Chapter 5

Carl had quite a few drinks that evening at the Berhampore local. He wasn't struck with inspiration how to pull off being a musical genius guest speaker, but he was struck with all-consuming laughter. The please-pity-me kind.

Guess who'd come to help out behind the bar?

He wagged a finger at Grayson. Shook his head. Drank another beer.

Twelve hours later he was preparing to nurse a headache by making a mid-morning smoothie. The night had become a blur.

He rubbed his temples.

Never mind that. More pressing was a plan for Leo's assembly—

His phone shrilled. A call. From the musician himself.

Carl spent the first few minutes of the call fretting alongside his double. Seemed like they were twins indeed, the way they gravitated towards trouble...

An obnoxiously loud whizzing sounded outside, and it did horrible things for his head. He gritted his teeth and pulled out essentials: banana, apple, yoghurt, berries.. .

Jason sighed down the line. "How're things for you in Wellington? Anything I need to know about? Post?"

Carl almost upended the blender. Um... He swallowed hard.

"Carl?"

He set the blender down with a thunk. "Oh, look at the time. I've gotta go. Later."

He hung up and tossed his phone onto the counter and paced the spacious room. The whizzing seemed to echo in the space, and he marched towards the worst of it, ending up in the master bedroom where the windows sat close to the chest-high fence separating the villa from the next yard. "Crikey, who's making all that racket?"

He yanked open the window.

The whizzing suddenly stopped. Unravelling himself from behind the fence was Grayson, holding a line trimmer. They shared a few dry blinks, and Carl leaned over the sill. "What's your sign?"

Grayson pulled down his earmuffs. "Excuse me?"

"Are you the Scorpio supposed to stir up stuff?"

Judgy eyebrows lifted.

"You so are. Annoying." Carl shut the window, and ten seconds later opened it again. He tossed out some flannel. "Stop flaunting your chiselled abs."

About ten minutes later, Grayson appeared at Carl's front door with his flannel shirt buttoned to the chest. "May I come in?"

Carl was staring at his shirt, the way it sat perfectly over that torso. It'd been better when he was flaunting! That way, at least, Carl's favourite flannel would still look best on Carl.

He stopped his fingers from repeating the fast furious antics they'd tried on Jason's suit jacket.

"May I?"

Carl snapped his head up and narrowed his eyes. "What?"

"You and I need to talk."

There was a depth to Grayson's gaze that suggested this was something serious. Carl's stomach twisted as he shuffled back and let him inside.

They moved into the kitchen, where Carl quickly skirted to the opposite side of the kitchen island. His smoothie was one step away from completion, and Carl smile-nodded to Grayson while fruit swirled together with a stop-and-start noise that rivalled the one Grayson had been making outside.

"You asked if I was here to stir up stuff..." Grayson's words came in and out of focus between whizzes. "Met a few times... That first time... rescue..." A touch to his forearm. Startled, Carl dropped his finger from the blender button and swung his head to Grayson who was... looking at him. Somewhat beseechingly. "Remember?"

Carl blinked. First time meeting. The bike rescue. Of course he remembered. "Of course I remember."

Grayson nodded, and patted his arm. Carl jerkily pressed the blender button again, like it might ward off the unasked-for sparks.

Then jabbed the accelerated blending button.

"Trouble . . . Careful . . . Cliff."

Carl stopped blending. What? No, he must've said shift. He was everywhere all the time. Talking shifts and how they kept meeting made more sense. Carl nodded. "You certainly turn up when I least expect it."

"Just as well!" Grayson removed his hand and pulled a clean glass from the cabinet like he was right at home.

"Huh?"

Grayson poured the smoothie out for him. "We seemed to have gotten off on the wrong foot. Maybe you don't want to hear this from me, and I don't mean to offend you. I just want you to know you don't have to hide it. You have someone to talk to."

"Talk?"

Grayson passed him the glass, his voice quiet, full of patience. "It's better than drinking and doing something you regret."

Carl stilled, hand clammy on the cool glass. What did he do last night? What prompted this visit? This serious way of talking? Those dark imploring eyes. "I... I should really not drink anymore."

"Along with that... perhaps open up? Be honest?"

About the double identity thing? Had he admitted it last night? Given himself away for real?

Grayson waited, eyes less judgy than usual which... didn't quite make sense. He was too earnest right now; it was making Carl's breath thicken and come out uneven. Grayson must have pieced the clues together and figured it out.

Carl set his smoothie aside; his turn to grab Grayson's forearm, but his wasn't a soft pat. His was a pleading squeeze. "Please don't tell anyone?"

Grayson rested a warm hand atop his and drummed his fingers over Carl's goose-bumping skin. Was that meant to be calming?

How could he be calm?

There were goosebumps. And Grayson knew. He did. He had to. "How'd you know?"

