THIRTY-FOUR
I cancel the pottery class on the bus home.
One text. No explanation. No emoji to soften the blow.
Can’t make it tonight. Will make it up to you x
Abbey’s reply is immediate.
You better.
I close my messages and stare at my reflection in the darkened bus window, the passing cars dissolving into a static blur. There’s nothing to see – just my own tired face – but I still pretend I’m in a music video no one asked for. And I can’t stop wondering if it’s raining at the farm.
Is the drought still breaking?
Or did the clouds dry up again and leave everything cracked and withered?
Is Luke doing okay? Is Cutlet still alive?
God, I miss that stupid calf.
I also miss the way Banjo moved beneath me, how it felt to ride as if I belonged in a body that was allowed to take up space.
Maybe I could look into riding lessons. There has to be a stable tucked somewhere between the overpriced bakeries and screaming childcare centres in Randwick.
But I already know it won’t be the same. A horse trotting in a ring while a twelve-year-old in jodhpurs yells ‘Heels down!’ isn’t riding.
It’s pretending.
And I’ve had enough pretending to last a lifetime.
Still, I don’t want to sit alone in my apartment for another night. Not with Luke’s ghost bleeding into every shadow, into every quiet second that makes me regret the person I’ve turned into.
So, instead, I text Tom.
What are you up to tonight?
He replies a few minutes later.
Not much. Why?
Innocent. Eager. Probably shirtless and folding laundry like a functional adult.
Wanna grab dinner?
He picks a Japanese place in Bondi. I pick up a cheap bottle of wine on the way home and jump in the shower trying to rinse off every self-deprecating thought I’ve had this week.
I dig through the pile of clean laundry dumped on my bed and search for something decent to wear to dinner, pulling out t-shirts and jeans until I find—
Luke’s shirt.
The one I wore when I ran out of clothes to wear at the farm and made it look like a choice instead of a last resort, now crumpled at the bottom of the pile like it’s hiding. Soft. Familiar.
I freeze.
Some part of me must’ve packed it up in my rush to leave the farm. Or maybe I wanted to keep it – like a bruise under my clothes no one else could see.
I shake my head, toss the shirt aside as if it’s radioactive and grab the tiny white dress I was looking for in the first place.
Perfect.
Tom’s already waiting when I arrive, menus in hand, half-smile in place. He stands and kisses my cheek again. Gentle. Polite.
I try not to recoil.
Dinner is fine. Better than fine, actually. He talks about work. I nod and smile and pretend to care about the digestive tract of alpacas.
‘Did you end up reaching out to my friend?’ he asks, picking at the leftover edamame. ‘The one with the kelpie pups?’
I freeze mid-chew. ‘Oh. Not yet,’ I lie, forcing a casual shrug. ‘Still trying to find the right time.’ Code for: never going to happen.
Tom doesn’t seem fazed. ‘Let me know if you change your mind. They’re great dogs. Really active.’
Right.
Active.
Speaking of—
‘I signed up for a half marathon,’ he says, interrupting my thoughts. ‘Three months from now. You should do it with me.’
I nod enthusiastically. ‘Yeah, sounds fun.’
My brain, however, is staring at a piece of tuna sashimi and thinking about Luke’s dog named Sushi.
I look up, suddenly. ‘Wanna get out of here?’
He grins. ‘Sure.’
We split the bill and get an Uber back to mine. It’s clinical.
Mechanical. Easy. The kind of night I should want.
Back at my apartment, he’s still talking – something about marathons or interval training or splits, whatever those are. I chime in occasionally while his voice, warm and steady, follows me as I move to the kitchen, both of us pretending I’m emotionally present.
I grab two wine glasses from the cabinet without thinking, already reaching for the cheap bottle I left on the counter earlier. The cork creaks as I work it loose, too loud in the quiet between his sentences.
He says something about pace zones. I nod, as if I’ve heard him.
But what I’m really doing is staring at the empty glass in front of me. Maybe – if I wait long enough – it’ll fill itself with something that makes this all make sense. Something strong enough to drown out the truth I’ve been tap-dancing around since the moment I started this whole charade.
Then it creeps in – quiet at first, a whisper I didn’t invite. What if this is it?
