CHAPTER 44
My brain is such a mess, I don’t know how I’m driving the hire car.
Am I indicating? Am I going too slow for the fast lane?
Are tattooed guys in giant RAM utes glaring at me aggressively and I’m completely oblivious because my mind is a whirlpool of memories and suits and jokes and smiles and offensively sexy arms on windowsills?
The car barrels over a series of potholes and with every spasm of the steering wheel, another thought slams into me. I’m ruining the car! The government should fix these roads! I miss Archie! God, I miss him so much.
The next thought—I don’t think I hate him at all!— triggers a flood of other questions that blast through the transmitter cable in my brain at full speed and with perfect clarity.
Maybe every teasing remark, every joke, every time we vied for control of the next day’s headlines, I wasn’t motivated by hate?
Maybe I acted the way I did because I never hated him at all.
Maybe I fought to have the last word, not because I wanted to win, but because I never wanted the conversation to end? Maybe … I like him?
Oh, Camilla!
Now I’ve thought it, the knowledge fills every capillary in my body.
Every heartbeat is another pump of understanding.
I like him, I like him, I like him. And I’m having that realisation now?
After he’s hightailed it back to Sydney to probably have an acrobatic sex marathon with a Norwegian megababe—as explicitly instructed by me?
Everything the tattooed RAM drivers probably think about me is true. I am a fool.
I wanted so badly for Archie to be there this morning because I trust him.
Not because he’s guileless and earnest like Bryan, but because I understand him and he understands me.
Even when we clash at work, I know it’s because he’s so competitive and career-focused he can sometimes get swept away in the storm, just like me.
Even when the man tells me I look constipated, I’m not offended. I often do look constipated in times of stress! I could have told him about last night and he wouldn’t have judged me; he would have listened.
I like him. Oh far out, I actually like him.
A cacophony of competing feelings are jostling for the podium in my chest; I feel stupid and naive and helpless, and more than that, I can’t stand the ache of him not being here, of not knowing if he’ll ever speak to me again.
I try to breathe through it. I’ve known this kind of emptiness before—when you wish for someone so hard, and would give anything to undo what you’ve done.
Immediately, as soon as I’ve made the comparison, I know this is nothing like what happened with Mum. Mum will never come back; I’ll never get that chance with her. But Archie’s still here. There’s a possibility I can fix this, and instantly, I know that I have to try.
The plans form quickly in my head. I need to speak to Archie, I need to apologise to Jessie, I need to deal with Boss, I need to try to organise a press conference with the Prime Minister and, oh man, since I’m ticking off all these major life tasks, I should probably talk to Bryan too.
Dear, sweet Bryan who someday will find a lovely girl with a virtuous heart who would never bitch about the crossbench or deign to use sarcasm as a form of affection.
Suddenly, the scenery around me appears less blurry. My focus has been sharpened. I can see every sneaky pothole and every bored sheep. I check my rear-vision mirror and I’m gratified to see there is a giant RAM ute behind me. I wasn’t imagining it, there is hope for my sanity!
As the RAM speeds up to overtake me, I notice the driver’s sunglasses.
They’re not the giant face-covering sunglasses of a tattooed beefcake or a BAD brO bikie.
They’re neat little ovals with gold wire frames.
A dainty woman sits perched behind the wheel as if she’s a sparrow driving a monster truck.
Her lips move joyfully to a song I can’t hear.
She roars past with a coquettish shoulder-flourish, and I notice the pink sticker on her tailgate: LADY TRADIE AND PROUD OF IT.
I smile to myself as I flick on my indicator. The road before me is clear.
I’m just another badass woman getting shit done.