I cough on a laugh.‘God, don’t phrase it that way.’
She shrugs.‘I’m trying to speak your language.’
I wave her off.‘Anyway, I’m enjoying the hiatus.It’s been good for me.’
Abbey narrows her eyes and leans forward.‘Which brings me to my next question: how long is this man ban, exactly?’
I don’t answer right away.I swirl my spoon around the last of the foam in my coffee cup and try not to think about the look on Luke’s face that night in Darwin.The one he gave Lauren.The one I thought was mine.
‘I don’t know,’ I say eventually.‘Long enough to make sure I’m not going to shapeshift again.’
Abbey tilts her head, reading me like one of her spreadsheets – searching for formulas in the mess.Then, without warning, she hits me with it: ‘You still love him, don’t you?’
And there it is.
The one thing I’ve been keeping safely boxed away behind sarcasm and coffee and surface-level self-discovery.
I think about lying.About brushing it off, making a joke, dodging the question the same way old Jamie would have done.But that version of me packed up and left when I stopped trying to be everyone’s idea ofenough.
So, I take a breath.One of those big, chest-stretching ones.
‘Yes,’ I say.
Simple.Brutal.Clean.
My heart is sitting on the café table between us, loud and red and messy.A tiny, reckless truth.
Abbey doesn’t say anything for a moment.
She nods.She already knew.She was just waiting for me to catch up.
We finish the banana bread in silence, the sort only best friends can pull off without making it feel weird.Around us, the café hums with early morning chatter, the clinking of teaspoons, the gentle whir of espresso machines.But at our table, everything stills.
‘You look better,’ she says finally.‘Not, like, emotionally.But your skin’s clearer.’
‘I’ve been riding horses and yelling at my mum,’ I say.‘Turns out, rage is an underrated skincare routine.’
Abbey lifts her cup.‘To rage and radiance.’
It’s a Wednesday night and, bizarrely, I’m in the middle of deep cleaning my fridge when my phone rings.
Abbey.
I consider letting it go to voicemail.I’ve already done my emotional health quota for the day – sent three emails without crying, bought a head of broccoli I may or may not cook, and turned down a targeted Instagram ad for a heart-healing moonstone vibrator.
But I answer anyway.Because it’s Abbey.And she never calls for no reason.
‘Tell me you’re not busy,’ she says without saying hello.
‘Define busy,’ I say, prying a bottle of expired hoisin sauce from the back shelf with a butter knife.
‘Good.So, you’re free Friday night?’
I freeze.‘Oh no.No, no, no.That tone?That’s your matchmaking tone.’
‘You haven’t even heard the pitch.’
‘I don’t need to hear the pitch.If it starts with “you’re free Friday” and ends with me wearing eyeliner and pretending to enjoy IPAs, I’m out.’
