THIRTY-FOUR
JORDIE
The waiting room TV drones on a morning show segment with some chirpy host babbling about decluttering your life.
Fantastic.
She can declutter my uterus while she’s at it.
I shift in the plastic chair. A twinge lights up my right pelvis like someone flicked a match over my insides.
I groan. Too loud. A man across from me looks up from his crossword, as if I’ve personally disrupted his concentration on a six-letter word for “burden.”
Hi. It’s me.
Last week’s transvaginal ultrasound was fine-ish.
Today’s follow-up? More soul-sucking. I didn’t tell Callum.
Not because of the whole awkward friends-with-benefits pact we made a month ago, but because the last thing I need is him babysitting me.
Or worse—really seeing me. The parts I’ve boarded up and lined with caution tape.
The ones I’d rather pretend aren’t there.
Panic attacks. Insomnia. Nausea. Side effects of the pills.
The kind that sneaks in slowly, like mold in your attic. Until you’re crying in the Woolies freezer aisle because you can’t remember if peas help with inflammation or if you made that up during a breakdown.
I don’t show it. I never do.
Because here’s what happens when you talk about the hard stuff:
People flinch.
They nod.
They’re kind.
Texts slow.
Check-ins stop.
And then they vanish.
You become the human equivalent of a fire drill—necessary but exhausting.
And I’d rather weather all this alone. It’s my storm, anyway.
And speaking of severe weather systems—my mother. An emotional hurricane with gale-force opinions and an eye that misses nothing. As forecast by Leith.
She’s sniffing around again. Probably halfway through an itinerary titled: How to Guilt Your Daughter into Selling Her Beachfront Property and Maybe Her Soul. ETA? Next week.
She called. I ignored. She texted. I ignored. She called again. And again. And again. And because I’m weak—or just extremely shit at boundaries—I caved. Agreed to breakfast.
Shit, Dad. I wish I didn’t have to deal with mother. I wish things were uncomplicated. I wish you were still here.
I leaned back in the plastic chair and let my skull rest against the wall. Then forward. Then back again, lightly knocking my head once. Twice. Over and over. Wishing my skull might just crack open.
The little door cracked open.
“Knew I’d find you here.”
Leith.
A blade of light cut across the storage nook where I was folded up under the stairs, arms wrapped around my knees.
He climbed in, even though there was barely enough room for one of us.
We used to fit under here fine when we were younger.
But now he’s sixteen, all elbows, long legs, and looming boy bulk, and I’m still just short and small.
Outside, the house kept going the way it did after funerals. Footsteps. Plates clinking. Muffled voices. Someone crying in the kitchen.
“You talked to your dad?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“And?”
Leith cracked his knuckles. “NovaCorp’s pulling out of the agri-tech project. They’re putting your farm up for sale as we speak.”
I curled into myself, forehead digging into my knees.
“What’s going to happen to me, Leith?”
“I don’t know, Jordie,” he said, sounding a little angry and a lot defeated. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know.”
“Mum doesn’t even want me.”
He wrapped his arm around my shoulders. “I know.”
That somehow made it worse.
“I don’t want to go.”
“I know.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know.” His hold tightened. “But you’re your dad’s House Mouse.”
I let out a wet, broken laugh and looked at him with even wetter eyes. “Because I hide in cupboards like a freak?”
“Because you adapt. Like a mouse,” he said. “Scrappy little thing. Gets chased out, finds another corner, keeps going anyway.”
“Is this from Tom and Jerry?”
“Partly.” One side of his mouth twitched. “And because you’re my best friend. And you’re Geoff Mitchell’s girl.”
“Jordie Mitchell?”
The nurse calls my name.
I stand up. Follow her into the consult room.
Dr. Mira strides in moments later, clipboard in hand, all brisk energy and no-nonsense efficiency.
She scans the computer screen, her brow creasing.
“Your results are relatively stable,” she says, “but there are larger cysts developing on your right ovary. It’s likely the IUD is contributing to their growth.”
“So, what does that mean?” I ask, steeling myself.
Dr. Mira answers with that calm, practiced tone doctors use when they’ve given this speech a hundred times. “If we remove the IUD, the cysts may stop growing. However, without it, you’ll experience a return of pain and heavier bleeding.”
I let out a laugh that sounds suspiciously like a scream in business casual.“So . . . pick your poison.”
Her smile is small. Understanding. “Essentially. I’ll leave it to you to decide how to proceed.”
I nod, chewing the inside of my cheek as the enormity of the decision presses down. Before I can reply, she glances back at my chart, her brow knitting again. “One more thing. Did you stop taking your pills? They help counteract the cystic effects of the IUD.”
“Yeah,” I admit. “The pill was making me stir-crazy.”
“It’s a tricky balance,” she says gently. “But without the pill, managing the cysts will be harder.”
Her words land like weights, each one stacking heavier on my chest.
I can’t go back on the pill. Not now. Not with Mum’s arrival looming less than a week away. I’d be one hormone surge away from a flight to the cuckoo’s nest.
“I’ll need some time to think about it,” I say, the words more of a placeholder than a real plan.
