One year ago
My ballet flats scuff against the concrete driveway leading to my car while Mum and Dad’s words bounce around my head, still trying to fall into place.
‘We’re moving to Koh Samui. We’ve found an agent there, a lovely lady named Win who’s going to help us sort out our visas and find a beach house …’
They practically tripped over each other to go on about the low cost of living, the gorgeous beaches and jungles, the incredible food, and the fun British couple they met on their last trip there, who are already Thai residents.
Holy shit. My parents are moving to another country, and with my sister on the other side of the world, I’m going to be all alone in Australia.
Mum and Dad’s round-eyed regret over that fact filtered through their otherwise palpable excitement today, but my sparkling smile of encouragement seemed to keep their parental guilt from overwhelming their decision. I’m twenty-six years old; my parents have spent decades putting me and Ingrid first. Moving to Koh Samui is clearly their retirement dream, and I won’t stand in the way of that. If there’s anything remotely positive to come out of Tara’s tragic death, it’s the knowledge that life is too short to tuck dreams away into a ‘one day’ folder.
Still, when I glance through my car window at my tan-brick childhood home that will soon be going on the market, my eyes begin to burn. I angle away from the window so Mum and Dad can’t see my face, and press my fingertips to the corners of my eyes.
It’s gonna be OK, Josie.
Everything’s going to be fine.
The dread that’s been festering in my stomach since I spoke to my doctor on Monday sends my hand back to my underarm. I stroke my fingers over the bulging lymph node through my shirt. When I register that it hasn’t reduced in size since I last felt it in Mum and Dad’s bathroom five minutes ago, I drop my hand and flex my fingers open and shut a few times, resisting the urge to keep touching it.
A thrumming need pushes against my ribs, and I clutch the steering wheel and rest my forehead against it.
God, I still ache for him. For his comfort, his warmth, his smile. Learning to live without Zac has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, but I have to try to understand why he’s stopped responding to my messages and phone calls.
But Zac.
I need you.
I promised myself I wouldn’t keep trying. Not when he clearly doesn’t want me around anymore. But like I’ve lost control of my own body, I snatch up the phone and frantically tap through to his number, holding the cold handset to my ear.
Please answer.
Please answer.
Please answer.
The call rings out.