7. 7
Looking Up – Lauren Spencer Smith
T he last place I want to be is here.
But Mum called this morning, her voice tight and careful, asking me to come by.
No details, just that we needed to talk.
Which tells me everything—because if she’s the messenger, Dad’s the one pulling the strings.
And his words from yesterday’s call are still lodged under my skin, impossible to shake.
Mid-morning sun glares through my windshield as I pull in.
The house looks exactly the way it did yesterday—pristine, controlled, untouched by anything messy or imperfect.
But this time, I notice the perfectly trimmed hedges, the spotless driveway, the symmetrical rows of flowers—all mocking me in their perfection.
Nothing out of place. Everything is carefully curated, the way Mum likes it.
She hasn’t worked a day since before I was born—whether that was her choice or not, I’ll never know. Dad made sure we never went without anything, and I know plenty of people would call that privilege. But privilege in this house came with strings, and those strings were tight.
Expectations were so high, they were suffocating. The older I get, the more I realise I’ve been carrying them my entire life. And I’m done.
I don’t bother knocking. My key still works, which unsettles me more than it should. The door gives a soft creak as I push it open. My heels click against the polished timber floors that Mum is obsessive about.
“Zoe?” Mum’s voice carries from the kitchen. I step into the doorway, and she turns, her eyes flicking over my face, searching for something.
“Thanks for coming.” She steps forward, and there’s the briefest pause before she leans in.
The hug is awkward, unsure, the kind you’d give a stranger you haven’t seen in years, not your own daughter.
For a moment, I wonder if she feels it too—that we’ve crossed a line we might not be able to uncross.
“I’m sorry for yesterday,” she says quietly, pulling back. “But I’m glad you’re here now. Sit.” She motions to the dining table, and I sink into one of the upholstered chairs, too stiff, too formal. Her lips tighten, but she doesn’t press. “You’ve let your hair grow long.”
I wince before I can stop it. Three years ago, it was shorter. Back then, I was too swept up in Liam’s orbit to notice, let alone care, that it had been almost five years since I’d seen them before that.
“I think shorter suits you better.”
Of course. She’s started already. Can’t help herself, can she?
“And your freckles.” She leans in slightly. “They’re more prominent. Don’t you use sunscreen? The dermatologist said you must. With your skin, so fair, you’re prone to—”
“Mum, stop.” I grip the edge of the table. “I don’t need the lecture. I use sunscreen every day. This is just how I look. Now, why did you actually ask me here? Because if it was just to nitpick, I’m leaving.”
She presses her lips together, like she wants to argue but decides against it. “I’m only trying to help.”
A heavy sigh escapes me. “Sure.”
“How about I make us some tea?” She stands abruptly, heading back to the kitchen. I don’t argue, just sit there in silence as she bustles around, fetching cups and saucers. When she returns, she sets a cup in front of me.
Green tea . I try not to scrunch my face up at the thought of drinking it.
“This is good for relaxation,” she says. “And suppressing the appetite. It’s divine.” If that’s not a dig, I don’t know what is. Suppressing the appetite .
Because God forbid we have a conversation without some passive-aggressive commentary on my weight. I stare at the cup, the bitterness already clinging to the back of my throat.
I stare at the tea with disgust. “I don’t need my appetite suppressed.” My smile doesn’t reach my eyes. “It’s been that way since I came back home.”
She pauses, and the room goes still. Too still. It’s subtle, but I catch it—a flicker of something in her face. Concern? Guilt? It’s gone before I can name it, replaced by the same polished mask she always wears.
Her eyes skim over me, and I feel every pass, every lash of silent judgement.
The weight I’ve battled my whole life, thanks to stubborn insulin resistance that doesn’t care how many diets I’ve tried.
The freckles dotting my skin—face, arms, back—she’s been commenting on since I was a kid.
The cellulite on my thighs, the tiny spider veins winding their way across my legs like tiny maps to nowhere. And my face—
Thirty-six years written in faint creases around my eyes, in the frown line Liam always hated. “ You should get Botox ,” he’d say, all casual, like it was a kindness. “ And your lips. They could use more shape .” I never did.
And God, how he hated that.
Back in Sydney, it was easier. Or maybe I convinced myself it was. I had my routines, like Pilates with Ana, my Brazilian instructor, a ray of sunshine wrapped in leggings and a thick accent.
“ Zoe, darling, you’re too hard on yourself. Breathe. Relax. The universe loves your flaws; why can’t you? ” For an hour a day, she made me believe my body didn’t need fixing.
