Page 21 of Love, Just In

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. ‘Theymovedto 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.’

Thetsksound 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 drinkallthe 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-headanda 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 sodomesticatednow,’ 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 acountry 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 whatdo 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 justmyinhibitions 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.’

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