FORTY-ONE
The sun is too bright for someone who emotionally combusted the night before.
I slide onto our usual milk crates at One Fine Cup with sunglasses on, denim shorts, white t-shirt, a messy bun and a moral hangover that pairs beautifully with oat milk.
Abbey’s halfway through her first latte, scrolling her phone with the composure of someone who didn’t yell at their mother until she stormed out.
‘Rough night?’ she says without looking up.
‘You could say that,’ I mutter, peeling off my sunglasses. ‘June showed up.’
Abbey puts her phone down. ‘June June?’
‘No, the other June.’ I scoff. ‘The one who occasionally drinks kombucha and attends yoga without heckling the instructor.’ I drop my bag onto the ground and slump against the wall of the café. ‘Yes, my June.’
‘What did she want this time?’
‘Who really knows?’ A beat. Then I sigh. ‘We fought. Big one. Door slamming, red wine and words we can’t take back. The works.’
Abbey’s face softens. She reaches across the table and touches my hand, just for a second. ‘Good.’
That throws me. ‘Good?’
‘I’m proud of you.’
I gape at her. ‘I basically told my mother she wrecked me psychologically and that if I died alone with a vibrator and a house plant, it would still be a win compared to her.’
Abbey shrugs. ‘Sounds cathartic.’
‘I feel awful.’
She sips her coffee. ‘Of course you do. You were raised to believe boundaries are betrayal. That doesn’t mean they are.’
‘I hate it when you make sense.’
Abbey smiles and takes another sip while a warm breeze tangles with the first buds of purple blooming on a nearby jacaranda.
‘I shouldn’t have yelled,’ I add.
‘Maybe not,’ she says, ‘but I bet it felt fucking amazing to tell her how you really felt.’
I stare at her, then down at the flat white the barista slides onto the table. There’s a little heart in the foam. The barista either pities me or assumes I’m fragile today. Two things can be true.
Abbey takes a bite of her banana bread, chews thoughtfully, then says, ‘Guess who asked about you at run club?’
I lift an eyebrow. ‘Let me guess. My chiropractor? The guy who told me I hold stress in my arse?’
Abbey grins. ‘Tempting, but no. Tom.’
My face does something. I think it’s a smile. Or a grimace. Hard to tell. ‘Tom?’
She nods. ‘He asked how you were. Said you looked good. Also said he’s never seen anyone go beet red after five hundred metres quite like you.’
I groan. ‘Tom is nice …’
‘But?’
‘But there’s no spark, you know?’ I stir my coffee, watching the foam swirl.
Abbey nods knowingly. ‘Say no more.’
‘He’s perfect, on paper. It’s all there. Good job. Kind. Emotionally available. Smells of cedarwood and home-loan pre-approval.’
She sips her latte while I mentally drift, unhelpfully, to the one person who’s ever made my heart feel like it was trying to claw its way out of my chest.
Abbey sets her mug down and smirks. ‘So, basically, you want less golden retriever energy, more … shadow daddy?’
I cough on a laugh. ‘God, don’t phrase it that way.’
She shrugs. ‘I’m trying to speak your language.’
I wave her off. ‘Anyway, I’m enjoying the hiatus. It’s been good for me.’
Abbey narrows her eyes and leans forward. ‘Which brings me to my next question: how long is this man ban, exactly?’
I don’t answer right away. I swirl my spoon around the last of the foam in my coffee cup and try not to think about the look on Luke’s face that night in Darwin. The one he gave Lauren. The one I thought was mine.
‘I don’t know,’ I say eventually. ‘Long enough to make sure I’m not going to shapeshift again.’
Abbey tilts her head, reading me like one of her spreadsheets – searching for formulas in the mess. Then, without warning, she hits me with it: ‘You still love him, don’t you?’
And there it is.
The one thing I’ve been keeping safely boxed away behind sarcasm and coffee and surface-level self-discovery.
I think about lying. About brushing it off, making a joke, dodging the question the same way old Jamie would have done. But that version of me packed up and left when I stopped trying to be everyone’s idea of enough.
So, I take a breath. One of those big, chest-stretching ones.
‘Yes,’ I say.
Simple. Brutal. Clean.
My heart is sitting on the café table between us, loud and red and messy. A tiny, reckless truth.
Abbey doesn’t say anything for a moment.
She nods. She already knew. She was just waiting for me to catch up.
We finish the banana bread in silence, the sort only best friends can pull off without making it feel weird. Around us, the café hums with early morning chatter, the clinking of teaspoons, the gentle whir of espresso machines. But at our table, everything stills.
‘You look better,’ she says finally. ‘Not, like, emotionally. But your skin’s clearer.’
‘I’ve been riding horses and yelling at my mum,’ I say. ‘Turns out, rage is an underrated skincare routine.’
Abbey lifts her cup. ‘To rage and radiance.’
It’s a Wednesday night and, bizarrely, I’m in the middle of deep cleaning my fridge when my phone rings.
