CHAPTER 39 #3
‘Scared of serving into the sun?’
I’m halfway to the net by the time he’s finished the sentence. There’s no way I’m giving him any excuse to cry foul. ‘Not scared,’ I glare, rounding the net.
‘Maybe you should be,’ smirks Archie as he approaches.
I glower as he passes me. The heat from his body makes my throat thicken.
It’s literal heat—it must still be twenty-five degrees and it’s past 5 p.m.—but it’s more than the mercury reading.
It’s a visceral thing. His body has an electric charge that makes my skin crackle.
It makes me feel like kindling in a pyrocumulus storm.
‘You know what your problem is,’ I say, turning to face him at the baseline. ‘You always think you’re going to win.’
‘I never think that,’ counters Archie.
‘You assume you’ll win in everything.’
‘No I don’t.’
‘Look at you here,’ I say, gesturing at him with my ball in my hand. ‘I am objectively the better tennis player. I’m crap at most things in life, but I am at least okay at tennis.’
‘You’re great at tennis.’
‘No, I’m not,’ I say, waving him quiet. ‘I am okay with being okay, though. But you— you’re still smirking and snarking around as though you’re going to win, and you don’t care at what cost.’
I hadn’t planned on doling out such a character assassination, especially right now, in the golden sunset at Wagga’s newest sporting precinct, but with the cockatoos squawking against the pink sky, and the motes of dust in the air backlit by the sinking sun, I realise I don’t give a shit. The endorphins have made me manic.
‘You win at everything, Archie. You’re always the best sportsman on the field, you always get the girl you’re after, and then by some twist of fate, it turns out you’re really smart too.
You’ve got everything you’ve ever wanted, and all I’m asking is for you to recognise your privilege, and maybe one day be scared, or vulnerable, or somewhat human. ’
I take a breath because I don’t think I’ve taken one in a while. Archie’s knuckles are turning white on his racquet.
‘Even with us,’ I continue. ‘We … we …’ My voice is suddenly shaking, and my hands are gripping the tennis ball so tight it might burst. ‘We sleep together’—I’m almost crying now—‘and I don’t do things like that Archie, you know me, but you screwed me in your tent, and then you screwed me at work, just because you can.
Because there are no consequences for you! You always get what you want.’
‘Millsy …’ Archie is walking around the net towards me.
‘Go back to your side!’
‘Millsy, I want to talk about this.’
‘No! I don’t want to talk about this. I want you to realise it’s not okay.’
‘I know it’s not okay.’
‘Then why are you not more upset? Like me! Why are you still smiling?!’
‘Because … I don’t know, Millsy.’ Archie is running his hands through his hair. ‘It’s what we do. It’s us.’
‘There is no us! We don’t have a relationship beyond my emailing you Boss’s media itinerary.’
‘Millsy, I’m so sorry about the Nancy interview—I kept trying to tell you but you’ve blocked my number and you won’t speak to me at work unless it’s about logistical stuff.
I’m sorry and I’ll keep saying it until you believe me.
It all happened so fast that I didn’t have time to step back and think about it properly.
’ He sighs and runs his hand through his hair again.
‘Millsy, I don’t want work to keep ruining our relationship. ’
‘Stop talking about our non-existent relationship!’ I turn my face to the sky to blink away the tears that are forming in the corners of my eyes. I want to sob at the memory of what happened in the tent; a part of me really wishes Archie was as decent as he seemed that day.
‘Millsy, you can try to pretend we don’t have a relationship but that’s bullshit. We’re pretty much best friends, and I really care about you, and it’s frankly disingenuous to pretend like it would be weird if we ended up together.’
‘What?!’
He’s managed to use a word like ‘disingenuous’ in the peak of battle and I’m not even sure I properly understood what he said.
I feel as though I’m trying to solve a Magic Eye puzzle, like if only I could adjust my eyes to the correct aperture, I’d be able to see what’s right in front of me.
But I can’t—all I can see is a writhing mass of jelly snakes, too kaleidoscopic and confusing to make any sense of.
‘You seriously thought we were going to end up together?!’
‘Well …’ Archie shifts uncomfortably on the balls of his feet. ‘… yes?’
My skin is like lightning. The presumptuousness of this man! I take a deep breath from the base of my diaphragm. ‘Allow me to enlighten you, Archibald Cohen: that is never going to happen.’
I start bouncing the tennis ball at my feet. I’m surprised sparks of rage aren’t emitting from my fingertips.
‘You need to be a nobody for once,’ I say, catching the ball in my hand and pointing it at his chest. ‘You need to find someone who has no idea you played for the Roosters or that your face is on the side of buses promoting your latest prime-time news gig. You need to try dating someone who has no idea who you are and see how that goes. You might realise how hard life is for normal people like me.’
On the other side of the court, Archie’s expression is indecipherable.
‘Norwegian Kristina!’ I cry, pointing at him. ‘Tyler’s cousin. From the engagement party. Date her. Try to impress her, and see how that goes.’
Archie raises both hands in disbelief, the racquet elongating his already towering form.
‘You’re telling me to date Kristina?!’
‘Yes,’ I glare back, my hands on my hips.
‘Just serve the ball,’ he snaps, shaking his head. ‘No, wait.’ He raises a hand to halt me. ‘You’re here dishing out all this dating advice, but what about you, Millsy? I haven’t seen you going on many dates lately, even though Bryan won’t stop texting you.’
‘Bryan only texts me because he’s nice!’
Archie looks like he’s about to scream. ‘He’s in love with you and you know it! And I don’t know what’s going on in your head. Is it that you don’t care about him, or that you’re waiting for someone else to sweep you off your feet?’
Like a psychosomatic response, all I can remember is Archie’s arms around my waist, pulling me off the shoulders of that drugged-up dude at the festival.
‘Or is it just that you don’t have time for anyone?’ Archie continues. ‘Because you’re working too hard?’
My eyes flash with fury. ‘I like my job,’ I snap. ‘And the guy I end up with will like that I work so hard.’
‘So you’re going to date your boss?’
‘Shut up!’ Only Archie could find a way to weave Boss’s cheating narrative into this argument. ‘I’m serving.’
‘Fine.’
I smash the ball towards him, my fastest serve of the day.
I feel like Serena Williams; there’s enough fire in my body to power a Scud missile.
The ball rockets across the court and lands on the line.
I’m about to raise my fist in victory, when Archie’s tree-trunk arm somehow reaches it and sends it diagonally across the court.
I lunge for it, Mum’s voice ringing in my ears—distractable, distractable.
The ball floats as if in slow motion and with a sickening drop in the pit of my stomach, I realise I’m not going to be fast enough.
My feet are scrambling, my arms are extended, and in desperation I chuck my racquet at the ball, but the ball lurches past before bouncing uncontestably in-court.
I gasp. A sour poison is leaching through my body, and it’s not the lactic acid.
I can’t look at him. I don’t believe it.
Mum was right. I’m too distractable. And now Archie’s won.