THIRTY #2
‘I need to know,’ I say, pushing the words through tight lips. ‘If I draw the line here, are you going to push back? Or are you going to walk away quietly like everyone else does when I show them the real version of me?’
I hear how unhinged I sound, but I can’t stop. I’m not mad at him. I’m mad at how safe I felt in his arms last night, at how dangerously good it was. That’s the real betrayal: letting myself want something secure when my family needs me back home.
Luke says something – I think it’s my name – but it’s distant. Muffled.
Suddenly, I’m not in a farmhouse kitchen anymore.
I’m ten years old, sitting on our house’s front steps in a pink tutu and scuffed tap shoes, watching the driveway as if it’s a finish line. Issy’s inside watching cartoons. Mum’s in the kitchen pretending she’s not disappointed.
He said he’d be here.
He said he’d come.
The sun’s going down, and the car never pulls into the drive.
Cut to twelve. Fourteen. Seventeen. Birthdays. Dance recitals. School awards. Every year, a new version of the same lie: He’ll make it up to you. He wanted to be here. Next time, I promise.
And every time, I became the messenger. The fixer. The soft cushion between my little sister and the sharp edges of our father’s failure. I lied so Issy wouldn’t be hurt. I smiled so Mum wouldn’t break down. I swallowed it all so our family wouldn’t fall apart.
Until I got tired of waiting. Until I learnt the safest way to avoid disappointment was to never expect anything at all.
I built a home out of that shell, decorated the walls with self- reliance and clever quips and an instinct to leave before I get left.
Glancing at the window over Luke’s shoulder, I find my reflection staring back at me: messy hair, faded shirt, his coffee mug still clutched in my hand.
I’m not someone who belongs here.
I’m someone who’s playing house in borrowed clothes when there are people back home who rely on me. And the longer I stay, the more it’s going to hurt when it ends.
Because good things don’t last.
Not for girls like me.
‘I can’t do this,’ I say, and it sounds too sharp, as if I’ve shattered the illusion.
Luke’s head lifts, brow creased. ‘What?’
‘This,’ I repeat, gesturing vaguely around the kitchen like it’s the problem, not me. ‘All of this. It was never going to work.’
He stays seated, calm in a way that makes me feel more frantic. ‘We had one hard conversation, and now it’s all over?’
‘It’s not just that.’
‘Then tell me what it is.’
I shake my head, backing away from the table. ‘I don’t belong here, Luke. I never did. My life is in Sydney. My job, my friends, my family. It’s what I know. What I can manage.’
His voice is quiet but firm. ‘You can manage this.’
‘No, I can’t.’ My voice cracks despite me. ‘You think I can transplant myself here? Wake up every day pretending this is normal for me? I don’t know how to live this way. I don’t even know how to be with someone without blowing it up.’
He stands now. Slowly. ‘You’re not blowing it up. You’re running.’
‘That’s not fair.’
‘It’s true,’ he says, suddenly looking tired. ‘You’re lying again, Jamie, only this time to yourself. You want this. You’re too scared to admit it.’
His words hit their mark. But I don’t flinch. I lift my chin instead, shielding the parts of me that feel suddenly, terrifyingly visible.
‘You don’t get to tell me what I want,’ I say, venomous now. ‘I need my city, my job, my chaos. I need the life I’ve built, because I know where I stand in it.’
‘You’re impossible. You know that, right?’
That one lands hard – so hard I almost sway.
Luke exhales, runs a hand over his face. ‘If you walk out now, don’t come back. Because I’m done having arguments with you when your reflex is to run away every time.’
It’s not a threat. It’s a line in the sand.
And I know he means it.
I swallow and nod, my feet carrying me down the hall on numb legs. Past the photos, the scuff marks on the floorboards, the smell of his soap still lingering in the air. I go straight to the bedroom and pack as if I’m a woman possessed.
I’m shoving things into my bag without folding, without thinking, without breathing.
My body betrays me. My hands shake. My throat burns. I zip the bag too hard and the noise sounds like a scream.
When I make my way back down the hall, I glance at the doorway. Luke’s now standing on the front porch, arms crossed, bracing for a storm.
He doesn’t say a word.
And maybe that’s what hurts most – he’s letting me go.
I want him to fight. To beg. To prove me wrong about everything I’ve ever believed about love and men and promises.
But he just stands there. Still. Silent. Watching the person he let in … walk away.
And I do.
The screen door creaks behind me. Then it slams shut. The sound cuts through the quiet like a final word.
I don’t turn around.
I walk to the rental car, toss my bag into the passenger seat harder than I mean to. My hands fumble with the keys, making them jangle, too fast, too loud. The sun is already climbing high, too bright for how hollow the world feels.
I slide into the driver’s seat. Slam the door. Twist the keys in the ignition.
The engine groans to life.
Gravel crunches beneath the tyres as I pull away, red dust curling into the air behind me like smoke from something just extinguished.
I don’t look in the rear-view mirror; I don’t have to. I can feel him there. Still on the porch. Still not moving. Still letting me go.
The house gets smaller. The fields blur. The light is too golden, too kind, as if it doesn’t realise what has happened.
‘This is for the best,’ I whisper.
But the ache blooming in my chest doesn’t believe me. Not even a little.
The road stretches out ahead – long, flat, merciless.
I drive.
No music. Just the dull roar of the engine and the quiet scream of regret in the back of my throat.