Today
I’m arms-deep in garlic, mince and breadcrumbs, attempting to roll meatballs that aren’t shaped like ball sacks, when Zac steps through the beaded curtain draped across the kitchen doorway. A bottle of shiraz dangles from one hand while his other clutches a leather strap leading to the cutest dog on earth.
Before I can utter a word, Davide snatches the wine from Zac and deposits a kiss on both his cheeks, French-style, before making little high-pitched barking calls at Trouble. Zac just stares at me over Davide’s head, and I nearly choke on my snicker. When Davide turns his back, I do a little impersonation of a moustache-twirling Frenchman and immediately feel guilty, even as Zac is shuddering with silent laughter.
‘Thanks for coming, baby,’ I say for Davide’s benefit as Zac strolls over to me.
‘Any chance to see you, gorgeous.’
OK, these words sound even weirder coming out of our mouths than I would’ve thought. But I need Davide to see this so he doesn’t get the wrong idea about our living arrangement.
Zac steps close behind me, bracing his palms against the counter on either side of my arms. ‘What are we making?’ he asks. Speaking near my ear, his rich voice vibrates through me.
‘Spaghetti with Italian meatballs,’ I reply, trying not to tremble. What is with me tonight? I couldn’t count how many times I’ve hugged Zac or given him a shoulder massage. We’ve been physically close countless times over the years, but I’ve never reacted this way. It must be another unfortunate symptom of having spent so much time apart.
Davide twists open Zac’s shiraz without asking, and the bottle glugs as he fills three comically large glasses to the rim, draining the bottle.
‘Yeah, sure, you can open that. Why not,’ Zac says with a sarcastic smile while Davide hands us each a glass.
Just as Zac taps his glass with mine in a ‘cheers’ gesture, Davide gives his Tibetan singing bowl a strike with a mallet to balance the energy in the room. The shock of the hollow clang makes me jerk my backside into Zac’s crotch, my wine nearly spilling as I flinch away. Jesus Christ.
Zac sets down his glass and brings his lips close to my ear. ‘Stop bouncing.’
He scoops out a chunk of mince and cups it between his deft fingers, rolling it into a tight ball in front of me.
Davide sits at the dining table and points his gaze in our direction, so Zac dials our little performance up a notch.
‘You’re so sweet to cook for me, beautiful.’ He lightly nuzzles his nose into my hair, his breath tickling my neck and making goosebumps explode over my skin. I tilt my face away while giving myself a silent lecture to stop being so skittish and childish. This is Zac.
A recording of wind chimes tingles from Davide’s back pocket. He grunts an apology and pads upstairs to answer his phone, carrying his cauldron of wine.
Cold, empty air blasts me from all directions when Zac instantly drops away now that Davide’s not present.
‘Thanks for that,’ I say a little throatily as Zac moves to stand beside me, still expertly rolling meatballs while Trouble pushes between his ankles.
‘Anytime. Although I’m a bit worried this was even necessary. What actually happened—was Davide just roaming around upstairs with his kit off, or is it a full-blown nudist colony around here?’
‘Full-blown, full-frontal nudist colony. He was parading around the house without a stitch on, and at one point, I’m pretty sure he made eyes at me while his junk was blowin’ in the wind.’
When the frown deepens in Zac’s brow, flashing me back to the time he physically threw Felix out of our apartment, I steer the conversation towards work. As we continue rolling meatballs, I fill him in on my first week at NRN News and how I’ve made quick friends with my colleague Lola.
‘I also met Meghan,’ I say, dramatically drawing out the name.
Instead of replying, Zac attempts a sip from his overfilled wine glass, trying not to spill it down his black T-shirt, which, I notice, is stamped with the words ‘Kill Them With Kindness’.
‘She’s very pretty,’ I add, refraining from doing an impersonation of Meghan.
He returns to his line-up of perfectly shaped meatballs. ‘She is certainly pretty.’
Then, for reasons I can’t explain, I don’t want to talk about Meghan anymore.