What if I keep doing this – lying to everyone, pretending I’m someone I’m not, bluffing my way through relationships like it’s a con I can cash in on later – and I end up alone?
A carbon copy of Mum. Bitter and brittle, drinking wine from a coffee mug and swearing it’s not the alcohol that’s the problem, it’s everyone else.
I see it – flashes of a future I don’t want. Living alone. Lying by reflex. Being so good at pretending that I forget how to stop.
It makes my stomach turn.
Then – without warning – I blurt out, ‘I hate running.’
Tom stops mid-sentence. ‘What?’
‘I hate running,’ I repeat, louder now. ‘I can’t run more than two k’s. I don’t want a dog. I don’t even enjoy dogs that much. The kelpie thing? That was a lie. Everything’s a lie.’
He opens his mouth, but I keep going.
‘I haven’t seen my dad in years. My mum’s an alcoholic who bought my niece lingerie for her sixth birthday.
My sister is stuck in a marriage with a man I genuinely think might ruin her.
I once slept with my mechanic because I couldn’t afford a pink slip and I thought if I dated him, he wouldn’t charge me. ’ I pause. ‘He charged me anyway.’
Tom’s face is frozen.
And still, I keep going.
‘I’m a compulsive liar with chronic attachment issues, and I’m terrified I’m going to turn into my parents. That I’ll end up alone, bitter, still telling myself I’m fine when I’m very much not.’
Silence.
I stand there, chest heaving, heart pounding, filled with equal parts nausea and weird relief. I’ve just run a marathon without moving. This shit is better than sex.
Tom blinks. ‘Wow.’
‘Yeah.’ I finally pour the wine and take a sip. ‘That about sums it up.’
He scratches the back of his neck, eyes wide. Then – miraculously – he smiles.
‘I mean … I was gonna ask if you wanted to order Ben and Jerry’s.’
I laugh. It’s awkward. Unstable. Borderline manic.
He shifts on his feet. ‘Do you want me to go?’
I think about it and then shake my head. ‘I don’t know. All I know is I’m sick of the lies.’
Tom steps closer and cups my cheek gently, almost as if he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he’s too rough.
He kisses me softly.
It feels weird.
So, when I kiss him back and fumble with his jeans, I close my eyes and pretend I’m somewhere else – where the floorboards creak, and the air smells of dust and worn leather. And when I sink into the bed and feel the weight of a body above me, I imagine it’s Luke settling between my legs.
‘I think I’m in love,’ I say to Abbey and Issy before my first sip of coffee. Abbey flinches. Issy blinks. The latter lifts her latte and takes a long, deliberate sip – placing the cup back on the overturned milk crate between us with all the drama of someone acknowledging the weather.
‘With Tom?’ Issy asks, voice neutral in that slightly maternal way she gets when she’s trying to decide if one of her kids needs a hiding.
I shake my head, eyes fixed on the thin layer of foam on my flat white. ‘No. Luke.’
Abbey groans as if it physically hurts her. ‘For the love of—’
‘I know.’
‘Jamie,’ Abbey says, exasperated. ‘We’ve been over this. You need a hobby that doesn’t involve dick or alcohol. Why do I feel like I’m repeating myself?’
‘I know, okay?’ I rub at my temples. ‘But I can’t get him out of my head. He’s like—’
‘A tumour?’ Abbey suggests helpfully, a woman who’s had this conversation one too many times.
‘Exactly.’
She offers a tight smile. ‘Tumours are fatal, babe. That’s why they’re supposed to be cut out.’
Issy glances at the park next to the café, eyes on Gemma and Billie tangled in laughter on the swings, then turns to me. ‘This isn’t you being bored again, is it?’
‘No,’ I say, too quickly. ‘This feels different.’
Abbey snorts. ‘Does it? Because to me, this is the same thing you always do.’
I look towards the street where more emotionally regulated people stroll by in colour-coordinated activewear, radiating stability. ‘It … it feels as though I made a mistake.’
Abbey sighs. ‘Okay. What’s this really about?’
‘It’s about me being in love with Luke,’ I say again, even though I can hear the hollowness in the statement.
Issy raises an eyebrow over her cup. ‘And how’s that going for you?’
‘Leave the psychoanalysis to Ella,’ I mumble.
