FOURTEEN
My phone buzzes in my handbag. I fish through the mess of receipts, lip balm and a stress ball shaped like a uterus – courtesy of Abbey – and pull it out in time to see Ella’s face light up the screen.
I groan internally.
It’s not because I don’t want to talk to her. I love Ella. I’d sell a kidney for Ella. But my brain has been running on flat whites all day, and I’m dangerously close to snapping at the next person who dares to ask if I’ve had a chance to circle back on that yet.
Still, I swipe to answer and push my voice into cheerleader mode.
‘Hey, you!’ Ella beams; I can hear it in her voice. ‘I know you’re working but just wanted to double-check that you’re still flying up on Saturday?’
How could I forget?
‘You know it!’ I chirp, enthusiasm dialled up to ten, masking the part of me that’s already halfway through a fantasy where I fake a family emergency and spend the weekend sipping red wine and bingeing Bridgerton instead of swatting flies at an outback baby shower.
‘Good.’ She sighs, clearly relieved. ‘I know it’s not the easiest trip, so I really appreciate it.’
She’s not wrong. It’s only been a few months since I last saw her, but guilt is a powerful motivator – second only to wine and a well- timed meme.
‘You know I wouldn’t miss it.’
Ella hums. ‘I can’t wait.’
‘Me too,’ I lie.
There’s a pause. Then, in that faux-casual tone people use when they’re about to lob a grenade into your peace, she adds, ‘Hey, just checking – Dylan’s still coming too, yeah?’
I smile into the phone like she can see me. ‘Yep.’
My soul dies a little.
Dylan. My Tinder pick of the month after my time with Andrew expired. His profile said he plays guitar and hikes on weekends. I said I play classical piano and once went on an ayahuasca retreat in Byron.
Both of us were lying. At least I assume he was lying too. Who hikes for fun?
‘Great!’ Ella says, far too brightly. ‘I’m excited to meet him. Abbey told me he met June.’
I snort. ‘Hardly.’
Dylan’s a naturalist type with scruffy brown hair, a fondness for indie-band t-shirts, and a tendency to quote Shakespeare.
He smells of incense and late-stage capitalism, and I have no one to blame but myself.
Abbey made me promise to tone down the weekly Tinder roulette, so my workaround was simple.
Pick one man. Keep him alive. Rotate monthly.
It was going well – until last week, when Dylan and I ran into my mum outside the sushi train, and he introduced himself as my boyfriend.
It got worse when Mum said, ‘Oh, you must be going with Jamie to the NT next week, then?’
‘What’s happening in the NT?’ he asked, which would’ve been a reasonable question if I hadn’t already started internally spiralling.
Mum gave me a sharp, theatrical look. ‘You didn’t tell him about Ella’s baby shower?’
‘It didn’t come up,’ I muttered.
‘Didn’t come up?’ Her voice went high-pitched with offence.
‘Well, flights are kind of expensive and—’
‘Nonsense.’ She waved this away as if I’d suggested we couldn’t afford toast.
Then – God help me – she pulled out her phone and opened her CommBank app with the nonchalance of rich folk making a charitable donation.
‘Mum, you don’t have to—’
‘Be quiet. What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t help my daughter?’
The petty part of me had several answers to that. I bit my tongue. She tapped furiously. ‘Done.’
She turned to Dylan with a smile that was both warm and terrifying. ‘You two should come over for dinner one night. Jamie’s useless in the kitchen, of course – couldn’t boil water without a tutorial – but we manage.’
I fought the urge to throw myself – or her – into the nearest gutter.
Dylan, however, didn’t miss a beat. ‘She made me shakshuka last week. It was excellent.’
I stared at him. I bought him takeaway shakshuka in a reusable container. He was lying. For me.
‘But we’d love to come for dinner,’ he added cheerfully, and I knew then that we could never break up – not unless I wanted to lose custody of the one person who’d ever defended me in front of my mother.
‘Okay, well,’ I cut in, grabbing Dylan’s hand and backing away, ‘this has been lovely. So good. We’ve got to run.’
Dylan offered my mother a little wave. ‘Bye, June!’
‘Say hi to Ella!’ Mum called after us.
Once we were out of earshot, Dylan nudged me. ‘Your mum seems nice.’
So, now I’m stuck flying to Ella and Darcy’s baby shower with a man who thinks I enjoy yoga, organic kimchi and fucking with the lights on.
Ella’s still talking on the phone. ‘Maybe some fresh air will bring some perspective.’
Perspective? What I need is a one-way ticket to a timeline where I didn’t say yes to Dylan, or kimchi, or a relationship I built on a foundation of curated Spotify playlists and performative affection.
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ I say, glancing at my screen. ‘Listen, I’ve got a meeting, so I’ve gotta run. I’ll see you in a few days, okay?’
‘All good,’ Ella replies, still suspiciously chipper. ‘See you soon.’
The call ends. I stare at my laptop.
No meetings. Not a single one. Just a blank calendar mocking me: you lying little fraud.
