The apartment door opened and closed on Friday afternoon, two days after Lucy had been to visit. Max appeared in the living room where I'd just finished a phone call with the girls from rehab.

"I did some research," he said. "Turns out, Spanish dudes don't ask their girlfriend's father for permission to propose because telling anyone about the proposal before the bride, is a big no no. So, pretend you know nothing. Nothing."

"I mean, sure. But Amalia is American too. I'm sure she's not opposed to doing things differently."

"Yeah I know that," Max said, falling into the couch next to me. "But Elias is traditional. So I'm not asking him for permission. As weird as that is."

"Fair enough."

"Can't do it publicly like I was going to either."

"Publicly?"

"I was going to get the whole family together, hers and mine. But then I was like, na because she might feel pressured to respond a certain way. Don't want that."

"She's going to say yes."

He whipped his head toward me. "Did you tell her?"

"No you idiot. I just know she's going to because she loves you."

"Oh, right. Yeah, well, I hope so."

He might seem young to some people, a lot of people, but Max is mature in his heart and soul. If he knows he wants to marry Amalia, it won't be the wrong decision because Max loves loyally and deeply. Amalia is perfect for him, their future will be beautiful.

There was a knock on the door and Max stood up. "I'll get it."

A moment later, Harley came trailing in behind him. We'd arranged to have some lunch and discuss ideas for social media. When I told him about the idea I'd talked to Lucy about, he was quick to offer his help.

It wasn't so much 'help' he'd said, more like wanting to be part of something meaningful.

"Can I get you a drink or anything, man?" Max asked Harley, wandering over to the kitchen.

"I'm good thanks," he said and looked at where I was standing up from the couch, subtly admiring the swirls of ink on his warm brown arms.

"I need to grab a few things from my room before we go, wanna come?"

"Sure."

As we went to walk off, I looked over at Max who was gulping down a glass of water while he stared at me. Quickly, he twisted, averting his attention to the window.

I was fully expecting him to tell me to leave the door open.

Which, I did. Because there was no reason to close it and make the whole situation something it wasn't.

Harley stood in front of the collage of photos on the wall, a soft expression while he admired my friends and siblings.

"How's the rest of your week been?" I asked, stuffing a few things into my bag. A hoodie, my phone, some pain relief, because you never know when you'll get a random headache.

"Not bad," Harley said, slipping his hands into the pockets of his sweat pants. "Working heaps I suppose. You?"

"Not working," I winced. It was sort of humiliating to admit that I didn't have to work and yet, I'd never have to worry either. "Well, not a regular job. I don't suppose you can count sitting on Instagram as a nine to five."

He shrugged a shoulder and turned from the photos on the wall. "It's a new era. I think people are struggling with the concept of jobs being something other than manual labour or office work. It's to be expected that as we progress, so will our ways of earning and working."

"True," I smiled, walking towards him. "Still, I have to acknowledge my privilege. It'd be ignorant to say that my skin colour, my status, my money, doesn't make a difference to how I get through. Sometimes I feel like I really haven't earned the right to be so comfortable."

"You can't change what you were born into."

"No, but I can do more for people who were born into less. Or not even born into. There's plenty of shit that can cause hardship."

"True," Harley said. "So what do you want to do then, to make a difference?"

"I've put a call out on Bernie's Instagram for models to come forward. A big range of different models. And I had another idea, more than just taking photos, I want to share their stories, with their permission of course, their struggles, their triumphs, their dreams, all of it."

His dimples appeared and he brushed his hair off his forehead. "I like that idea."

"Will you be a model?"

"Me?"

"Yes. You've got a story to tell," I said, staring up at him. "You don't have to though."

"I'll do it," he said, his tongue lapped out at his lips and he started swinging his arms with faux swagger. "I work out you know."

I laughed. "Oh?"

He gave a modest shrug. "I suppose I could go topless. Show off this progress."

"If Bernie is designing the shoot outfits, good luck with that. She's a lover of suit and ties."

Harley laughed, not at all disappointed.