‘How was your work this week?’ I divert, firing up the centuries-old stove and tipping a lug of oil into the pan. ‘Any news on that job?’
‘Not yet. The last few days were quite hectic, actually. We had six deaths in two days.’
‘Oh god, that’s terrible. And you only just started back doing on-road duties.’ My lips turn down as I unstick a knife from the magnetic rack to slice up some basil.
‘Yeah. All of them were cancer patients.’
The knife slips in my fingers.
‘Six cancer deaths in two days?’ I sound like I’m being choked.
‘Yep. They were all getting end-of-life care already and were at home with their families, so there’s that.’
I can’t feel my face. I can’t feel my hands. I can’t feel my breath. All I can feel is my heart beating a hole through my chest.
‘Are you OK?’ Zac’s palm lightly lands on my upper back, a crease forming between his eyes.
‘Yeah, ’course.’ I slice into the basil, nearly nicking my finger. ‘What sort of cancer did they have?’
‘By this point, who even knows where it started. One woman was only thirty-two. So sad.’
The knife slides out of my hand and bounces across the linoleum floor.
Zac gasps. ‘Shit, are you OK?’
‘I’m fine,’ I mutter as he picks up the knife, angling myself away from the eyes of the one person who used to know me better than I know myself.
I snatch up my phone and escape into the downstairs bathroom, locking the door and running the tap. I sit on the toilet and google ‘32-year-old woman cancer death Newcastle’, but no related articles spring up. Instead, millions of stories flood the screen about other thirty-two-year-old women who’ve died of cancer.
Tears burn the backs of my eyes as I frantically read through them, searching for positive outcomes.
‘Josie? You OK?’ The door muffles Zac’s soft voice. I’ve been in the bathroom for nearly ten minutes. God, he must think I have diarrhoea.
‘Coming!’ I sing out and swipe away my mascara stains with my thumbs before opening the door with a smile that’s totally overcooked.
‘I don’t have diarrhoea,’ I say for the record, but make a show of washing my hands anyway. ‘I just checked some work emails and got stuck.’
He lets out an unsure chuckle. ‘I’m happy to hear that. Do you want me to turn the meatballs over?’ He leads me back to the kitchen and points at the smoking pan.
‘Oh, for the love of—’ I dash to the stove and thrust a wooden spoon beneath a meatball, but it’s glued to the pan and crumbles apart.
‘Let me do it,’ Zac offers gently, reaching over my shoulder with a slotted turner. He finishes off the meatballs and pasta sauce while I’m relegated to boiling the spaghetti—doing whatever it takes to shove those cancer articles out of my head.
‘Davide left while you were in the loo,’ Zac says as he fossicks around for plates and cutlery. ‘He mentioned something about a full moon party and said he won’t be back until tomorrow. Actually, he invited us to come too, but I said no. Is that OK? Did you want to go?’
A tentative look finds its way into Zac’s eyes. He clearly has no idea that the thought of having him all to myself in a quiet house—like we’ve done a thousand times before, but not for a painfully long time—has every cell in my body somersaulting. I couldn’t think of a better way to keep my anxious mind occupied.
‘Hell no; we’re staying here for my meatballs masterpiece,’ I say firmly. ‘And given that Davide’s out for the night, I totally think that you and Trouble should crash over.’
Zac slides his hand into the back pocket of his athletic shorts and bites down on his bottom lip. ‘Do you think Davide would mind?’
I lift a brow. ‘The guy who walks around with his ass out and leaves his trimmed pubes in the toilet? Yeah, I really think we need that guy’s opinion.’
He breathes a laugh, still thinking it over. I get the hesitation—we’re a long way from our teenage sleepover days. There’s still a wall of ice between us, but this is our opportunity to break it down.
Please stay. Please.
‘Fine, but I’m not sleeping in that wingnut’s bed,’ Zac says with a playful gleam in his eye.
I excitedly gulp back a gargantuan sip of wine to make the point that tonight’s going to be a Zac–Josie reunion party. Happiness wells up inside me, but self-preservation kicks it back down. There’s no doubt that Zac and I have grown apart, and it’s going take more than one evening to get back to where we once were. But it’s a start.