Sometimes, you are the disaster. And sometimes, you’re simply along for the ride, white-knuckling your way through a lie that’s snowballed into a couple’s flight across the country and an imaginary classical piano career.
The air smells like sunburn and misplaced optimism: crispy leaves and a hint of death. My eyes squint against the vast blaze of red dirt, and I wonder if it’s possible to sunstroke your feelings clean.
Déjà vu hits as the helicopter pilot hands me my leather duffel bag with a sympathetic nod that seems to say, You’re on your own now, sweetheart. Accurate.
‘You made it!’ Ella’s voice cuts through the January heat. She still looks positively glowing – pregnancy suits her in that unfair way that makes me want to hug her and also throw her in a pool.
‘How was the flight?’
‘Surprisingly quick,’ I reply. ‘Especially when you don’t have Abbey talking your ear off the whole way.
’ It’s a joke, mostly. But the truth is, she would’ve been the perfect buffer for a weekend like this.
If she wasn’t still in Kyoto with her family, I would’ve dragged her here by her perfectly exfoliated heels.
Ella snorts, but her attention shifts past my shoulder. ‘And this must be Dylan! Jamie’s told me all about you.’
A familiar arm slides around my shoulders with the confident ownership that only men with full hairlines and a healthy relationship with their mothers can muster.
‘Nice to meet you,’ Dylan says, all polite charm and messy curls. He’s a walking Bon Iver song.
‘Well …’ Ella says, her eyes bouncing between us with interest. ‘It’s good to see Jamie has decided to settle down. How’d you convince her?’
Dylan shrugs. ‘We met for a drink, ended up talking until two a.m., and the rest sort of … happened.’
I smile, teeth and all. It hurts a little.
What actually happened was that I concocted a fake job in urban planning and told him I once played piano for a children’s cancer fundraiser.
He said I had an old soul, and I said, ‘Maybe.’ Since then, it’s been weeks of polite lies and avoiding musical instruments.
I’m in way too deep and pressing the eject button on this mess seems like more trouble than it’s worth.
Ella laughs because I already filled her in on Project Dylan. But she hides it well and gestures towards the gravel path. ‘You guys are in cabin three.’
My stomach sinks a little. Cabin three. The same room where Luke and I—
‘Thanks,’ I say, forcing lightness into my voice. ‘The place looks exactly the same. Except for the weird swing set thing.’
She winces. ‘Darcy built that for the baby. Don’t ask.’
We pass a paddock with two horses swishing their tails back and forth.
‘I feel like I’m on the set of a Western movie,’ Dylan says, adjusting the bag on his shoulder. ‘Do we get cowboy hats?’
‘You need to earn those,’ Ella answers playfully before she ducks inside the main house to grab us some water.
I drift towards the fence, extending a hand to a chestnut mare – at least, I think that’s what she is.
My knowledge of horses begins and ends with The Saddle Club and one very traumatic Shetland pony ride at a birthday party.
The mare snorts gently, warm breath huffing against my fingers.
‘Wow,’ Dylan murmurs, slipping an arm around my waist. ‘This is really something.’
I nod, though the moment feels hollow. The air’s too thick, the silence too heavy. It’s like my body remembers something my brain hasn’t caught up with yet.
Ella returns with two bottles of water and that same unreadable look in her eyes.
‘So,’ I say, voice scratchy, ‘what’s the plan for tomorrow?’
‘The morning’s yours,’ she replies with a coy smile. ‘I could show you around after I bake the cake. Then the baby shower kicks off around two.’
‘Sounds good,’ I say as we walk. ‘Who’s coming?’
‘Just close family and friends. Some staff if they’re around.’
I nod, pretending that doesn’t send a chill down my spine. Dylan takes the room key and my bag before walking inside. In a lowered voice, I ask Ella, ‘Any tall neighbours whose names start with L and end in uke? I mean, I just wanna make sure it’s not awkward.’
‘You never told him, did you?’ she asks quietly, referring to the unexpected pregnancy I took care of at the end of last year.
‘No. It wasn’t his business.’
Ella presses her lips together, clearly holding something back. She doesn’t say it, and I’m grateful because it has nothing to do with her. ‘I’ll let you guys freshen up. Dinner’s at seven. Just family tonight.’ She hesitates, then kisses my cheek. ‘You look great, by the way.’
‘Well, you’re a goddess,’ I say honestly.
She smiles and walks back to the house.
I push open the cabin door and freeze for a beat. Same room. Same bed. Same air that once carried a different kind of heat.
Dylan is already sprawled out on the bed, butt naked.
‘Come here,’ he says with a lazy grin, patting the space beside him.
I hesitate.
The last time I was in this bed, I wasn’t pretending. There was no curated version of me to maintain, no lies about playing piano, no vegan miso marinades. Only heat and want and Luke’s voice in my ear.
I shake the memory off and smile at Dylan, my hands pulling at my shirt.
It’s fine. It’ll be fine. Just a weekend. Just a baby shower. Just one massive emotional landmine waiting to explode beneath my excellent vintage boots.
What could possibly go wrong?