"With a little flavour that is," I added, imagining what she could come up with for Harley.

Purple. He'd suit purple. I'd have to let her know that.

"These are beautiful," I said, my hand touching the large patterned tattoo on his bicep. It disappeared under his sleeve. "Is it symbolic?"

"It is. Some of it's aesthetic, but a lot of it tells stories and history."

"Is it private?" I asked, curious because I'd never seen a tattoo used in such a way. I mean, dad's tattoo told a story, but it was more blatant, an illustration.

Harley's tattoo was thick lines, over lapping, tiny triangles and arrows and little shapes that made a huge pattern.

"Na, it's not private," he said and pointed at a spot on his arm. "This here goes way back to 1787 when French explorers landed in Samoa and were attacked by local warriors. I mean, some of the books make it sound like a savage attack but the Samoans were trying to avoid colonisation. So this is a tribute to the thirty nine lives lost to Europeans."

His finger travels through some more pattern under his shirt sleeve. "This is all just aesthetic fill in."

He swallows and grips the bottom of his shirt. "You mind if I take this off? The tattoo is kind of big."

I gesture for him to go ahead and he swiftly lifts it over his head and holds it in one hand at his side.

The tattoo is huge. It crosses his entire chest.

"Then the Germans staged a coup in 1887. Then in 1889 the US, Britain and Germany sent like seven warships to Apia and a hurricane wiped all of them out, except for one. Just like that."

"Wow," I breathed.

"Yeah," he looked at me, like he was worried I was getting bored. I wasn't. His finger touched on another patch of pattern. "I'm expanding by the way, these patterns are like plot points that describe some of our history. I'm just giving a bit more detail."

"I appreciate that."

"So a few months later, an agreement was signed and Samoa was split in two and put into the colonial system. So independent Samoa went to the Germans and the US was given Eastern Samoa, which is now known as American Samoa. The Germans in independent Samoa made a fucking fortune off copra plantations."

"Sorry, what's copra?"

"Oh, so it's the dried kernel of coconuts. You can extract coconut oil out of it and after the extraction process you get de fatted coconut cake which was used heaps for feeding livestock and that sort of thing."

"Right, got it."

"Yeah. So, the Germans lost their rule during world war 1 when New Zealand sent a force to Apia and the Germans surrendered and their huge land holdings were confiscated. New Zealand didn't do a lot in the islands apart from do their best to keep a lid on the unrest.

"Obviously it still wasn't perfect. An uprising started and New Zealand forces open fired on a group of protesters, which is shit. Samoans didn't want to be under the thumb of anyone but their own chiefs, obviously.

"It was like twenty years later when opposition to colonialism flared up again and by 1962, Samoa became the first South Pacific colony to regain it's independence from western powers."

"Wow," I smiled. "You know your history." 

"I think it's important to know about this stuff," he said and moved over to the other side of his chest. "This is a family tree of sorts. Great grandparents, grandparents, parents. How we ended up here in the states, that sort of thing. I'll be adding to it soon, my story."

"I appreciate you sharing all of that with me," I said, my gaze roaming over the patterns on his firm chest.

"Respectfully," I said. "Perhaps a topless shoot wouldn't be so bad. Particularly if it's focused on this."

I waved a hand at his tattoos, careful not to touch him.

"I mean, I've seen these tattoos on people before, I just had no idea there could be so much behind the patterns. Are these patterns specific to Samoa?"

"These are," he looked down at them. "There are a lot of different patterns that'll seem similar but different cultures have different techniques and that sort of thing."

"It's incredible."

"Thanks for being so interested," he said. "It's not often I get to tell people about their meaning."

"Really?"

"No one asks," he shrugged. "A ton of girls comment on them when I'm working but they compliment them in a 'ooh look at those foreign swirls and patterns' way. You seemed genuinely interested. Unless you're a good actress."

"No," I assured him, laughing. "It's fascinating, I promise. I grew up with a dad who was big into symbolic tattoos. If I ever mentioned getting something impulsive without having it mean something, he'd tease the hell out of me. I know he'd let me do what I want, but I guess he just never treated the art like that. Each to their own. You know?"

