EIGHTEEN
The gymnasium smells like sweat and sugar wrapped up in the humidity of a late-summer storm.
Children are screaming, the bouncy castle is already leaning at a suspicious angle, and some monster thought it would be a good idea to give several six-year-olds whistles while they jump into a foam pit.
I arrive at the party with a pink bike bigger than the birthday girl and a bow so large you’d be forgiven for thinking I’d robbed a department store window display.
Gemma screams in delight at the sight of it, and I beam as I shake out my umbrella.
Issy groans as I plonk down beside her on the bleachers.
‘Where,’ she says, tilting her plastic cup of punch at the bike, ‘am I going to put that?’
I shrug. ‘Every kid needs a bike.’
‘We didn’t have bikes.’
‘Exactly. Look how we turned out.’
Issy tucks a loose strand of brown hair behind her ear and then lifts her cup in a sarcastic toast. ‘One of us is chronically single, the other is running on a handful of dried cereal and zero sleep. Who do you think won that round?’
I grin and pour myself some punch. ‘At least you’ve got Gemma and Billie. All I’ve got is flat feet and a suspicious mole on my back.’
That makes her snort into her cup. ‘Do you remember that time we tried to build our own go-kart out of Dad’s lawnmower?’
‘Do I remember? I still have the scar on my knee. You said the brakes were fine.’
‘They were,’ she protests. ‘The hedge was the brake.’
‘Issy, I was picking thorns out of my legs for three days.’
She laughs. ‘Yeah, well, you’re the elder in this scenario. You should’ve known better. Besides, you wanted everyone at school to think you were cool.’
‘I was cool.’
She rolls her eyes, and for a second, I see the Issy I grew up with –
the one who painted eyeliner wings on me before parties because she had the steadier hand, and who once stole Mum’s bottle of Malibu from the freezer and blamed it on the neighbour’s kid.
‘Do you ever think,’ I say quietly, ‘that we should’ve been completely feral?
Like statistically speaking, we should be in prison or selling a fake self-improvement courses on Instagram.
’ A flash of my recent trip to the NT for Ella’s baby shower hits me.
Luke’s silence, my fallout with Dylan. I shove it all to the side, because while some might argue that my behaviour is prison worthy, I’m choosing to ignore it all.
‘Give it time,’ she says, sipping her punch. ‘My MLM era is coming.’
I smirk into my cup. ‘Pyramid schemes? You’d be amazing at it.’
‘Obviously. You’d be my first victim.’
‘Naturally. I can barely escape the charity folk who go door-knocking every month.’
Issy presses her shoulder into mine. ‘See? This is why I keep you around. You’re the first sacrifice in a horror film.’
‘A quick death is all I ask.’
‘Agreed.’
A group of children squeal and I scan the gym. ‘Greg here?’ Her face doesn’t flinch. ‘He’s working late.’
‘On a Sunday?’
She shrugs. ‘Quarterlies.’
‘Right.’
We both know Greg hasn’t worked a day in his life that didn’t involve beer, football or deleting his search history. Before I can push it further, Gemma yells, ‘Nanna’s here!’
And like a hungover Bond girl making a dramatic entrance, June sweeps into the gym. Designer sunglasses. Arms overloaded with sparkly gift bags. Lipstick mid-application. Hair sprayed within an inch of its life. Gemma bolts into her arms, then starts raiding the gift bags one by one, until—
‘Oh my god, Mum,’ Issy hisses.
Gemma is proudly holding up a pair of child-sized silk underwear with a matching bralette. Tiny. Lacy. Horrifying.
‘She’s six!’ Issy snaps, lunging to snatch them from her daughter. June shrugs off her fur jacket and lowers herself onto the bench seat beside us. ‘So?’
‘So?’ Issy echoes, scandalised. ‘Do you have any idea how inappropriate that is?’
June rolls her eyes and pulls out a compact mirror to check her lipstick. ‘Don’t be so dramatic. Every girl should have nice panties in her drawer.’
Issy glares at her. For me it’s another day, same old June. Only now, Issy’s getting the raw, unfiltered version I used to act as buffer for throughout her whole childhood.
‘How’ve you been, Mum?’ I ask, mostly to redirect the conversation.
‘Sandra said I don’t have a job at the gallery anymore. Can you believe that?’ She scowls, as if being let go from an unpaid volunteer gig never happens.
‘What for?’
‘She said she doesn’t need my help.’ June scoffs. ‘She’s threatened by me.’
Issy and I exchange a silent, exhausted look.
‘She’s jealous because her marriage is crumbling, and she thinks it’s my fault.’
‘Mum.’
June waves Issy away, pulling out a lip liner. ‘I don’t need her shitty gallery anyway.’
I try again. ‘I saw Gloria at Ella’s baby shower a few months ago. She told me you started going to AA.’
June rolls her eyes. ‘Gloria needs to keep her bloody mouth shut.’
‘She’s trying to look out for you.’
June laughs – dry, brittle, wine-wrecked. ‘Please. That woman’s only ever looked out for herself.’
I try to let it go. No use paddling against a rip. ‘Still,’ I say gently. ‘It’s a good step. I’m proud of you.’
Before she can shoot that down, Billie appears – red curls bouncing – and flings herself into June’s lap.
‘And how’s my favourite little daywalker?’ June croons.
‘Mum!’ Issy groans, covering her face. Then turning to me, she says, ‘Did you get a hold of Dad this week?’
