THIRTEEN
Not me, obviously. God, no.
But I’m the senior copywriter at a boutique ad agency, managing a team of five, which means I get front-row seats to the heartbreak circus. Today’s act: Jasmine, junior copywriter, currently sobbing over Google Meet.
‘I just – I can’t do this anymore,’ she wails.
I nod, professionally sympathetic, which is the only acceptable response when someone is having a full-blown emotional breakdown on a work-monitored device.
‘I completely understand,’ I say, trying not to sound like I’ve already drafted her farewell email. ‘You’ve been such an asset to the team. We’ll miss you.’
Jasmine sniffs. ‘Thank you.’
I wish her well, promise her a glowing reference, and end the call.
My laptop makes a satisfying click as I shut it and flop back onto my unmade bed with a sigh.
I should be at my desk wedged into the corner of my room.
Instead, I’ve been working from bed all day, unshowered, in yesterday’s t-shirt – which, apparently, is also today’s problem.
I get up and wander to the bathroom, mostly to pee, partly to escape the crushing responsibility of being the emotional sponge of my department. When I pull my underwear down, I frown. Nothing. Still.
My period’s a full week late. Not that unusual – endo is nothing if not dramatic – but still. A week is long, even by my standards.
I reach into the bathroom cabinet, which is home to four types of painkillers, hundreds of skincare samples from Abbey and a box of pregnancy tests that every vaguely unhinged woman owns. I unwrap one like it’s a granola bar, sit on the toilet, and do the thing. Just in case.
I pee. I wait. I regret everything.
Finally, I set the stick on the vanity counter, wash my hands and head to the fridge in search of moral support in snack form – which turns out to be one cucumber. I take a bite and call Abbey.
‘Hey’ she answers on the second ring.
‘I need a hobby,’ I announce between crunches of cucumber.
There’s a pause. ‘How’s the chocolate tasting going?’
‘Turns out that’s not a real hobby.’
‘Go figure,’ she says. ‘So, I’m guessing no progress?’
I chew, then swallow before replying. ‘Unless you count aimless scrolling on Facebook Marketplace for weird antique lamps, then no.’
‘You going to Brookie’s tonight?’
‘Yes. I have a date. His name’s Andrew – don’t ask. If you don’t hear from me by ten tomorrow, assume he’s turned me into a skin suit and call the cops.’
Abbey sighs. ‘Jamie, this is not healthy.’
‘It’s Friday. Besides, I haven’t had sex in weeks,’ I argue, eager to jump back into my routine and remove all traces of calloused hands and red dust from memory.
‘You say that as if it’s a personal failing.’
‘It is! My mum crashed here for two weeks and called it bonding. And the week before that I got food poisoning from that suspicious Thai joint down the road.’
‘A sabbatical then,’ Abbey deadpans.
‘Exactly,’ I grin.
‘Hmm. Okay, you’re coming for a fun run tomorrow. Eight a.m. Wear runners.’
‘There’s nothing fun about running.’
‘It’ll be good for you.’
‘Doubt it.’ I head back to the bathroom, half-eaten cucumber in hand.
‘I mean it,’ Abbey says. ‘You need some healthy habits in your life.’
‘Unlikely,’ I mutter, pushing the bathroom door open. ‘I’d rather peel the skin from my—’
I freeze. There it is. Sitting on the counter like a cosmic prank from the universe.
Two lines.
Two. Blue. Lines.
‘Jamie?’ Abbey says over the phone. ‘Hello?’
My eyes widen. My jaw unhinges. I choke down the last bite of cucumber. ‘I’ll call you back.’
When I hear the name Andrew, I think receding hairline, high school maths teacher, tucks his shirt into his jeans. Probably owns a cat named Whiskers and uses ‘Cheers’ in every text message.
I do not think shaved blond hair, arms that look like they’ve lifted a house, and a voice so sincere it makes you feel like a fraud sitting across from him.
And yet – here we are. At Brookie’s. Round sixty-seven.
‘So where do you climb?’ he asks, eyes bright with innocent curiosity.
I choke on the focaccia. Oh. Right. Climbing. That detail I wedged into my Tinder bio after reading his and thinking, Yep, I can work with that.
‘Here and there,’ I say, waving a hand, when what I really mean is that I once climbed a flight of stairs after the elevator in my building broke and I never physically recovered.
Jodie, my favourite waitress and co-conspirator, winks at me as she drops off my lychee martini.
I look at it. Then at Andrew. Then back at the martini.
Fuck it.
I take a sip.
Andrew smiles. ‘I could show you a decent spot to climb – about forty minutes out of the city. The view’s incredible.’
‘Do you say that to all the girls?’ I tease.
He flushes, slicing his focaccia and dragging it through olive oil. ‘No. You’re the first one I’ve met who likes climbing.’
Oh, Andrew. Sweet, muscled unicorn Andrew. If only you knew.
‘Lucky me,’ I say, and even sound like I mean it.
Dinner passes in a blur of easy conversation and alarming compatibility.
I excuse myself after dessert to use the bathroom, where I lean against the sink and stare at my reflection.
My thoughts travel back to the two lines that are now sitting snug in the kitchen bin, and how the person equally responsible for that mistake is knee-deep in croc country, blissfully unaware.
Why am I thinking about Luke?
It’s not even a conscious thought – more a ripple. A tear in the fabric. One minute I’m wiping lip gloss off my front tooth, the next I’m wondering if Luke is feeding cattle right now or if he has moved on with another woman.
Nope. Nope.
This is not a Luke-thought-friendly zone.
I give myself a stern look in the mirror, take a deep breath, then head back out to Andrew. ‘Do you want to head back to mine for a drink?’
His smile is soft. Hopeful. ‘Sure.’
I go to flag Jodie, but Andrew touches my arm. ‘I’ve paid the bill. Hope you don’t mind?’