After I’ve made up a bed for Trouble with cushions and a towel, we set our steaming plates on the turquoise dining table and dig into our spaghetti and meatballs.
‘How are Lizzie and Stefan?’ Zac asks between chews.
‘The parentals are good. Living their best lives in Koh Samui.’ My parents would be delighted to hear who I’m with right now. Zac was always their favourite.
He lifts his wine glass to his lips. ‘They do love their Thai holidays.’
‘No, they actually live there now.’
His eyes expand. ‘They moved to Thailand?’
I nod, twirling my fork in my spaghetti. ‘Just over a year ago, for their retirement. They’re living the dream: eating out every night, sunbaking, and their live-in helper does all the housework. Australia’s really just an afterthought now.’
A slight line forms on his brow as he searches my face. ‘And Ingrid’s still in London?’
‘Yup. I’m literally the only Larsen left in Australia.’
The tsk sound that escapes his lips makes me want to crawl into his lap and wrap my arms around him. I’ve always believed that when you survive high school with someone, you’ll always share a bit of the same blood, but Zac and I became even more like family over our uni years. He knows right away that Australia hasn’t been the only afterthought in all this. While I encouraged Mum and Dad to follow their dreams, when your entire family makes a permanent move overseas, it’s hard not to take it a little bit personally.
A gust of loneliness blows through me, and I push it aside.
‘Want to take a road trip this weekend?’ I ask on a whim. ‘You’re not on shift, right? Port Stephens or the Hunter Valley? We can drink all the shiraz and the sav blanc.’
‘The Hunter Valley’s not really known for its sauvignon blanc,’ Zac replies with a cocky glint in his eye. ‘It prefers a cooler climate. The resident reporter should probably know that.’
I make a face at him. ‘Ah, I see. You’re a wax-head and a wine expert now.’
He pushes his fork through his pasta. ‘This weekend’s supposed to be sunny, so I need to mow the lawn.’
I sit back in my chair and stare at him for a good five seconds. ‘Oh. My. God. Who chooses mowing over a holiday?’
He sighs, his eyes darting away. ‘I’m not really that into road trips these days,’ he mumbles, and my throat contracts.
Of course.
I have no idea how to get out of this hole I’ve just dug, so I default to my comfort zone of teasing the crap out of him. ‘You’re so domesticated now,’ I say with an accusing smirk. The wine is making everything soft, including my restraint. ‘Is this a Newcastle thing? No one has any fun around here? It’s all lawnmowers and play dates?’
‘I happen to enjoy mowing the lawn,’ Zac says matter-of-factly.
I exaggerate my snort-laugh. ‘Of course you do. At heart, Zachary has always been a country boy.’ I fake my best American cowboy accent on that phrase, even though I know Newcastle is hardly the countryside.
Zac’s forearms flex as he crosses his arms at me. ‘Oh, yes, the girl with big-city dreams,’ he retorts. ‘And what do your weekends look like? Sunday brunch in Bronte? Speculating on the housing market? Putting the kids you haven’t yet had on waiting lists for private school?’
My lips purse over a smile I can’t help. It’s not just my inhibitions being swallowed up by shiraz, and I love it.
I exaggerate my frown. ‘Don’t tease me about kids. At the rate I’m going, there aren’t going to be any. Which is fine: I’ve got “big-city dreams” to be a barren old spinster. With twelve cats.’
‘At the rate you’re going?’
I toss back another gulp of red. ‘I’m twenty-seven. And single. And poor.’
His eyes move over my face before returning to mine. ‘Josie, you do know that women can get pregnant into their mid-forties, right?’
My stomach caves inward.
But I’m going to be gone by then, like those women in the articles.
Like Aunt Susie, whose life was snatched away by breast cancer when she was only twenty-nine. My grandma was older when she succumbed to it, but she was first diagnosed in her twenties.
‘Don’t get medical on me,’ I say gruffly, which wins me a cute chuckle and distracts me from my thoughts.
