Eight years ago
I rest my rusty bike against the hallway wall, then wedge my key into the apartment door lock and summon the strength of a hammer-throw champion to twist it open.
Zac glances up from the kitchen table, his pile of open textbooks competing for space with my half-finished, jewel-toned puzzle of a coral reef.
‘Don’t break the door. We can’t afford a new one,’ he says.
‘I think you mean: I heard you out there, and I’m sorry I didn’t come and help you,’ I reply, dumping my satchel stuffed with textbooks on the slightly slanted floor. ‘Plus, if the door breaks, it’s the landlord who has to fix it.’
‘Not if it’s our fault.’ Zac smirks, tapping his chewed pen against his lips. ‘And I’m sorry I didn’t come and help you.’
‘You busy?’ I cross the living room in five steps and fling open the fridge door, finding the shelves mostly empty, barring Zac’s random jars of Chinese chilli paste and tamarind purée.
‘Yeah,’ he mumbles. ‘I’ve got an anatomy and physiology test tomorrow.’ He clasps his arms over his head in a stretch, which is when my gaze snags on his bottle-green T-shirt. The white lettering printed across the front says ‘I Hate Everyone’.
I shut the fridge door. ‘What is that shirt?’
Zac glances at his chest. ‘I bought it at that op shop you kept bugging me to go to. Thought it was funny.’
I lean my forearms against the counter. ‘Zac, you know I love you, so I can be brutally honest, right?’
‘Oh god. When you frame it like that, I’m not sure.’
‘That T-shirt is not you. It would work on someone who’s grumpy or frowny or generally an asshole, but you are way too nice to pull that off.’
His brows draw together, but he must know I’m right. Zac Jameson is the furthest thing from a misanthrope. He likes almost everyone—unless it’s Felix, the MBA student I’m seeing.
‘Maybe I got it because it’s ironic,’ he offers, folding his arms. ‘A bit of T-shirt humour to lighten these dark-as-hell exam days.’
‘Ah, OK.’ I push off the counter and fish a chipped water glass from the drying rack. ‘In that case, remind me to buy you a T-shirt for Christmas that says “Pay Me In Mushrooms”.’
His lips kick up. ‘Or how about “This Shirt Is Not Humerus”, but on it is a drawing of a humerus bone?’
I chuckle against the rim of my glass. ‘You should become a writer. We can swap; I’ll change to paramedicine.’
He groans and slides his fingers into his thick mound of curly hair while frowning at his notes. ‘Don’t tempt me.’
I gulp the last of my water. ‘Want me to test you? OK—what’s a gluteus maximus?’
Zac slumps onto the table until his chest is flush with his notebook. ‘The largest muscle in the body,’ he says tiredly.
I make a game show fail buzzer sound. ‘It’s an ass.’
‘No, that’s a donkey.’
‘Oh, Zac, you’re so sheltered.’
With his cheek pressed to the Formica tabletop, he peeks at me with one green-gold eye. ‘Then test me properly, sunbeam. Bring that ass of yours over here.’
A strange sensation of warmth ripples lightly up my back. I quickly shake it off, perform an exaggerated huff like I’m put out, and scamper towards his mound of textbooks.