SEVENTEEN
By the time we make it over to the lawn at the front of the house, the baby shower is in full swing and it’s pastel chaos.
There are enough pink balloons and blue iced cupcakes to trigger my childhood trauma, along with pink lemonade in mason jars, sugar cookies shaped like onesies, and a suspiciously cheerful game involving melted chocolate in nappies.
Ella’s floating from group to group in her white sundress while people ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ over the baby-name shortlist.
As we join the festivities, Dylan squeezes my hand and kisses my cheek as I adjust my brown linen dress. It should be sweet.
Then I see them.
Luke – and Lauren.
Her freckled hand rests on his tanned forearm, lingering like it belongs there. She’s laughing at something he said, and he’s smiling that rare, soft smile I haven’t seen in months.
It shouldn’t hit me the way it does.
But it does.
Right in the ribs.
Right in the throat.
Something inside me snaps like a cheap elastic waistband, and I know, instantly, that I’m about to do something very stupid.
Because if this is a game, I’m playing now.
‘Stop.’ I touch Dylan’s arm a little too deliberately, grinning up at him as he says something about the charcuterie board. ‘You’re such a dork.’
He returns the grin, brown eyes searching mine. ‘Am I?’
‘Yes,’ I say, trailing a finger down his bicep. ‘I don’t hate it.’
His cheeks flush. Behind me, I feel the burn of Luke’s stare. I can sense his gaze like a heat lamp on the back of my neck. I don’t turn. I lean into Dylan and laugh at something he hasn’t said yet.
‘Jamie?’ Lauren’s voice floats over, silky and sweet and unmistakably country.
I turn with a smile so tight it could legally qualify as a threat. ‘Lauren. Hi.’
‘You look … rested,’ she says, eyes flicking to Dylan. ‘This must be Dylan. I’ve heard so much.’
‘Have you?’ I ask, looping my arm through his. ‘I guess good news travels fast.’
Dylan, bless him and his scruffy brown hair, smiles proudly, unaware that I’m weaponising him.
Lauren’s polite expression doesn’t move. ‘We were just talking about the drought. Luke’s been helping Darcy plan the feed runs. It’s been brutal.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Dylan chimes in. ‘I mean, not to be that guy, but … you know industrial farming’s a major environmental issue.’
Ah. Shit.
Lauren tucks a strand of auburn hair behind her ear, not quite able to mask how her calm smile flickers at the comment. I don’t have to look to know Luke stiffened behind us.
‘Right?’ Dylan continues, oblivious to the tension. ‘I mean, when you factor in the emissions, the land degradation – it’s a lot.’
Luke cuts in. ‘Thanks for the insight, mate. I’ll let the starving cattle know.’
Then he stalks off towards the drinks table, shoulders tight, jaw tighter. Lauren watches him, then turns back to us with a breezy sigh. ‘Don’t mind him. He’s in a mood.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘I thought he was always like that.’
Lauren smirks. ‘No, this is the deluxe edition. Comes with a side of brooding silence and unprovoked sass.’
I snort. ‘Noted.’
‘You’ll be fine,’ she says, meeting my eyes over her glass. ‘You don’t earn the full storm-cloud routine unless something’s really eating at him.’
Glancing towards the drinks table, I watch as Luke fights with the esky lid. ‘I’ll be sure to keep a wide berth.’
‘Just don’t talk about anything progressive within earshot of his working boots.’ We both chuckle at that. She hesitates, then says, ‘His dad’s sick. Late-stage leukaemia. Turned down his chemo treatment last week.’
My stomach dips. ‘What?’
‘He hasn’t got long left,’ she adds softly. ‘Wants to die at home by his wife’s grave.’
‘That’s terrible,’ Dylan exhales.
Lauren nods. ‘Luke won’t admit it, but he’s scared. And he’ll be all alone on that property …’
Ella claps her hands, all radiant joy and unknowing great timing. ‘Group photo time! Everyone over here!’
People shuffle into place on the lawn. I let myself be dragged towards the crowd, still hearing Lauren’s voice echo in my head. He’ll be all alone.
I catch Luke rejoining the group, a cold beer in hand, his face unreadable. Somehow – cosmic joke or twisted fate – he ends up behind me for the photo.
Dylan loops an arm around my waist, but it feels … off. Misaligned. Still, I let it happen, because this is the performance I signed up for. And I thrive under pressure.
I lean into Dylan, tipping my head against his shoulder, facing the camera with a too-perfect smile.
I don’t turn around. I don’t need to.
I can feel Luke behind me, his eyes drilling straight into the back of my skull as if he’s looking for the version of me I haven’t been in a long time.
The shutter clicks, capturing the moment.
My smile is frozen, my spine stiff. Regret is brewing.
Welcome to the baby shower. Where everything’s sweet on the outside – and rotting underneath.
