Only … it’s not.Not really.I still haven’t admitted that I hate kimchi.That the smell of kombucha makes me gag.That I bought a pair of boots from Shein last month and will probably do it again.That most days I’m trying to keep up the illusion that I care about things I couldn’t care less about – like artisanal hemp milk and green-washing and loving myself unconditionally.
But I don’t say any of that.
Dylan walks over and gently cradles my face in his hands.He kisses me with more kindness than I deserve.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he says.‘I still like you.’
If only he knew.
Late morning and Ella’s herding us into her 4WD.She’s assumed the role of very radiant, very pregnant safari guide.Though from the way her eyes keep drifting towards the stables, it’s obvious she’d rather be on horseback with the rest of them.I eye her belly warily as she climbs behind the wheel.
‘Should you be driving?’I ask, strapping myself in.
Ella waves a hand.‘Please.I’m pregnant, not made of glass.’
‘Right … and what happens if you go into labour?’
She smirks.‘Did June not tell you how babies were made?’
We rattle down the dirt track, dust trailing behind us.It’s bush, bush and more bush.Dry earth.Skeletal trees.Wide blue sky that stretches so far you start to question your own importance.Ella narrates the whole thing.‘And on the left, more absolutely nothing.And on the right – wait for it – some scrub.’
Eventually, she pulls up beneath a crooked acacia tree with bright yellow flowers where a group of stock hands are gathered in the shade.The horses stand nearby, tails flicking.Darcy’s there and so is – he who shall not be named.
Ella hops out of the 4WD with a carton of fruit and a cooler of water.The boys accept the offerings gratefully.
Dylan jumps out of the car too, but I stay put.
There’s no reason for me to poke that hornet’s nest.Which, naturally, makes me hyper-aware of said nest.Of how the nest wipes the sweat off his brow.Of how the nest’s shirt is sticking to his back.Of how the nest doesn’t look at me once.It’s probably for the best, given I have nothing to say to him.
Eventually, we head back to the house, and Ella gives me and Dylan strict instructions to swim, chill and be baby-shower ready in two hours.
SEVENTEEN
By the time we make it over to the lawn at the front of the house, the baby shower is in full swing and it’s pastel chaos.There are enough pink balloons and blue iced cupcakes to trigger my childhood trauma, along with pink lemonade in mason jars, sugar cookies shaped like onesies, and a suspiciously cheerful game involving melted chocolate in nappies.Ella’s floating from group to group in her white sundress while people ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ over the baby-name shortlist.
As we join the festivities, Dylan squeezes my hand and kisses my cheek as I adjust my brown linen dress.It should be sweet.
Then I see them.
Luke – and Lauren.
Her freckled hand rests on his tanned forearm, lingering like it belongs there.She’s laughing at something he said, and he’s smiling that rare, soft smile I haven’t seen in months.
It shouldn’t hit me the way it does.
But it does.
Right in the ribs.
Right in the throat.
Something inside me snaps like a cheap elastic waistband, and I know, instantly, that I’m about to do something very stupid.
Because if this is a game, I’m playing now.
‘Stop.’I touch Dylan’s arm a little too deliberately, grinning up at him as he says something about the charcuterie board.‘You’re such a dork.’
He returns the grin, brown eyes searching mine.‘Am I?’
