‘Ouch,’ I say, wincing.‘You’ve been hanging out with your therapist too much.’
She shrugs again.‘You pay me in chocolate and gossip.And I’m telling you, you need to focus on something more productive.’
I laugh.‘I don’t need a hobby.I need to get back on the horse.’
Abbey gestures at me with a half-eaten chip.‘Literally or metaphorically?’
I break off a chunk of chocolate and pop it in my mouth.The sugar hits immediately.Temporary comfort.Duct tape for feelings.‘It was stupid,’ I say after a beat.‘Thinking Luke and I could work.My job’s here.My life is here.You’re here.Issy—’
Abbey cuts in, sharp but not unkind.‘Issy is twenty-five years old.She’ll be fine.’
‘I’m just saying, I can’t abandon her.She’s practically raising two kids on her own.’
‘You’re not abandoning her.You’re using her as an excuse.’
I stare at Abbey.She stares right back.
I sigh, pressing the heel of my palm into my forehead.‘It’s the Hayes curse.Doomed if we do, doomed if we don’t.’
Abbey clenches her jaw so hard I can practically hear her molars grinding.‘The only curse you have is not knowing what the hell you actually want.’
Another direct hit.
I chew slowly, the chocolate suddenly dry in my mouth.
‘Maybe,’ I say, voice quieting without permission, ‘I need to date someone emotionally uncomplicated.’
Abbey doesn’t respond.Instead, she swipes to unlock my phone, browsing through the endless photos I took of Daisy while I was there.
The silence stretches between us until something shifts, slightly.The denial and avoidance I’ve kept buried rises to the surface.And I know I’m not fooling her.
I’m not even fooling myself.
THIRTY-TWO
Tom is waiting for me at Brookie’s.He stands when he sees me – an actual gentleman.Clean-shaven.Button-down shirt.Dimples.No neck tattoos.No earrings.A smile that suggests he’s the kind of man who flosses nightly and visits the dentist twice a year.
‘Jamie?’he says, leaning in to kiss me on the cheek – warm, confident.‘Nice to meet you.’He gestures towards the seat.‘I got us a booth.Hope that’s okay.’
It’s not, because I prefer the seats outside.
‘It’s perfect,’ I say.Let the show begin.
We sit.Menus are exchanged.We do that awkward first-date laugh and everything is so charming and polite that it feels closer to being slowly bludgeoned to death with a scented candle.
‘So,’ he says, leaning forward, elbows on the table in that I’mintentional-with-my-eye-contact way.‘You said you’re looking to adopt a dog?’
Oh.Right.That was lie number one.
‘Yeah,’ I say, nodding enthusiastically.‘Huge dog person.’
Another lie.My spirit animal is a chameleon.
He grins.‘Any particular breed?’
I pause.Images flash in the back of my mind – dusty paws on a quad bike, warm brown eyes, fur the colour of midnight.
‘A kelpie,’ I blurt, before I can stop myself.