Abbey cuts in, ‘Speaking of – have you returned any of her calls?’
I squint at her. ‘I feel like you already know the answer.’
‘Call her,’ she says flatly. ‘Fix it.’
‘Fine,’ I mutter. ‘I’ll patch things up.’
‘And while you’re at it,’ Abbey adds, ‘what are you doing to make up for bailing on pottery night?’
Issy lifts a brow. ‘Oh, I’ve always wanted to do pottery.’
‘I’ll think of something,’ I say, waving a hand in the air.
Abbey doesn’t look convinced. ‘You better.’
Her phone pings, and she drains the last of her coffee. ‘Pilates in ten. Try not to self-destruct while I’m gone.’
She’s gone before I can flip her off, vanishing into the late morning foot traffic like a well-dressed hurricane.
Issy sips her coffee in thoughtful silence. I nurse the last of mine, the caffeine doing absolutely nothing for the hangover of feelings I didn’t mean to say out loud.
Issy shifts beside me, opens her mouth to say something, but then a high-pitched scream slices through the morning.
We both snap our heads towards the park.
Billie is crumpled in the dirt beneath the swing set, wailing. Gemma hovers nearby, wide-eyed and guilty.
‘Shit,’ Issy mutters, already standing. She grabs her bag, slings it over her shoulder. ‘I’ll call you later, okay?’
And then, she’s gone too – running in mum-mode across the grass, while I sit back and watch the world resume its chaos. And me, still sitting in the middle of mine.
Back at home, I stare at my phone like it’s a loaded weapon. Which, to be fair, it kind of is. I scroll past a bunch of unread texts. A few from Tom. One from Mum with a blurry photo of a bird she saw on her walk. She was probably drunk. Or maybe it’s a metaphor.
I ignore both of them and find Ella’s number, hitting call before I can stop myself.
‘Jamie?’
Her voice is sharper than usual. Worn down at the edges. I hear a baby gurgling in the background and a toy that sounds closer to a dying animal.
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘How are you going? How’s Daisy?’
‘We’re good,’ Ella replies, her patience clearly running low.
‘Is she feeding well?’
‘Yep.’
‘Any more cute baby photos to share?’
‘I’ll send you some later.’
I loosen a breath. ‘I know I’m the last person you want to hear from.’
‘You’re not wrong.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say quickly. ‘I messed up. I was selfish and scared and so determined not to turn into Mum that I … did it anyway. I did exactly what I was trying to avoid. I hurt Luke. I hurt you. I hurt myself, actually. A lot.’
Ella’s quiet for a beat. Somewhere in the background Ms Rachel starts singing about numbers.
‘You done?’
‘Almost. I’m done lying, El. I know what I did was wrong. I’m trying to be better. Honesty from here on out.’
Ella exhales. ‘Good.’
A pause.
I clear my throat. ‘How’s Luke?’
Another pause. This one longer. Louder.
‘He’s okay,’ she says eventually. ‘There’s been some rain. The land’s slowly recovering. He’s still pissed, though. Refuses to talk to me about it.’
I nod, my chest tightening. ‘Has he … has he said anything about me?’
Ella sighs again. ‘He’s been closed off. Quiet. Angry. Which, to be honest, is refreshing after the blank stare he gave me for weeks. He’s in Darwin for a wedding. Just for a few days. Maybe that’ll shake him out of it.’
I freeze.
A wedding.
In Darwin.
Just for a few days.
My brain, already spinning, starts assembling an emotional heist plan I didn’t agree to.
Maybe this is my chance.
The thought hits me hard – sharp and full of possibility. Maybe this is my shot to be the girl who fights for what she wants. The one who stops hiding behind sarcasm and clever exits.
‘Jamie,’ Ella says, cutting through my mental spiral. ‘You still there?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, softer now. ‘Whose wedding is it?’
There’s a pause – suspicious, calculated.
‘Cal and Rosie,’ she says. Then adds, ‘Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.’
‘I’m not thinking anything.’
‘You’re a terrible liar.’
‘I swear. I’m not going to do anything.’
She exhales, long and slow. ‘Leave him alone, Jamie.’
‘I will.’ I say it with a smile.
Because that’s the last lie I’ll ever tell. I promise.