‘That wouldn’t work,’ she says, sipping her wine.‘Your second toe is longer than your big toe.It’s weird.’
I glare.‘It’s a Greek toe.It’s classical.’
‘It’s unnatural is what it is.’
‘I’d argue it’s niche.And weird always pays more.’
She snorts, then wipes her mouth.‘Whatever.What about my run club?’
I physically recoil.‘That’s a hard pass.’
‘You’d enjoy it.Early mornings.Gets the endorphins pumping.We get coffee after.Sometimes a swim.’
‘That’s a cult.’
She ignores me.‘I’m picking you up Saturday morning.’
I raise my brows.‘Don’t bother.I won’t answer the door.’
She smiles sweetly.‘I’ll keep buzzing the intercom until you do.’‘You wouldn’t.’
‘Oh, I would.’
We fall into silence – the good kind, full of carbs and comfort.I swirl the last of my wine and stare at her.This friend.This person who saw me come undone and stayed.
‘Thanks,’ I say quietly.
‘For what?’
‘For showing up.For making me show up.’
Abbey shrugs.‘That’s what sisters do.’
I nod.‘Even for sisters with mutant toes?’
She raises her glass.‘Especially them.’
And we clink.
THIRTY-EIGHT
There are few things I hate more than mornings.Actually, scratch that.Ispecificallyhate mornings that involve physical activity, spandex or the term ‘5K’.
So, naturally, Abbey decides to combine all three into one death march.
She picks me up at 6.30 a.m., somehow looking as if she stepped out of a Nike ad.Black hair in a tiny bun.Skin suspiciously glowing.Water bottle full of cucumber slices.
I, on the other hand, am dressed like a sleep-deprived bin chicken who’s lost her will to perform femininity.Luke’s oversized shirt.Old runners.Eyes half closed.Soul fully absent.
‘Don’t talk to me,’ I mumble as I slide into the passenger seat.
Abbey grins.‘I brought you a banana.’
‘I hope you slip on it.’
She blasts Taylor Swift for the entire ten-minute drive, windows cracked enough to let the cold morning air slap me awake.By the time we pull into the Bondi Beach car park, the sky is already blushing – the shade of pink that hints at sunrise but hasn’t committed yet.
The world is quiet and beautiful and horribly cold.A cloud of salty mist hugs the coastline, softening the edges of jagged rock whilea sleepy ocean laps the shoreline.Waiting by the surf club is the most aggressively perky group of people I have ever seen on a winter morning, all of them with Disney-Channel-extra levels of enthusiasm.Everyone’s stretching and chatting and wearing breathable, sweat-wicking clothing.Someone is bouncing in place as if they’re about to audition for the role of a Peloton instructor.