Zac’s fingers stroke up and down the stem of his wine glass.
‘How did you meet Meghan?’ I ask, having now shaken off whatever reservations kept me silent earlier. I genuinely want to like the girl Zac’s seeing, even though her vibe towards me at work has been arctic. ‘Wait, let me guess. You go to the same gym, thought her ass looked good in yoga pants, and so you slid onto the treadmill beside hers, and boom—cue candy-eyes and sweaty hot bodies. Must be love.’
His lips curl up. ‘I think that’s your fantasy porn scenario, not mine. I met Meg at the beach and asked for her number. Don’t you know I’m a wax-head now?’
I lean back in my chair and give an impressed nod. But at this point, I’m having trouble focusing because all my attention has travelled to where Zac’s ankle is resting lightly against mine beneath the table.
‘Meghan thinks she’s your girlfriend,’ I say.
His brow pinches. ‘She said that?’
‘Yup.’ My lips pop on the word, and I make a dramatic, you’re-in-trouble-now grimace.
‘I should probably have a talk to her about that.’
I find myself forcing a smile off my face. ‘Well, she does have the kind of alliterative name that makes a woman instantly hot. You know, Marilyn Monroe … Bridget Bardot … Meghan Mackay.’
Josie Jameson pops into my head unsolicited, and I stuff that one back in the box. I must be tipsier than I thought.
A noncommittal smile passes over Zac’s lips, and I wonder why he hasn’t moved his leg yet. It tingles against mine, heavy and warm. I was already feeling his cold distance from me beginning to thaw, but this return to physical contact is another level entirely. It makes my heart beat a little harder against my ribs.
‘So, it’s just a casual thing with Meghan, then?’ I clarify, refocusing. ‘Because now that we’re almost twenty-eight, I feel like I need to know if you intend to activate The Back-Up Plan or not.’
Holy shit, I really have had too much of the red stuff.
I search Zac’s face for signs he remembers the deal we made over a Friday night beer-clink when we were in second-year uni. With slightly breathless voices, we agreed that if we hit the age of twenty-eight and were still single, we’d marry each other. He’d wanted to go with thirty, but I’d argued that we’d need to be married for two years before having a baby, and I wasn’t having my first baby any later than thirty. It was the first time I genuinely imagined—and in some detail—what it would be like to taste Zac’s watermelon-pink lips. Two days after that, he met Tara Amiri.
‘Ah, yes, I forgot … I’m your fallback guy.’ His cheeks ignite. ‘Although you’re going to be a big-time newsreader down in Sydney, aren’t you? So, it’ll never work.’
‘I can’t have both?’ My stomach tenses as his brows lift.
‘What, you’re going to move up here permanently?’
I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation. It’s entirely the fault of whoever invented shiraz. I need to change the subject.
‘There’s always Dah-viiide,’ I say in a mock-serious tone. ‘He seems keen.’
‘Now, now, Josephine, you can’t have all the boys.’ Zac’s lower leg nudges mine where they’re still touching before he suddenly shifts away.
‘What about Lindsay?’ I suppress the awkwardness of the question by jumping up to dig out another bottle of shiraz, since Davide drank a third of this one.
‘My housemate Lindsay?’ Zac asks, looking confused.
‘He gave me his number today. When I came by your house.’
I brave a glance back at Zac, finding his lips parted. ‘That guy is un-fucking-believable.’
‘What?’ My voice is all high as I slide back into my chair and top up our glasses. ‘Is it weird if he calls me?’
Zac tosses back a large swig of wine. ‘Why would it be weird if he called you?’
‘Well, you did say he’s a nudist who can’t aim at the toilet.’
He sets his glass down. ‘You can go out with whoever you want. And he is your type.’
Oh, this is going to be good.
I lean back in my seat. ‘And what exactly is my type? Come on, give it to me.’ I curl my fingers at him.
Zac doesn’t even take a beat. ‘Sydney stockbroker who pops the collar up on his polo-neck shirts and posts pics of his business-class boarding passes on social media, or pics when he’s on a boat—literally anytime, anywhere. Oh, and when he orders his oat milk lattes with a dash of Madagascar cinnamon, he feels compelled to speak at ten thousand decibels into his earpiece about cryptocurrency.’