Grayson took back his hand with a skate of a nail across Carl's knuckles. "It was pretty obvious. And good thing I caught you."

Being caught impersonating his brother was a good thing? "Why?"

"Why?" Grayson's voice rose. "It's not only about you. Others will be hurt."

Carl bowed his head. If others found out he wasn't Jason, of course they'd feel stink. But... but they were already feeling stink, and... Jason would be back soon. He'd carry on with the charade. Pretend it was him at the Street Greet, at Leo's school assembly. That way... "I may not hurt anyone."

"That's how you might feel. But"—Grayson touched Carl's chin, lifting it until they were eye to eye—"I promise, someone cares. Someone's heart will break."

They were quiet for a few unsteady, fidgety beats.

Grayson cleared his throat. "Should I not have mentioned it?"

"I mean, since it's obvious, I get why you would. I'll consider what you said. In the meantime, don't tell anyone?"

"I won't gossip. But I have a request."

"What's that?"

"When you have these urges to... I mean, since I know... please find me first? I'll help you."

"You'll . . . help?"

"Always. I'll make sure no one gets hurt."

"How?"

"I have ears and know how to use them."

Was that some kind of musical reference? Could he help Carl sound like an authentic musician?

Grayson asked, "What's that frown for?"

"I'm surprised you'd want to help with this."

"There are others who would also help. I can give you a few numbers—"

"No! No, no. It's enough that you know."

Grayson grimaced, and nodded.

And Carl couldn't stop staring at him. The rush of dark hair, the darker eyes. The sharp line of his nose, the firm lips. The flannel—Carl's flannel—on that impeccable body. And... and the lean. The way Grayson angled himself towards Carl, all sincerity, like he was solely concentrated on this moment with him. The air between them felt positively weighted.

All that intensity on the heels of kindness... Carl fanned himself. "Starting to see why you have groupies."

Grayson smiled, and Carl quickly raised a halting hand. "I meant I understand how other people might fall for all..." Carl swept a hand in Grayson's general direction "that. Not that I'm one of them."

Grayson's sweet smile turned into a grin. "If you say so."

Carl shook his head, narrowing his eyes, but he pulled out another glass and poured Grayson some smoothie too. "Actually, I feel better unloading the truth. Having someone who'll have my back."

"That's the point."

Carl slid the glass over the counter. "Drink up, Scorpio." Three sips in, Carl murmured, "Do you think I should avoid people?"

"No, I think that'd make things worse."

"You think I have to tell them?"

"That's up to you. It's an extremely personal matter."

"Yeah... Do you really think they'd be hurt if—"

"Yes."

Ah, shit. "You have to help me then. So they won't get hurt."

"So you won't get hurt, either."

So Carl wouldn't get hurt either. Wow. It was like Grayson knew how much pretending to be his accomplished twin brother affected him. He nodded quietly and observed Grayson while he finished his smoothie. Something about the way he took this seriously... The sheen to his gaze. Like a shield. Like protectiveness.

He cared for his community, the people in it. Old acquaintances and new.

"I've got another shift at the pub soon. Thanks for the smoothie. Let me know if you need any help."

Did this mean Grayson would help him come up with a plan for the school assembly? Carl nodded and dazedly escorted him to the front door. He gazed after Grayson jostling past leggy lavender, and then snapped out of it. Not a groupie. Never a groupie. "Hey. Don't get too fond of my flannel."

Carl took Toto—anda bike lock—and raced around the bays for some fresh air. He stopped for a swim and had almost finished a circuit of the city when he got swarmed by pre-teens in their uniforms again. This time he sought Leo out and scared off a couple of goofing guys who thought giving wedgies was "just having fun."

"Thanks, Jason!"

Carl swallowed a sigh. "Let's go, kiddo."

"Mum works late today so I'm going to Under the Raindough. What's that sound?"

That sound was Carl's phone vibrating against his keys. He fished it out of his pocket and answered the Unknown Caller. "Hello?"

"Oh, Jason dear. It is you."

Um . . . who was this?

Luckily, he didn't have to ask. She continued, "It's Linda. We met at the Street Greet."

"Linda, of course! The pretty smile."

"Flatterer. My son arrives tomorrow, and my granddaughter loves to play the piano. You so generously offered to tune it for me. I was hoping you might come by tomorrow morning?"

Carl froze mid-step; Leo lurched to a puzzled stop beside him and looked at him with big eyes. "I'd love to help, Linda, bu—"

"Thank you, deary. See you at number three around ten."

Carl blinked at the phone screen after the call cut out. He groaned and tapped the end of the phone against his forehead. How would he get through this one? Confess and let a nice old woman down? Or figure out a way to get the piano tuned?

Surely keeping the elders happy was the overall better thing to do?

"What's the matter?" Leo asked.

"Sometimes I am really stupid."

"That's okay!"

"It is?"