But now, sitting here with Mum, I feel every flaw under her gaze.
“Still, you should drink it more regularly. It has all kinds of health benefits. Jazzy and I drink it all the time—oh! That reminds me.”
Here we go.
“You must come to tea on Saturday. It’ll be good for you to get out, mingle with others. Jazzy will be there, with Toni.”
Ah. Toni. The girl who made high school hell and somehow managed to keep the same energy well into adulthood. Perfect Toni. I’ve never liked her.
“I don’t know, Mum—”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just something small. We do it every Saturday, and you will come.”
Her tone leaves no room for argument, but I still hesitate, the idea of sitting through tea with Toni making me queasy.
“I’ll let you know,” I say finally, forcing the words out. But we both know I’ll be there. I always am, in some way or another, even when I swear I won’t be.
The conversation lulls, her satisfied silence grating against my nerves.
I glance around the room, at the same damn walls, the same photos, the same suffocating sameness.
I force a sip, the bitter taste coating my tongue, and put the cup down a little too hard.
It clinks against the saucer, and I flinch at the noise.
Mum doesn’t seem to notice—or maybe she does and just doesn’t care.
She keeps talking, her voice a steady murmur I’ve stopped listening to, and I wonder if I’ll ever feel comfortable here again. If I ever truly did.
The café smells of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries.
I’m craving a decent coffee, and this little spot on the corner of Wattle Creek’s town square looks promising.
It’s been too long since I’ve been in a town so small that strangers say hi on the street.
Not like Sydney at all. There, no one looks twice unless they want something.
Here, people smile, nod, and, unfortunately, whisper.
I push open the door, a little bell jingling above me, and instantly feel out of sorts.
The space is cosy, with walls painted a warm cream and mismatched wooden furniture that screams rustic charm.
A few patrons glance up at my entrance before returning to their conversations.
I step toward the counter, scanning the chalkboard menu.
“Hi there! What can I get you?” asks a young girl behind the counter, her smile so wide it almost disarms me. Almost.
“An iced matcha latte, please,” I say, already anticipating the answer. She shakes her head apologetically.
“Oh, we don’t do matcha. Sorry!”
Of course, they don’t. “Right. Uh, do you have alternative milks?”
“We’ve got soy, almond, oat—”
“Oat?” My brows lift before I can stop them. “You have oat milk?”
“Sure do! And would you like any pumps of syrup? We’ve got vanilla, hazelnut, caramel, toffee nut, white chocolate—”
I blink at her, frowning. Whatever happened to just ordering a plain coffee? “Uh—”
Before I can decide, or better yet, say no, a voice chimes in from beside me. “An oat caramel latte is the way to go.”
I glance over and I’m met with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. The woman is stunning. Blonde hair pulled into a loose braid, golden strands framing her face. She’s slender but not fragile, her presence filling the space with a calm kind of confidence.
“Uh, okay. Thanks,” I say, a little too guarded. “I’ll try the caramel latte.”
The woman smiles at me, stepping back a little as the girl rings up my order. “Good choice. I’ve tried almost everything on the menu. Perks of being a regular,” she says lightly.
Her voice is soft, lilting, but there’s something sharp behind her eyes, like she’s sizing me up, just as I’m doing to her.
“You’re new around here.” Not a question, an observation.
“That obvious?” My tone is dry.
She chuckles. “A little. I’m Imogen, by the way. Imogen Price.”
“Zoe,” I say quickly, catching myself before adding De Luca . That name doesn’t belong to me anymore. Not here. Not anywhere.
We wait in silence until she fills it again. “I’ve been craving coffee all morning. Left my kids with my mother-in-law just to grab one. My husband is at work, so I’m stealing a moment for myself. Much deserved, I think.”
I nod, unsure what to say. Her life sounds picture-perfect. Of course, it does. “How old are your kids?” I ask, mostly to deflect.
“My son’s two,” she says, beaming. “And my daughter’s just shy of six months.”
“Wow… you’ve got your hands full,” I reply, my voice a little flatter than I intend. She tilts her head, studying me like she’s trying to read between the lines.
“Are you from here?” she asks. “I haven’t seen you around.”
“Sort of,” I say, keeping it vague. “I spent a few years here as a kid. Left for the city as soon as I could. Now I’m… back for a bit.” I shrug like it’s nothing, then change the subject. “What about you? Plans for the rest of the day?”