I bite away a smile. ‘I don’t know Lindsay, but I doubt he’s any of those things.’
He makes a pretend laugh. ‘He’s a business analyst for a software company, and his parents are loaded. Very rich, very boring, and very much your type.’ He lifts his glass in a ‘cheers’ before taking another sip.
I paint my face with a mask of amusement to hide my offence. Even though Zac’s words aren’t exactly off the mark, I don’t like the way they feel in my head.
‘I’m like you, Zac. I just want to “play the field” since I’m not staying up here in Newcastle,’ I joke to get him back. ‘Someone with a cute smile, a hot body, and a big bank account—they’re my priorities. Like Lindsay.’ I mimic his ‘cheers’ gesture to the air.
Even as I smirk, though, I can’t help thinking that none of those characteristics sound too bad. Bloody hell, am I as superficial as he thinks I am?
Zac just shrugs and looks away like he has nothing more to say about this. There’s a hint of tension seeping into the room, but I need this topic clarified.
‘So, just to be clear,’ I say slowly, twirling the base of my wine glass back and forth. ‘You don’t mind if I go out on a date with Lindsay.’
‘Jeez, Josie, if you want to go out with him that badly, just do it. Fuck, what do I care?’
‘OK.’ My lips tighten, and I look away, but I feel his eyes on me.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘No, it’s all good.’
Zac gets up and paces towards the sink, where he flings open the lower cabinet. ‘Where’s your washing-up liquid?’
‘Oh no, you’re not doing that.’ I get up and dart over to him, giving him a little shove back towards the table. ‘Sit and drink like a good boy.’
After a couple of protests that I rebuff, he settles back at the dining table, and I turn on the tap to fill the sink.
‘Did you see me on the news this week?’ I ask, like the world’s biggest egocentric.
‘Sure did. You look good on TV. Although you pronounced one of the suburb names wrong.’
I twist around. ‘I did?’
‘Minmi. You said it as Min-mee, but it’s Min-mih.’
‘Oh, shit.’ Those small details don’t go unnoticed in regional communities.
‘I thought pronouncing names correctly was Journalism 101,’ he teases. ‘Did you do any actual studying at uni, or were you too busy chasing after those MBA tosspots to learn how to do your job properly?’
The fact that he’s finally comfortable enough to take the piss out of me fills me with a delight that’s more powerful than my slightly wounded feelings. But I have to get him back, so I grab a pen off the counter and lightly fling it in his direction.
Zac ducks, but the plastic lid connects with his hair.
‘What the?’ he says, tugging at the pen clinging to his muss of dark curls.
I clap a hand over my mouth to hide my laugh. ‘Oh, dear. What’s going on here?’ I bark like a school principal, heading over to him.
‘What’s going on is that my oldest friend in the world just assaulted me.’ He carefully lifts his wine glass to his lips while I work to unclip the trapped pen.
‘Your hair really is incredible,’ I say, playing with a baby-soft spiral. ‘Do you even know the actual length of your hair if you straightened it?’ I drag my fingers through the curls like a child who’s discovered a new plush toy. When my fingertips brush against his scalp, his head tilts back, inviting me to keep going.
‘I need a massage so bad,’ he moans, his eyes sinking shut. From this angle, his long lashes rest like little black fans over his skin. Feeling my years of affection for him reignite, I dig a little harder with my fingers, releasing a faint waft of mint-scented shampoo. His lips part, all pink and full, as I keep working his scalp like my hairdresser does. It’s been a long time since I’ve stared at Zac quite this closely, and I’m a little whiplashed by how handsome he is.
Bloody hell, Josie, what are you even doing?
His ringtone blasts from the table, and I jerk backwards.
‘Sorry,’ he says, reaching for his phone. ‘It’s Ross.’
