The bars and venues count on her to report on who’s wearing what, who’s getting cozy with whom, what clubs are big, and what DJs are making waves. She writes up all that for the social news columns. She’s paid by the word, and she helps the venues seem legit.