Before I can ruin his entire life with words, Abbey pulls me away.‘Come on, B1,’ she says.‘Let’s show them how it’s done.’
She tugs me towards the dance floor – a glorified term for a flattened patch of grass – and I let her, because Blue Eyes’ smugness is giving me a rash and I didn’t sacrifice a week’s pay on this dress for nothing.
The air is still humid, and the champagne still tastes of money and excellent branding.My heels are sinking into the grass, my hair is stuck to the back of my neck, and my dress is now a second skin.But somehow, I don’t care.
What happened back there with what’s-his-name?It wasn’t a spark.It was a short circuit.A heatstroke-induced glitch.A temporary lapse in judgement brought on by sturdy hands and a strong jaw.It wasn’t a meet-cute.It was a social collision with a man who probably lists ‘owning tools’ under hobbies and thinks a long pause counts as emotional depth.
So I laugh.Because if I don’t, I might even entertain the idea of speaking to him again – and I’m notthatdrunk.
This weekend is not about arrogant men with mystery stubble.It’s about saying yes to fun and no to anything that reeks ofcommitment – and maybe getting naked with someone who knows when to shut up and use his tongue.
I’ve got an almost full glass of champagne in my hand, a full face of make-up that’s only mostly melting, and an entire party full of potential mistakes ahead of me.
FIVE
The sound of soft snoring drifts from the other side of the bed, delicate but persistent, like a slightly congested ghost.I blink at the white digits glowing on the bedside table.
7.11 a.m.
Gross.
I groan and bury my face in the pillow, debating whether I can time-travel back to midnight and stop myself somewhere between glass four and five of champagne.My brain helpfully queues up fragmented memories of last night’s dance floor crimes.My cheeks burn.
‘Oh god,’ I mumble into the sheets.‘Did we … did we do the Nutbush?’
Abbey stirs beside me and the congested ghost vanishes.Her dishevelled black bob is a structural marvel – defying both gravity and logic.‘What?No.Did we?’
I sit up slowly, eyeing the battlefield that is our room: two empty wine bottles on the floor like fallen comrades, glitter on my arms – origin unknown – and Abbey looking like a raccoon who lost a fight with a pillow.
‘I hope not.’I groan again.‘I blacked out sometime after the Macarena.’
Abbey collapses back onto the mattress with a strangled moan.‘I think I’m gonna throw up.’
‘Same,’ I say, clutching my forehead.My skull pulses with what I can only describe as divine punishment.‘I need coffee.Litres of it.’
Abbey says something unintelligible into the duvet – possibly a spell, possibly a cry for help – before disappearing beneath it again.I stumble into the bathroom and the lights blind me instantly.
I lean against the sink, pressing my hands to the cool porcelain before I turn the tap on and drink straight from it.When I finally lift my head, I catch my reflection in the mirror and immediately regret it.
My brown hair is a science experiment.My make-up looks as though I spent the night sobbing while listening to ‘Landslide’ on a loop.I look like someone who barely survived a high-speed run-in with glitter, sweat and alcohol.So, you know – on brand.
I shower first, then attack my face with micellar water, hoping it’ll erase last night.Plot twist: it doesn’t.
Because naturally,hecreeps back in.
Blue Eyes.The human embodiment of a red flag wrapped in unsolicited opinions.His smirk that was somehow both smug and smooth, filtered through that annoyingly deep voice of his.I spit my toothpaste into the sink and shake my head as if it’s an Etch A Sketch.
Snap out of it.
He could be a climate change denier.He probably listens to Joe Rogan and thinks cargo shorts are still acceptable.
‘Hey!’Abbey calls through the bathroom door, voice weak.‘I think I’m gonna be sick.’
That’s my cue: I bolt from the bathroom, dart through our room and onto the verandah.
The air is already thick and sticky, drenched in early morning heat and that golden glow that turns everything out here stupidly cinematic.The dirt is every shade of burnt – burnt orange, burnt brown,burnt dreams – and even after only a day here, I can tell it gets everywhere.In your socks, your mouth, your nails.I scan the horizon and there’s … nothing.Well – nothing except for the spindly grey- green scrubs stretching out in every direction.Spiky wattles line the track, daring you to get close, and the occasional bloodwood tree stands off in the distance, limbs gnarled like arthritic fingers reaching for a storm that probably isn’t coming.And somehow, even though the whole place looks deserted, everything’s alive – skittering, crawling, chirping, watching.The air buzzes with a constant low hum of insects.
I drop onto the verandah steps and take a seat in my singlet and shorts, the fabric already clinging to me.A red-tailed cockatoo lets out a screech from somewhere above me.It flaps off a nearby branch with a dramatic rustle of wings, disappearing into the wide blue sky as if it’s got somewhere better to be, while cicadas shriek like faulty smoke alarms and birds call to each other across the trees.Nothing about this place is quiet.It’s hot and loud and wild and – annoyingly – kind of beautiful.As if someone painted a postcard using only earth tones and heatstroke.