‘Oh, say hi from me,’ I blurt and retreat to the kitchen, clutching the pen in my slightly clammy fingers. Ross is Zac’s cousin; he lives locally and is undoubtedly one of the biggest reasons Zac moved to Newcastle.
Zac fiddles with his hair, restyling it, as he slips outside onto the patio with his phone at his ear. Our gazes catch through the glass, and I turn away, wondering why my stomach feels so whipped up.
When Zac resurfaces, the dishes are dry, and I’m wiping the last section of countertop.
‘Ross wants to see you,’ he says with a half-smile, dropping his phone onto the table.
‘Absolutely, I’d love to see him.’
‘You know he’s engaged, right? They’re getting married in a few months. I’m the best man.’
‘Yeah, I saw it on Facebook.’
He nods once, and our gazes drift apart. It should’ve been Zac who told me about his cousin’s engagement, not a dumb social media page.
‘I’ll set up drinks so you can meet his fiancée, Holly,’ he murmurs. ‘She’s awesome.’
‘Sounds good.’
I refill our glasses, and we head outside to the patio so we can gawk through the trees at what feels like the darkest, deadest street on earth.
‘Is Newcastle always this quiet?’ I ask as I light a citronella candle.
‘Isn’t it the best?’ Zac smiles through the flickering glow as I drop into the plastic chair beside his.
‘Mmm, not sure yet,’ I reply diplomatically. I can’t say I hate the tranquil mood of this place, but I feel a pang for the familiar buzz of traffic and the steady hum of voices outside my city apartment.
‘Do you miss Sydney?’ I ask.
‘Not even one iota.’
‘Oh god, that bad? OK.’ I pin my gaze to the knobbly tree roots erupting through the footpath beyond the patio.
‘I don’t mean you,’ he says quickly. ‘Of course I miss you.’
A lump grows in my throat. ‘I miss you too.’
We both stare straight ahead, like the cloud-shaped silhouette of the rustling tree is the most interesting sight known to humankind.
‘You never came down to visit me,’ I say carefully.
Zac’s breathing slows, and he takes a moment to answer. ‘You never came up here, either.’
‘I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to.’
For what feels like a full minute, we remain in a stand-off of uneasy silence.
I’m sorry I never came up here to see you after what happened. I’m so sorry. I wanted to, but it was so hard to reach you. Why wouldn’t you talk to me?
Even thinking the words sends the pressure of tears to my eyes, so I blurt the plainest, dumbest thought in my mind.
‘Hey, do you know whatever happened to Damien Di Fiore from high school? He popped into my head recently, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him on Facebook.’
Zac lets out a breath like he’s relieved I changed the subject. ‘Oh, man, must you? I’d forgotten about that poser. Do you remember when he tried to get people to call him “Gunner”, but everyone just continued to call him Damien?’
For some reason that may be wine-related, I find this comment hysterical. When I finally stop giggling, Zac’s looking at me like I need a check-up.
‘You right there?’ he asks. ‘Do I need to unglue that glass from your hand?’
I clutch the wine closely like it’s my newborn. ‘You’re not getting anywhere near my child.’
He rests back in his chair and links his fingers behind his head. ‘Do you remember Damien leaving a love note in your locker once?’
I grunt a laugh. ‘Of course. It said he wanted to “kiss and smell my beautiful hair”. It’s what triggered my crush on him. Wait—he told you about that?’
‘I wrote that note.’
I sit forward and gape at him. ‘You what?’
He nods without looking at me. ‘Damien wanted to write you a love letter, and he couldn’t think of what to say, so he asked me to do it for him.’ He clasps his forehead, grimacing. ‘But it’s not like I was any better. “I want to kiss and smell your beautiful hair”? And then what—put the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again?’
I chuckle at the reference to the creepy serial killer from The Silence of the Lambs, but Zac just cringes into his glass. It’s not the point, though, that the note he wrote wasn’t exactly Shakespeare. It’s more that it had made me smile from the inside out and look at Damien Di Fiore in an entirely new way. Learning it was Zac who penned those words is a head-trip.
‘I can’t believe it was you!’ I reach out and give him a gentle shove.