Leo nodded with big, earnest eyes. "You don't have to be smart. All that matters is you're happy and you're a good person!"

A load slid off Carl's shoulders at these innocently uttered words. He fondly rubbed the top of Leo's head. "Aren't you the little philosopher?"

"That's what my mum says."

"Sage words."

"Hey, that's funny."

"I was trying."

They walked against a heaving wind to the bakery, where Carl spotted Sage through the windows, sitting at a table plugging things into a calculator, surrounded by paper. Leo knocked on the locked door, yell-laughing "Mum!" and she bubbled into a smile and rushed to greet her son. Paper flew off the table in the gust that came through the door and Sage momentarily winced before crushing Leo into a hug, pecking kisses on top of his head.

Carl slunk away, but the image formed a sweet, achy knot in his chest. His cousin-slash-real-mum must've been as young as Sage was when she became a mother. Sage had chosen to be Leo's mum despite how young she was. Cora claimed only to be Carl's cousin. They were close, they talked every other day, laughed over their horoscopes, hugged and even had a special handshake. But Carl couldn't shake the feeling he was missing something. Something like pecks on the top of his head. Something like yelling "Mum!" with a huge smile.

Carl traipsed past the pub, paused, and backtracked. Grayson was working the bar, in Carl's flannel, surrounded by groupies, and... what the heck. Carl joined them. He squeezed to the front and Grayson's gaze snagged on him immediately. "You okay?" he mouthed.

The man's intuition! Spot on. "Came for help," he mouthed back.

Instantly, Grayson shrugged out of his apron and yelled for someone to take over. He grabbed a jacket from a hook on the wall and nodded for Carl to follow him outside.

Not far from the pub was a public bench with planter boxes either side; Grayson snagged Carl's sleeve and towed him to it. When they were seated, slightly angled, knees bumping, Grayson draped his jacket around Carl's shoulders, which was weirdly chivalrous—and Carl didn't dislike it—and looked at him, waiting.

Carl felt something slightly bulky bulging from the inner pocket of the jacket around him. He instinctively plucked at the soft wadded material. "I'm, ah, coming to you for help."

"I'm here. I can listen."

"Oh, I won't be trying to perform anything."

Grayson's brow crunched.

Carl continued plucking—at the soft material stuffed into the pocket, and at the conversation. "I need your help on deciding if and how I should help Linda tune her piano? She kind of expects me there at ten tomorrow."

A blink. "What?"

Carl blinked back. "You said to come to you for help?"

"Help when you're having sad thoughts. Not help with—what?"

Sad... What? Thoughts? Carl plucked the soft material free and it spilled onto his lap.

A scarf.

A familiar scarf. One he'd once tried to make out in the dark. He'd thought the print had been fish, or birds, but it turned out the soft silvery fabric was patterned with hundreds of little silver mice.

Carl lifted it and stared. Understanding hit him with a giant jolt through his middle, making him jump on the cold seat. His gaze snapped from the scarf to Grayson, who was frowning beyond it. His rescuer from the cliff, after he'd had too many beers. The rescuer who had heaved Carl to safety after he'd slipped. Who'd told him off for drink-hiking. Whose cold fingers had carefully checked his injured ankle. Whose broad back had carried him down the hill.

Good thing I caught you, Grayson had said this morning.

Not caught lying. Literally caught.

That whole conversation... Grayson had seemed so serious.

Carl shook his head.

No wonder. He wanted to know Carl had someone to talk to, someone who would help him if... Grayson had looked at him more intensely since the bike-stealing incident. To Grayson, that wasn't the first time they'd met. He would've been wondering if and when that night would be acknowledged. To him, Carl was a bit of trouble indeed.

"You're the guy with the big heart."

Grayson frowned. "You didn't recognise me?"

"You had this scarf over half your face! It was dark. I was drunk."

Grayson took the scarf, expression crunched as he tried to understand something.

"This is a huge misunderstanding," Carl said. "That night, I never intended to... I was opening up my arms for a new start, I... I'm sorry I made you worry. And, of course, I thank you for offering your help."

Grayson looked up from the scarf. "If you didn't recognise me from the cliff... what conversation did we have this morning?"

Well, now.

Did that mean Grayson hadn't clued on yet?

If not, perhaps best he didn't? Carl flattened the collar of Grayson's shirt. "You know, flannel looks good on you. You should keep it."

"Jason," Grayson said in a warning tone.

Carl gulped and darted his gaze to the buildings across the street, the lights popping on up the hill... Grayson kept staring, slightly judgy eyes seriously judgy now. Carl couldn't take it. Besides, even if Grayson didn't know about this double identity thing he was dabbling in right now, he surely wasn't far off figuring it out.

Carl leapt to his feet, jacket pooling to the bench, and bolted at a run up the hill after blurting, "I'm not Jason Lyall."