‘Fine.’
‘And wear something smoking hot.You’re not mourning.’
‘I’m mourning the loss of my dignity,’ I say.‘That counts.’
She hangs up with a cackle, and I stare at my phone, then at the head of broccoli still sitting untouched on the counter.
God help me.
I have a date.
I end up in my red mini dress that walks the tightrope between ‘fearlessly confident’ and ‘please validate me with your eyes’.I blow out my hair, which feels illegal considering the humidity and my general avoidance of effort lately, and I sweep on eyeliner with the steady hand of a woman pretending to have her shit together.
The result?
I look … good.
Good in a way that makes me pause and stare at the mirror.Not only because the dress hugs my body in the right places, or becausemy cheekbones decided to show up today.But because I look alive.Like someone who has done some work – on her skin, her posture, her demons.
I tilt my head and almost smile at my reflection.
And then –Luke.
His name crashes through me on reflex.A ghost haunting the corner of my mind.The memory of his laugh, the way his hand felt at the small of my back, the weight of his eyes when they sawme.The real me.
I steady myself against the bathroom counter.‘This isn’t about him,’ I whisper.‘This is about me.Showing up.Not shapeshifting.Just moving on.’
My phone buzzes with a reminder from Abbey.
You better be there.No backing out now.Xx
Brookie’s is ten minutes away.My heart’s already sprinting.
The bar is packed.Of course it is.
It’s Friday night in Sydney, and every person between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five has descended upon Brookie’s as if it’s some holy site for flirting and cocktail-fuelled disappointment.
I shoulder through the crowd, heels clicking with pretend confidence, dodging barstools and half-drunk tequila sunrises.My palms are sweating.My dress is riding up with every step.And yet, I keep walking.Forward.Determined.
The patio is strung with fairy lights and fairy-light-adjacent conversations.The air smells of lime and anticipation and something vaguely fried.
I scan the crowd.
The deal was that I wouldn’t know what he looked like, but he’d know who I was.
So, I’m searching.Half expecting someone to wave.Or call out my name.Or stand up—
And then he does.
He stands.
Not a stranger.Not a blind date.
Luke.
FORTY-TWO
Time stops.