Another impossible choice in a string of impossible choices.
What would Geoff Mitchell’s House Mouse do?
Technically, I shouldn’t even be vertical.
I should be face down. In my bed. Asleep.
Rational Brain? knows this.
Boundary Failure Brain? is the one that scheduled breakfast with my mother immediately after a night shift.
Boundary Failure Brain is not my friend.
I survived the last twelve hours by imagining increasingly creative uses for the defibrillator. Would it be ethical to use the defibrillator and electrocute myself just to bail?
No.
Would I do it?
Also no. But I thought about it. Extensively.
Yesterday morning, Leith called from Brisbane and opened with his usual brand of gentle encouragement:
“Why the fuck haven’t you told Callum?”
I had no good answer. Just a thousand shitty excuses that sounded flimsier the longer I said them out loud.
“Jords, I know you think you can do this alone, but maybe the point of having more than one friend is you’ve got a fucking spare.”
I said “fine” to appease him. But hours later, before my shift began, I stood in front of my locker, wondering what kind of person actively chooses to be a sacrificial offering.
So, I sent Callum a text. A borderline essay of double negatives and unnecessary disclaimers.
JORDIE
hey. mum’s in townsville. breakfast tomorrow. come if you want. but only if you like. no pressure. she’s not the best company so if you don’t want to, that’s okay. fine either way. cool. bye.
His reply came before I could even lock my screen:
CALLUM
What time should I pick you up?
And now, here I am. Still tired. Still dreading breakfast. Still a coward.
But not alone.
Callum’s car pulls up to the curb. He steps out—white polo, tan chinos, eyes soft behind those just-woke-up creases that somehow make him look even better.
He rounds the front of the car and opens the passenger door for me.
I squint up at him. “Practicing your offensive charm for my mother? Trying to win Gentleman Points?”
“Just from you.” He shrugs, calm as ever, then closes the door.
He gets behind the wheel, shifts smoothly into traffic, and rests one hand on the steering wheel—long fingers, slow flex, confident grip.
For a second, I want to reach for it.
For him.
Because pretending not to want him is starting to feel like a second full-time job.
I clear my throat. “Okay. Tactical briefing.”
He glances over, amused. “On your mother?”
“You’re going in blind, and I refuse to be responsible for your psychological scarring.”
“Appreciate the warning.”
“One: she hates casual wear, so you’re already winning. Two: she thinks brunch is for people who’ve failed at breakfast and lunch. Three: she’s not here to catch up.”
He waits.
“Mum’s here for my house.”
“Why?” he asks incredulously.
“She’s a real estate agent. My place is on some developer’s acquisition list.”
“Seriously?”
“Townsville’s getting touristy. Value keeps climbing. So does her pitch to sell.”
“She doesn’t still own it, does she?”
I shake my head. “When they split, Dad bought out her share. Left the house to me in his will for when I turned twenty-one.”
Callum’s quiet. “And she just changed her mind?”
I laugh, brittle. “Contested the will. Dug for loopholes. Dragged me through months of legal hell. All for a house she didn’t even want until it had a price tag.”
His jaw tightens. Like he’s holding something back.
“The only reason I made it through was Leith,” I add. “He released his pack of lawyer wolves on her. She didn’t stand a chance.”
We’re silent for the rest of the drive. Just tires on bitumen and the occasional click of the indicator.
Callum pulls into a spot across from the café. From the outside, it looks cozy —weekend chatter, espresso clinks, fluffy pancakes. But my mother is in there, which makes it a war zone wrapped in a pretty dress.
My fingers twitch. My heart skips, stutters, already midway to a getaway plan.
Then I feel Callum’s hand slipping into mine.
I blink down, startled by how natural it feels. As if he’s done it a hundred times.As if he plans to keep doing it until I let go.
I look at him.
He’s already looking at me.
“I’ve got you, Jordie.”
That’s it. No pep talk. No empty promises. Just four words—quiet, certain, and everything I need.
I nod. Breathe out.
Callum’s got my back. That’s more than enough.
The second we step inside the café, I spot my mother.
Perfectly pressed blouse. Designer sunglasses perched on her head. Hair in a chignon, tight enough to survive a cyclone. She’s sitting at a corner table, judging everything within a ten-meter radius.
“Mother,” I say, because Mum sounds affectionate, and we both know there’s none of that between us.
“Oh,” she says, lips curling into a smile that’s all enamel and no warmth, “you came in your scrubs.”
Not hello. Just immediate aesthetic disappointment.
Of course, I had time to change. But I could’ve walked inside draped in Chanel and the Crown Jewels, and she still would’ve looked at me like I’d shown up wrapped in a damp tarp. My mother could find fault in a sunrise.
Also, I’m a petty little bitch, so now I’m deeply committed to disappointing her on purpose.
“Have you considered cutting back on sodium?” she asks sweetly. “The puffiness under your eyes is very ageing. You look . . .”
She pauses, as if choosing the most generous version of an insult.
“. . . exhausted.”
I blink.
Electrocution via defibrillator sounds like a good idea now.