After the group photo, lunch is served on a long, sun-drenched line of buffet tables and picnic plates full of glazed ham, charred beef and salads garnished with sprigs of herbs.
Of course, I end up in the queue right next to Luke.
We say nothing at first. Just two emotionally repressed adults scooping potato salad onto their plates and pretending the past hour hasn’t been one long, painful dance of avoidance.
The clink of tongs. The scrape of serving spoons.
The awkward silence as I slide some ham onto my plate.
Luke grabs a slice too but doesn’t look at me.
Doesn’t blink. And despite every single neuron in my brain telling me to shut up, my mouth opens.
‘So, I guess you and Lauren are back on.’
‘Why would you care?’
I scoff. ‘I don’t.’
‘Good.’
‘Great.’
We reach the end of the line and pass each other a fork as if it’s a truce treaty. Then Dylan materialises beside me and eyes my plate. ‘I thought you were vegetarian?’
Shit.
‘I am,’ I say too fast. ‘This is for Ella.’
Luke raises an eyebrow. It’s the most expressive I’ve seen his face all day. This is it. His chance to blow my whole facade to hell. But he doesn’t say anything. He just turns away and walks over to another group.
‘Okay, well … I’ll grab you a plate then,’ Dylan says, already heading back towards the start of the line.
I exhale in relief and hand the offending ham plate to Ella, who gives it a confused look. ‘For you, milady.’
‘What’s this?’
‘Don’t ask.’
She shrugs and accepts it, too pregnant and too gracious to push.
I take my seat on a warm sandstone bench beside Dylan, nibbling the sad pile of lettuce leaves I’ve committed to for optics, while trying very hard not to look across the lawn.
But of course I do.
Luke’s sitting on another bench with Lauren. Close. She’s laughing – hard. Her stupid curls bounce in the breeze, along with her stupid laugh, her stupidly cute dress and her stupid—
‘Earth to Jamie?’
I blink and find Dylan watching me with mild concern and a whole lot of You’re being weird.
‘What?’
He smiles gently. ‘I was saying we should go to that logging protest in Hyde Park next week.’
‘Yeah,’ I say, my eyes drifting back to Luke. ‘We should.’
By nightfall, I’m starving. Salad and fruit only go so far when you’re rage-dieting for a boyfriend who thinks cow burps are a hate crime.
Across the lawn, Luke is laughing at something Lauren said, head tilted, grin easy. She touches his arm, and he doesn’t move away. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but the body language is clear: flirty, casual, familiar.
I’ve caught him glancing my way a few times – long enough for him to clock that I’m watching them. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe this is his low-key attempt at making me jealous. Which, annoyingly, is working.
Next to me, Dylan’s deep in conversation with Phil about city swing votes and the political history of water rights – which means he’s four seconds away from quoting the Guardian and launching into a rant about gas companies dodging tax.
He laughs at something Phil says, a little too brightly.
I think Dylan compliments his shirt. Or maybe his watch?
I don’t know – my attention keeps drifting back to Luke.
Lauren’s the one laughing now. She then bites her bottom lip, and I resist the urge to throw a bread roll at both of them.
‘I’ll be right back,’ I mutter, already on my feet. Dylan hums in acknowledgement, still mid-monologue about fossil fuel subsidies and something about ‘charisma in local governance’ – whatever that means.
I duck behind the main house, my head down, and enter through the back porch, making a silent, shame-ridden beeline for the kitchen.
The fridge is cracked slightly open – bless whoever raised feral kids with no food discipline – and there it is.
Glorious. Glistening. Slightly picked-over ham.
I rip off a chunk and shove it into my mouth as if I’m stealing state secrets.
‘Is your name even Jamie?’
The voice slinks in from the dark. I freeze – mid-chew – and turn.
Luke leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, a look on his face that says Gotcha! and I wish I didn’t care in equal measure.
‘Yes,’ I say, swallowing.
‘The reason I ask that is that I’m starting to believe everything that comes out of your mouth is a lie.’
‘If I offend you so much, why do you keep following me?’
He smirks. ‘It’s like watching a car crash.’
I roll my eyes. ‘What do you want? A medal?’
‘No,’ he says, pushing off the doorframe and walking towards me. ‘Just curious how much of you is a lie.’
I pop another piece of ham into my mouth. ‘Pretty much all of it.’
‘Bold strategy.’
‘It’s worked so far.’
‘Hardly.’
‘Why do you even care—’
‘Careful,’ he warns, close enough for me to see the shadows under his eyes. ‘I’m not in the mood.’
‘Good,’ I snap. ‘Neither am I.’
Our breaths are shallow, the words hotter than they should be.
I hate this.
I hate that he’s still looking at me like he sees through all of it. Through Dylan. Through the lies. Through me.
‘I don’t even like you,’ I say, even as my body leans in.
‘Liar.’
‘You’re insufferable.’