Abbey.
I consider letting it go to voicemail. I’ve already done my emotional health quota for the day – sent three emails without crying, bought a head of broccoli I may or may not cook, and turned down a targeted Instagram ad for a heart-healing moonstone vibrator.
But I answer anyway. Because it’s Abbey. And she never calls for no reason.
‘Tell me you’re not busy,’ she says without saying hello.
‘Define busy,’ I say, prying a bottle of expired hoisin sauce from the back shelf with a butter knife.
‘Good. So, you’re free Friday night?’
I freeze. ‘Oh no. No, no, no. That tone? That’s your matchmaking tone.’
‘You haven’t even heard the pitch.’
‘I don’t need to hear the pitch. If it starts with “you’re free Friday” and ends with me wearing eyeliner and pretending to enjoy IPAs, I’m out.’
‘Jamie,’ she says, patient and terrifying. ‘You’ve been in a committed relationship with your vibrator and sad salads for months. It’s time.’
‘I’m not dating right now.’
‘It’s not dating. It’s exposure therapy.’
I blink. ‘What?’
‘One blind date. At Brookie’s. Low stakes. Local. You love their ceviche.’
‘I also love not dying in a stranger’s trunk.’
‘You’re not going to die. He’s vetted.’
‘Oh good,’ I say. ‘As long as the man who might chop me into finger food has passed the Abbey Braddock Background Check.’
She groans. ‘You’re being dramatic.’
‘I’m being realistic. Blind dates are how rom-coms start. Or horror films. There’s a fine line.’
Abbey lowers her voice. ‘You need to get back on the horse.’
‘Metaphorically or literally?’
‘Both.’
‘I swear to God, if this is because I told you I missed riding—’ ‘Jamie.’
I sigh so hard I give myself a minor tension headache. ‘Fine. But I’m not promising anything.’
‘Of course not,’ she says, breezy. ‘You’re only promising to show up.’
‘What’s his name?’ I ask, already regretting everything.
‘No name.’
‘Any details?’
‘No details.’
‘So, I’m going in cold?’
‘Exactly. That way you can’t twist yourself into someone else’s dream girl halfway through appetisers.’
I groan. ‘If I end up murdered, it’s your fault.’
‘I’ll make sure your tombstone’s flattering.’
‘You already have something in mind, don’t you?’
‘Here lies Jamie Hayes and her nine dildos.’
‘You’re the worst.’
‘And yet,’ she says sweetly, ‘you love me.’
I grumble something noncommittal, but my lips are already tugging into a smile. She’s right. Of course she’s right. Abbey is always ten paces ahead, dragging me forward by the collar even when I’d rather lie facedown in a pile of existential dread.
‘Friday,’ she reminds me. ‘Brookie’s. Seven sharp.’
‘Fine.’
‘And wear something smoking hot. You’re not mourning.’
‘I’m mourning the loss of my dignity,’ I say. ‘That counts.’
She hangs up with a cackle, and I stare at my phone, then at the head of broccoli still sitting untouched on the counter.
God help me.
I have a date.
I end up in my red mini dress that walks the tightrope between ‘fearlessly confident’ and ‘please validate me with your eyes’.
I blow out my hair, which feels illegal considering the humidity and my general avoidance of effort lately, and I sweep on eyeliner with the steady hand of a woman pretending to have her shit together.
The result?
I look … good.
Good in a way that makes me pause and stare at the mirror. Not only because the dress hugs my body in the right places, or because my cheekbones decided to show up today. But because I look alive. Like someone who has done some work – on her skin, her posture, her demons.
I tilt my head and almost smile at my reflection.
And then – Luke.
His name crashes through me on reflex. A ghost haunting the corner of my mind. The memory of his laugh, the way his hand felt at the small of my back, the weight of his eyes when they saw me. The real me.
I steady myself against the bathroom counter. ‘This isn’t about him,’ I whisper. ‘This is about me. Showing up. Not shapeshifting. Just moving on.’
My phone buzzes with a reminder from Abbey.
You better be there. No backing out now. Xx
Brookie’s is ten minutes away. My heart’s already sprinting.
The bar is packed. Of course it is.
It’s Friday night in Sydney, and every person between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five has descended upon Brookie’s as if it’s some holy site for flirting and cocktail-fuelled disappointment.
I shoulder through the crowd, heels clicking with pretend confidence, dodging barstools and half-drunk tequila sunrises. My palms are sweating. My dress is riding up with every step. And yet, I keep walking. Forward. Determined.
The patio is strung with fairy lights and fairy-light-adjacent conversations. The air smells of lime and anticipation and something vaguely fried.
I scan the crowd.
The deal was that I wouldn’t know what he looked like, but he’d know who I was.
So, I’m searching. Half expecting someone to wave. Or call out my name. Or stand up—
And then he does.
He stands.
Not a stranger. Not a blind date.
Luke.