Congratulations, Andrew. You’ve passed with flying colours.
‘You didn’t have to do that,’ I say, but the corners of my mouth betray me. ‘Thank you.’
He waits for me to walk out first. A gentleman. Predictable. Kind. Basically, he’s the opposite of every man I’ve ever made out with in a dark bar and then promptly ghosted.
We get back to my apartment and I head for the liquor shelf while he browses my modest vinyl collection. I hand him a glass, but he sets both drinks on the table. Confused, I watch as he steps forward and gently slides my hands into his. ‘Trust in Me’ by Etta James echoes through the room.
‘What are you doing?’
He smiles. ‘Dancing.’
‘I – what?’
‘I have three older sisters,’ he explains. ‘Mum put us all in dance class because it was cheaper than soccer.’
And then he spins me.
HE SPINS ME.
‘You’ll have to lead,’ I say, trying not to trip over my own thoughts. ‘I never danced as a kid. Or as an adult. Or ever.’
He smiles again. ‘I’ve got you.’
My feet follow him into a lazy, rhythmic sway that feels less like dancing and more like floating. I’ve never dated a guy who dances. Even at concerts, most of them just stand there like confused giraffes.
‘Joke’s on Mum though,’ he continues. ‘Dancing was way more expensive than soccer.’
We move around the tiny living room as if we do this all the time. My heart is doing suspicious things. My stomach is full of focaccia and also dread; I’m enjoying this too much.
‘Do you do this with all your Tinder dates?’ I ask, trying to lighten the moment.
‘Only the ones who say they like climbing.’
Touché.
The music slows, and so do we.
He looks at me – really looks at me – and I know what’s coming. I’ve been here before. ‘A Sunday Kind of Love’ starts playing as his hand slides to my neck, and before I can overthink it, he kisses me.
It’s soft. Steady. Sweet in a way that lingers.
Just for tonight, I let him believe that we could be perfect together.
I wake up and the first thing I register is the absence of Andrew. The second is a note, folded neatly and sitting where his chest had been.
Hey, last night was amazing.
So sorry to leave. Promised my boss I’d be on-site at 7. Call me?
– Andrew
I stare at the smiley face for a second too long before grinning like an idiot. Unicorns, apparently, do leave notes. I stretch lazily, content for a full three seconds – then look at my phone.
‘Shit.’
Leaping out of bed, I drag on a pair of bike shorts and whatever socks I can find.
I’m still trying to shove my foot into my shoe when the doorbell rings.
I stumble out of the elevator and yank open the building’s front door to find Abbey, who looks like a sports influencer.
Neon crop top. Matching bike shorts. Speed-dealer sunnies.
‘Ready?’ she asks, hands on hips.
‘Would it change anything if I said no?’
Her smile is a threat. ‘No.’ Then she turns and sets off in a casual run.
‘Fantastic.’ I sigh, and start after her, lungs already regretting it. The first kilometre involves trying not to trip over labradoodles and prams. But eventually we hit the path that runs alongside the beach, and the air is salty and the view is pretty and I can almost pretend I’m not dying.
‘So,’ Abbey pants evenly, ‘how was it?’
I wheeze. ‘What?’
‘Last night. You still have all your skin, so I’m guessing it went okay?’
I grin despite myself. ‘He can dance.’
She shoots me a look. ‘Did you get … closet vibes?’
‘What? No. Maybe? I don’t know.’ We weave around a pack of retirees in matching sun hats before I add, ‘Honestly, I wouldn’t care either way. The guy can move.’
Abbey groans. ‘Of course you’d fall for the one straight guy who can salsa.’
‘I’m not falling. I’m … appreciative.’
Abbey snorts. ‘You know this isn’t joy, right?’
‘What isn’t?’
‘This. Tinder. Work. These one-night flings that end in bar tabs and blackout scrolling.’
‘Wild sex is joy,’ I say between gasps.
‘Sure, unless you’re using it as a distraction.’
I glare at her. ‘Are you my therapist now?’
‘Do you still go to your therapist?’
Low blow.
‘Yes.’ No.
She sighs. ‘Jamie. There’s a whole world out there.’
‘And I’ve seen it,’ I insist. ‘Online.’
Abbey ignores me. ‘You should come to Japan with me for Christmas. My parents booked a little place near Kyoto. It’s calm. Peaceful. You could reset.’
‘Hard pass. I promised Issy I’d help with the girls.’
Abbey groans. ‘Issy walks all over you.’
‘She has two kids!’
‘She has you. Who cancels every plan for her.’
We round a corner and I call it. ‘Time.’
Abbey slows to a stop as I double over, hands on knees, dying loudly. She checks her watch. ‘That was two kilometres.’
‘Okay, Usain Bolt,’ I pant. ‘Not all of us are in peak physical condition.’
Abbey throws her hands in the air. ‘That’s what I’m saying! If you took care of yourself—’
I cut in. ‘Easy for you to say.’
Abbey frowns. ‘What does that mean?’
I straighten, wipe my brow with the back of my sleeve, and say it. ‘I’m pregnant.’
Abbey opens her mouth.
Closes it.
Opens it again.
Nothing.
Finally, she whispers, ‘Whose—’
‘It doesn’t matter. I’m booked in for an abortion on Monday.’ Her eyes scan mine. She’s looking for something, and she must find it, because she nods. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’
I shake my head, smiling gently. ‘I’ve got it handled.’
Abbey nods again. This time, slower. Then she says, ‘Do you want to get pancakes?’
My smile stretches wider. ‘Please.’
She loops her arm through mine like we’re seventeen again and nothing can touch us. Like we’re bulletproof.
And just like that, the run is forgotten. The ache in my chest, not so much.
But pancakes? Pancakes are a good place to start.