Lost Kelpie. Yoga at the hall. Guitar lessons.
One card stands out.NANNY WANTEDis scrawled in thick black marker, a smiley face at the end. No logo. No tear-off tabs. Just a number. I pause longer than I mean to, tilting my head like the paper might offer more if I squint hard enough. I lift my phone and take a photo.
I’ve no idea why I do, really. Maybe it’s the timing. Maybe it’s the smiley face. Maybe it’s because I’ve always loved kids and, well… why not? Some people collect crystals or tattoos. I collect possibilities.
“Pass the beans, love,” Mum says, tapping the serving spoon against her plate. Dad shifts the bowl closer to her without a word.
“See, he still listens,” she says, smiling at him.
“Selective,” Dad mutters, but the corner of his mouth pulls just slightly, and that’s how he shows he’s amused.
“Potatoes?” Amelia asks Bradley, already holding the dish out to him
“Yes,” he says, too quickly, loading his plate like a man starved.
“You’d think I don’t feed him at home,” Amelia teases, and the table erupts in laughter. She’d hugged me tightly at the door when she arrived, and it reset something heavy in my chest. Bradley had followed shortly after with a bottle of red and a ruffle of my hair that I pretended to hate, even though, secretly, I don’t.
I butter a piece of bread, tearing it with my fingers. The table is crowded—bowls of beans slick with butter, roasted carrots glazed and slightly charred, gravy steaming in its jug, a salad bright with tomatoes from the garden. Pavlova waits on the sideboard, as well as Amelia’s lemon tart.
Amelia leans forward, phone in hand, showing Mum and Dad her Pinterest board. “So, flowers. We want them colourful, a bit messy, like they just… grew there. Not too polished.”
“Sounds like weeds,” Bradley says around a mouthful.
She swats his arm, laughing. “Romantic weeds.”
Dad studies the photos, nodding slowly. “Looks lovely,” he says, as though he knows exactly what he’s talking about. He doesn’t, but Amelia beams anyway.
“Songs next?” Mum asks, eyes twinkling. “Please tell me you’re not walking down the aisle to that awful rock music you like, Bradley.”
“Not anymore,” Amelia says quickly. “We’ve got something… softer. Special.”
I shove a piece of bread into my mouth while I watch them across the table. Oh, how things have changed since the whole drama. And by drama, I mean the tiny, insignificant detail where my best friend fell in love with my brother right under my nose and didn’t tell me. Not because I would’ve hated it, but because theythoughtI would. And that’s what stung the most. The sneaking around, the silence, the fact that they didn’t trust me enough to handle it. If they’d told me? I would’ve rolled my eyes, made Bradley’s life hell for the sport of it, and then cried intoAmelia’s hair because she’s my person, and he’s never deserved anyone this good. Instead, I found out sideways. Said some things I wish I could chew into dust. And for a while, it felt like I was standing outside my own house, knocking on the door.
But we got through it. We found our way back. No hard feelings, at least not the kind that linger. They know it. I know it. And sitting here now, watching them talk about flowers and playlists like it’s the most important thing in the universe, it’s obvious. She’s steadier with him. He’s lighter with her. They’ve come so far, and now they’re getting married.
“Liv, are you even listening?” Amelia bumps my arm with hers, snapping me back.
“Of course.” I grin, tearing another chunk of bread. “You’re marrying my idiot brother and planning to make us all sit through three hours of love songs while he cries into his suit. Riveting stuff.”
“I don’t cry,” Bradley says, glaring at me.
“You teared up duringMarley & Me,” I fire back. “Don’t even start.”
Amelia hides her laugh behind her wineglass, but her eyes give her away.
“Not the same thing,” Bradley mutters, shoving another forkful of lamb into his mouth like that’ll end the conversation.
“Sure.” I lean across the table, lowering my voice. “So when Amelia walks down the aisle, and you bawl like Joseph when he’s overtired, I’ll be right there to remind everyone.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, I would.”
Amelia sighs, amused, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You two are going to fight all the way to the altar, aren’t you?”
“It’s tradition,” I say, bumping her shoulder. Then, softer, because she deserves to hear it, “But seriously, I am happy. You make him less of an idiot. And I love you for it.”
Her smile wobbles, just a little. “He is less of an idiot with me.”