I hesitate, then nod. ‘Yep.’
‘And?’
‘He said he’ll be here.’
Issy relaxes a fraction, but June stiffens, spine straightening like a ranger spotting an off-leash dog. ‘He better not bring that bimbo with him.’
‘He said it’ll just be him.’
‘Good,’ June mutters. Then, after a beat, she adds, ‘That’s if he shows. That man couldn’t keep a promise if it was gift-wrapped and stapled to his chest.’
I bite my tongue. For all her faults, she’s not wrong. He doesn’t show up. Not for Issy. Not for me. And certainly not for his grandkids.
‘Are you seeing anyone?’ Issy asks her.
‘No.’ June snorts. ‘Men are trash.’
Issy frowns. ‘Don’t you get lonely, though?’
June barks a laugh and ladles herself a cup of punch before she pulls out her infamous flask and adds a generous pour. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Isabella. Men are only good for money and offspring. I’ve got both. Now I’m living how I want to live.’
‘By day drinking?’ Issy frowns.
June shoots her a withering glare. ‘By doing whatever the fuck I want, whenever the fuck I want.’
Before I can throw myself headfirst into the nearest foam pit, my phone buzzes with a text.
Dad:
Not going to make it. Tell Isabella and the girls sorry.
Of course. I pull a face and Issy catches it.
‘Who was that?’
‘Dad.’
‘And?’
I pause, taking a deep breath, preparing to lie like I always do. ‘He’s got the flu. Can’t make it.’
Issy’s face falls, her shoulders dipping.
June sips her drink with a quirked eyebrow that says she knows I’m covering.
We both do. Before the guilt can settle, my phone rings.
Ella. We’ve been playing phone tag all week.
I plug a finger in my ear, duck around the corner just outside the gym, and answer.
‘Hey.’
There’s a scream in the background on the other end of the line, followed by a tired sigh. ‘Hi,’ Ella breathes, sounding equal parts frazzled and exhausted. ‘Sorry. Daisy’s overtired. And overtired equals banshee.’
‘How’s my favourite little newborn?’
‘She’s four weeks old today with lungs like a trumpet. Pray for us.’
We trade updates for a bit. Small things. Safe things.
Then Ella hesitates. ‘So …’ she says slowly, ‘how’s Dylan?’
I pick at a strip of peeling paint on the gym wall. ‘He broke up with me the day we got back to Sydney.’
There’s a beat. Then, ‘Shit. I’m sorry.’
‘No, you’re not,’ I say, smiling faintly. ‘But thanks.’
‘I could’ve at least checked in earlier.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You had your hands full with Daisy arriving early. My dating drama is the least of your worries.’ I flick the paint off my finger.
Ella sighs into the speaker. ‘Maybe I need a distraction from all the crying.’
I smile. ‘Your wish is my command.’
‘Thanks for sending the food hamper by the way.’ A distant scream ricochets through the call but Ella soldiers on. ‘It arrived yesterday, and Darcy is already eyeing off the cookies.’
‘Tough titties. Those cookies are for you only.’
The phone crackles for a second as Ella starts cooing. The screaming eventually settles before she asks, ‘So how are you?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ I mumble then kick a loose pebble across the path.
She waits, doesn’t press. She knows me well enough for that.
I sigh. ‘It’s for the best, honestly. Dylan used the moment – right after I told him about the whole Luke situation – to confess that he’s bisexual and that he’s been terrified of telling me. Said this was a sign we should both stop pretending.’
I can picture Ella wincing as she says, ‘Wow.’
‘Yeah. I mean, I was fake-dating a guy who quoted Shakespeare during sex. I should’ve seen it coming.’
‘Obviously,’ Ella says, amused, and then she sighs. ‘I am sorry for missing your call earlier. Daisy is incredible, but it’s been … a lot.’
‘If you want me to cancel my flight next weekend, I can—’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Ella huffs. ‘I’ll always want to see you.
Especially now that my parents have left and Abbey said she can’t get time off work until May.’
‘I know. But if it’s too soon after having a baby, I totally get it.’
‘It’s not that. I’m super appreciative that you guys are taking so much time off to come and support me. Daisy is a dream for the most part and Darcy has been wonderful.’
‘But?’
Silence.
‘Ella?’
She exhales. ‘Luke’s dad passed away.’
My stomach flips.
‘The funeral might be next weekend,’ she adds.
‘Which is fine, because we can make it work. You can be Daisy’s babysitter.
We’ll pack everything in case we stay the night at Luke’s, which means a million nappies.
If you want to reschedule, I get it. But don’t worry, nothing’s confirmed yet. I’ll keep you posted.’
Her voice trails off as if she’s slipped into thought. Grief or worry or both.
‘You still there?’ she asks.
‘Yeah,’ I say softly. ‘I’m here.’
Daisy screams again. Ella groans. ‘Okay. I gotta go. I’ll call you once I know more, okay?’
‘Yeah. Sounds good.’
I hang up and walk back into the gym where Issy and June are now deep in a spirited argument about Greg. June is calling him a man-child. Issy is defending him. I sit down on the plastic bench beside them, silent, knee bouncing, brain spinning.
Issy shoots me a look that says, Can you please take Mum out of here before I lose it?
June’s about to launch a new round of complaints when I shoot to my feet and grab my keys. ‘I’ve gotta go.’
If I stay one more second in this room – full of yelling kids and old wounds – I might break in half. And I need what’s left of me intact.