‘Sorry, the gold is for the page,’ I say, winking.

You think I’m joking, but the silent seconds that follow tell you I’m not. You pout and twirl your ponytail around your index finger. Turning back to the front, you find a music station with a song you like. It is ‘Bad Medicine’ by Bon Jovi, and you belt out the words into an invisible microphone. You shake off your sulk, jilting your body to the power ballad like a rock queen. It’s well before your time and I admire, as I have before, your ability to transcend age.

The mood now lightened, I sing along with you. Your thin tie-dyed skirt has ridden up your legs and is bunching around your hips. You catch me looking at you and take my hand from the wheel and place it on your upper thigh. I hover my palm across the delicate peach fuzz on your bronze, unshaven skin. Your radiant heat is concentrated life: so pure. Everything else is death in comparison.

‘Let’s stop for a while,’ you breathe into my ear.

I don’t reply, but flick on the indicator and crane my neck for the next private place to pull over.

~

‘Any spot you pick will be perfect,’ you say, when we finally reach the coast. You sense my agitation and rub my back as we crawl along the dirt track.

Most of the camp sites are taken — full of families and college kids on their P plates. Dusty mountain bikes (shiny Christmas gifts only days earlier) lie on their sides on the edge of the road. Salt-crusted kayaks lean against the boughs of trees. Wet towels drape over the open doors of expensive 4WDs.

‘Look at this, will you?’ I say, as we pass a large camp, taking up multiple sites. They have created a compound using a shade-cloth wall. ‘I bet one of them came and stuck a couple of little tents up here a few weeks before Christmas to secure this spot. It shouldn’t be allowed.’

You are quiet while we look for a camp site. At the end of the track, you point out a small graveled alcove, hemmed in by drooping trees. It is not the pick of the camp sites, but it is empty — and now it is ours. I pull up the Holden and a dust cloud overtakes us. In the mirror, I notice that your cheeks are wet and your eyelashes have clumped together.

‘I’m so sorry,’ you blurt out, before I can react. You take my hand in between yours, rubbing it softly but vigorously, as if time is suddenly limited.

‘For what?’ I ask, cupping your face and swiping at your tears with my thumb.

‘For what my people did to yours.’ Your eyes well up again. ‘You owned all the land and now you have to struggle — like now, just to get a camp at the beach.’ Breaking into a sob, you collapse into me. The fullness of your chest heaves against my shoulder and your fingers dig at my arms in a kind of desperation.