‘You still have gorgeous hair, by the way.’ His gaze snags on the wild clump of honey-blonde strands twirling in my fingers.
I hold out a lock. ‘You want to kiss and smell it?’
He laughs, and my mind shifts to another memory from the same year as the locker note. ‘Oh my god!’ I spring to my feet. ‘I just remembered something that’s going to Freak. You. The. Hell. Out.’
‘OK?’
He blinks nervously as I duck inside and run upstairs to my bedroom, sliding open the wardrobe and digging out a shoebox stuffed with old jewellery. I untangle the silver charm bracelet and clip it to my wrist.
When I return to Zac’s curious stare, I sit back down and lift my wine glass to my lips, ensuring the bracelet falls into his view.
‘Well?’ he says, on the verge of laughing even though he has no idea what’s happening.
‘Well, what?’ I tap my fingers against my lips like I’m thinking, my wrist on display.
He catches my arm in his hand. ‘Oh my god—is that … ?’ He draws my wrist closer to the candlelight. ‘Josie!’
My smile deepens. ‘You know I never throw anything out.’
His fingertips brush the two charms dangling from the chain. One is shaped like a sun, which was the bracelet’s inaugural charm when he gave it to me for my fourteenth birthday. When we first became friends, he nicknamed me ‘sunbeam’ because he said I was always so bright and sunny. The second charm is a tiny stack of three books he gave me on my fifteenth birthday, which fell during my bookish phase.
‘There are only two charms on there,’ he says, releasing my wrist with a pout.
‘You totally let me down. You said you would give me one every year for my birthday.’ I impersonate the saddest face I can think of, even though I’ve only ever adored his attempt at a birthday tradition that lasted all of two years.
‘That’s because you started dating Damien,’ he scoffs like the name itself is gross.
‘Yeah, but the bracelet was just a friend thing.’
‘’Course it was.’ He runs his palm down his thick thigh, a trace of a frown creasing his brow.
Silence slides between us and hovers there for a moment.
‘That’s very sweet that you kept that,’ Zac eventually says.
I give a dismissive grunt. ‘You’ll probably notice it at the op shop next week. I’m gonna trade it in for a used pair of old man’s shoes.’
His chuckle turns into a yawn. I have no idea what time it is, but the last thing I want is for Zac to fade off to sleep and this night to be over.
I sit up higher, waking him up with my voice. ‘So, given all the reminiscing, I think we should play an old high school game.’
He shoots me a look.
‘“Two Truths, One Lie?”’ I suggest in a sweet voice.
His mouth pulls up into a smile. ‘Remember the last time we tried to play that game? We guessed the lie every time. We know too much about each other.’
‘OK then, “Two Truths, One Lie” based on the last two years only?’
He clutches the side of his face. ‘That sounds like too much effort right now.’
‘What about “Spin the Bottle”?’
I’m not being serious, but Zac stills and his eyes graze over my lips for a split second that I don’t miss. I need to show him I’m joking, so I let the laughter tear from my throat, even though I’d love to have teased him with that one a little longer. ‘Just kidding.’ I slap my knee, and he jumps. ‘What about “Would You Rather”? Oh no, wait—I have it! “Best and Worst Features”. We have to play that.’
He rests his chin in his palm. ‘“Best and Worst Features?”’
‘Don’t you remember that game? I tell you what I think your best and worst feature is, both physically and personality-wise, and you do the same for me.’
‘That sounds totally juvenile.’
‘Exactly! Which is why I love it.’ I grin against the rim of my glass.
Compliments from Zac have always lit sparks in my chest, even though I’d never admit that to him. I can handle him telling me my two worst features in exchange for two things he loves about me.
Zac looks unconvinced.
‘I’ll start,’ I press.
My gaze begins a slow trail over his body, assessing the ruffled curls that sit up over his forehead, the curves of his biceps that stretch the sleeves of his T-shirt, and the tanned forearms that bulge in all the right places. I glance down, taking in the length of his defined calves. I might have to make up a ‘worst’ physical feature.
