I pause.Not out of hope –don’t be absurd– but out of instinct.
I swipe right.
Then, I wait.
The nail polish isn’t even dry when the doorbell buzzes again.Two minutes later, Abbey blows through my door like a walking hurricane.I sent her an SOS text as soon as I landed back in Sydney.She’s in designer activewear – leggings that haven’t been near a squat rack in a month and a cropped hoodie that probably costs more than my rent.Her hair is in a bun that saysI’ve had it, and her expression is the dictionary definition of judgemental affection.
‘You look like shit,’ she announces cheerfully, dropping a tote bag that clinks suspiciously on the coffee table.
‘Thanks,’ I deadpan.‘My uterus is staging a coup.’
Abbey toes off her pristine white runners, grabs the nail polish from beside me, and flops onto the couch like she lives here.Which, to be fair, is the energy she brings into every room: part-time therapist, full-time squatter.
She starts sorting through the tote bag.Chips.Wine.Sour worms.Those chocolate bars that come in twelve individually wrapped pieces, purchased for portion control but about to be demolished in one sitting.
‘You brought the good stuff.’I peel open a bag of salt and vinegar chips.
‘You sounded like someone who needed both sugar and sodium.And maybe a lobotomy.’
We fall into our usual rhythm: bad TV muted in the background, our feet tangled under the coffee table, the quiet comfort of being with someone who knows how you looked when pimples still covered your face.
Abbey waves the nail polish brush in my direction.‘Alright.Start talking.What the hell happened?’
I don’t respond right away.I focus on blowing air gently over my barely dry thumbnail instead.
‘Jamie.’
I cave.‘I left.’
‘Obviously.’
‘I shouldn’t have stayed there in the first place.’
She nods, as if that’s the least surprising thing I’ve ever said.‘And?’
‘And it was never going to work.He lives on a farm.I live here.I had dirt under my fingernails for days.’
Abbey raises an eyebrow.‘God forbid.’
‘It’s not just the farm.It’s everything.We’re different.We want different things.’
She goes quiet for a second, painting a careful stripe of colour across one of her nails.‘Okay.Real talk?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘You need to stop chasing men and find yourself a hobby.’
I scoff, immediately defensive.‘It’s not like that.’
Abbey doesn’t even bother to look up from her nails.‘It’s always been like that.And at this rate, it’s going to be like that until you’re forty-two and dating someone who lists his mum as his emergency contact and who rubs your labia for two minutes, then asks if you came.’
I choke on a chip.‘Jesus.’
She shrugs.‘You know I’m right.’
I lean back against the couch, head hitting the cushion with a dull thud.‘Maybe I’m destined to end up like my mum.’
Abbey pauses mid-stroke, eyes flicking to mine.‘You will if you keep acting like her.’
