CHAPTER 30
My phone buzzes on the tent floor. We’ve fallen asleep again.
Bzzzz.
My mind lurches back to the present as I glimpse Jessie’s name on my phone screen.
Where are you? We’re at the pizza van. Come eat.
A murmured curse escapes me, and quietly, I prise myself out of Archie’s embrace. I text Jessie a thumbs-up then quickly grab my borrowed clothes, which are strewn across the tent.
Noiselessly, I slip into the white T-shirt, hoodie and grey trackpants.
The mere act of dressing feels like a conscious uncoupling: I’m removing myself from this sleepy, dreamlike existence and forcing myself back into reality.
I’m clothed; Archie is undressed. I’m awake; Archie’s asleep.
This is the present; everything else is in the past.
Before I slip my phone into the borrowed trackpants, I reflexively glance at my notifications. I’ve missed three text messages from Boss on my personal phone.
Boss: Hope the festival is fun.
Boss: PS. Look at this—funniest ever.
Boss: PPS. Did you see this article too?
I click on the links he’s sent through—one to a meme about Nancy Miller and one to an op-ed by the Premier—but I’ve seen them both before. They’re not urgent.
A tiny part of me is irritated that he’s not respecting my weekend off, but it’s quickly trampled by guilt. Boss is my friend; that’s why he’s texting.
As I take a deep breath, wondering how I can sneak out of this tent without Archie noticing, the gravity of what I’ve done begins to descend like a dark and suffocating smog.
I slept with Archie.
I’ve betrayed Boss’s trust.
I hurriedly swipe away my message notifications.
Boss has been one of my closest friends for six years but if he finds out what I’ve done, he’ll have to fire me.
I’ll have no job, and therefore no money for rent, which means I’ll have to move home and spend every day confronted with the painful memory of my dishevelled car and those A4 sheets of paper.
Boss can never know.
A rollercoaster-esque dizziness threatens to overwhelm me. I remember Archie’s muddy hand grabbing my calf before we fell into the mud. I suddenly want to sob at the thought. I must have a concussion from the tackle. Yes. That explains it. I am clearly not of sound mind.
Outside, the cool air feels sharp on my skin.
Everything smells like mud and marijuana, and in my dirt-caked gumboots, my toes are numb from the cold.
I power walk back towards the festival, hoping my nose will pick up the scent of three-cheese pizza so I can beeline to the safety of Jessie and Maxy.
Already, there’s a clanging gong in my head, warning me like the drums before war. I have no idea how I’ll fix this.