"Yeah for sure," he said.

"I mean, my brother has some great pieces, but he also has a BMO on his hip. So."

"A what?"

"It's that little talking game console from Adventure Time. Super cute."

"Oh, I've watched a little of that but it made me feel like I needed to pop a tab to properly enjoy it."

I laughed and he watched me for a moment before ducking his head.

"I like your laugh."

My cheeks warmed but I didn't respond. Flynn used to tell me the same thing all the time and suddenly I was super aware of the tall shirtless guy standing less than two feet from me.

He looked down at his shirt, tumbling it between his hands while he turned it the right way. "You want to go and get something to eat?"

"Yeah," I said, we'd become sidetracked but it wasn't late and the conversation was worth it.

"Abby," Max called from somewhere in the living area.

"What?" I shouted back with a slight attitude because why couldn't he just come and see me if he wanted me. Ugh.

Harley barely had his shirt over his head when Flynn appeared at the threshold, his casual stroll became dead still when he looked behind me and I can't imagine what it must have looked like.

"Wha—" I looked between them. "What are y—"

"It's Friday fuckers," came Lucas' voice just before he appeared next to Flynn. He flicked his shades onto the top of his head. "What the fuc—"

"What the fuck are you both doing here?!" I shouted, the room felt like it was closing in, it felt like the morning I was ambushed and sent to rehab all over again. "What's with constantly showing up for surprise visits?! Don't you have a fucking phone?"

Lucas recoiled and snorted. "What's with the attitude. I require no announcement. And whose that?"

"Harley." I snap. "You've met him. At the cafe. He's a friend," I said, looking at Flynn whose entire face had dropped as if he'd just caught me in bed with another man. "We're friends."

"Harley," Lucas lifted his arms. "Come out here and have a drink with me, man. Plans tonight? We have these board game nights, you haven't done board games right until you've done it with the Lahey's."

Harley gave me an unsure smile as he slipped past. Flynn didn't look at him and I thought perhaps I should've introduced them. It might have been more settling than letting him slip off like a bad secret.

Flynn exhaled and walked in, standing in front of me. "Fuck, I didn't realise it would hurt so damn much."

"What do you mean?"

His sad eyes met mine. "You moving on."

"I'm not," I said. "That's not— he's a friend. A survivor. We went to a support meeting together and we have stuff in common. I'm not moving on and I don't think he's . . . available anyway. And I haven't asked because it doesn't matter. Because I'm not moving on."

"He's hot."

I sighed with exasperation. "Flynn."

"He is. I see it. I know you do."

"Are we seriously doing this?"

"We decided to take some time apart and now there's a hot dude half naked in your bedroom. It's not a major leap."

"It's still a jump though. If I say there's nothing going on, I mean it."

"This is giving me "the person I told you not to worry about' vibes."

I closed my eyes and focused on breathing. "I had no idea you were this jealous sort of person."

"I never had to be. This is different. Things are different. We're done, right? I guess I just have to get used to the fact that you'll move on eventually. As much as it sucks. I'm gonna be jealous, but like, in a polite way, I guess."

I couldn't even deny that we were done. I felt done, even though I loved this person in front of me, I couldn't keep him. And no matter what he said, I wasn't moving on either.

Right now, I was being selfish, in the right context.

"Flynn, I can't do this half in, half out thing," I said gently. "This is why. I feel like I have to keep a friend a secret. You should move on. You deserve to move on."

He looked so fucking wounded. "You wouldn't be jealous?"

"I totally would be. In a polite way."

Even though his eyes glistened, he cracked a smile.

"I don't think I'll ever love someone like I love you, Abby. I'm not just saying that. You're just. . . you're it for me."

"I'm not," I said, meeting him in a hug, a familiar heart wrenching hug. He smelled like pine and cinnamon. "You have no idea how many people are out there, good people. You'll meet someone incredible, Flynn."

He kissed the top of my head. "She's right here."