‘I think your best physical feature is … ahh,’ I grumble, ‘I can’t choose between your eyes and your hair.’
‘My hair?’
‘You have no idea how good your hair looks right now. That haircut is seriously hot.’
‘Wow, OK.’ He runs his palm up the shaved back of his neck before tugging at a couple of curls springing from the top.
‘Now for your worst physical feature.’ I clap a hand over my giggle. ‘I feel so mean.’
‘Let’s not do worst features,’ he says. ‘At least, I’m not going to tell you anything bad about yourself.’
God, I could hug him.
‘Fine, agreed,’ I sigh like I’m giving in. ‘Just best features, then. So, for your best personality feature, there are honestly so many, but I would have to say your sweetheart nature. You’re always so kind and thoughtful.’
The corner of his mouth lifts, and suddenly I’m on my first day as the new kid at school, looking at thirteen-year-old Zac who’s making me feel like less of a nerd over my geriatric taste in music. I don’t think he realises that he’s been making me feel less alone ever since.
‘Thank you,’ he says, his eyes glittering in the low light.
I angle myself towards him, ready to suck up all the praise, which I’m eighty per cent sure is to do with living in my over-achieving sister’s shadow for half my life. ‘So, what about me?’ I ask, like a fully diagnosed narcissist.
Zac laces his fingers behind his head as he runs his eyes over me, and I suddenly think I should have said ‘arms’ instead of ‘hair’.
‘Give me a few days to answer,’ he finally says.
My lips fall open. ‘You can’t come up with one thing you like about my body or my personality?’
‘I can come up with many. But if I can only say one of each, then I want to make sure it’s the right one.’
A bemused chuckle leaves my throat. ‘Zac, it’s not a school project. You don’t have to come up with “the right answer”.’
He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip as his gaze rakes over me again. ‘Fine. I was thinking to maybe go with your ass,’ he says like he’s still thinking it over. ‘Or your eyes.’
Holy shit, I’ve totally fed Reserved Zac Jameson too much wine.
He drains the last of the red in his glass. ‘Given I’ve somewhat regrettably never really seen your ass, I’m probably going to say eyes. But, like I said, let me think about it. For personality, too.’
My body temperature has risen to a thousand degrees, and words are having trouble forming in my mouth.
Zac stands up, catching the table with his palm. I can’t remember the last time I saw him tipsy like this. Because there’s no way in hell he’d have said those words to me if he were sober.
‘Is it OK if we call it a night?’ he asks, covering another yawn with his fist. ‘I’m slammed from this week.’
‘Yeah, of course.’
I scoop up my wine glass and trail him inside, hiding my disappointment that this night has already come to an end.
I fish out a couple of clean blankets from the cupboard before grabbing the nicest pillow off my bed and setting Zac up on the downstairs couch beside Trouble’s makeshift dog bed.
After leaving him in the bathroom with a spare toothbrush from my bulk pack, I head back upstairs and shut the door to my bedroom, his comment doing circles in my head.
I’ve somewhat regrettably never really seen your ass.
What the hell? Is this just a guy thing? Guys like asses in general, don’t they?
As I crawl beneath the sheets, an image invades my mind of Zac strolling around in the room beneath mine wearing nothing but his T-shirt and boxer briefs.
Jesus, Josie. I scrunch my face into the pillow, hunting for the source of these weird thoughts so that I can annihilate them.
Zac and I have had our chances to turn our effortless intimacy into something more. We even floated the idea of going to the high school formal together over blushy giggles, but when Emily Weston asked Zac to go with her, he didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so he said yes. I ended up going with Lucas Pallas, who was so timid that he barely said two words to me the entire night.
Zac’s never been anything more than my favourite friend and sidekick. But it’s been an ice age since I’ve seen him, and he looks undeniably good right now, and that’s thrown me off balance.
The desolate silence floating through the open window shakes me straight. We’re not in Sydney anymore, we’re in Newcastle, and this isn’t where my life is.
Zac and I live in two different worlds now, and he is not and has never been part of my hopes, my dreams, or my plans. Not in that way.