Page 3 of Love, Just In

My stomach rises into my throat again at the thought of seeing him.

Why so serious, Josie? This is Zac Jameson … high school bestie, university roommate, inappropriate-humour brother-in-arms. Chill.

My phone pings with a message alert from Christina Rice, my Sydney colleague and dear friend. I inhale another jittery breath. I’ve been waiting for this text since yesterday.

CHRISTINA:Sorry, darling. Justin said he’s not looking to get involved with anyone right now.

I think you’re going to find a gorgeous man in Newcastle. Call me when you’ve settled in? x

The greasy meat pie I downed on the ride up here sours in my stomach as I stare at the screen. Wait … what? Did I imagine the eye-sex I shared with Christina’s urban-planner friend Justin at her birthday party last week? He’d flown in that morning from a conference in Amsterdam and had oozed smart and successful vibes in his tailored shirt and designer jeans. Even Christina had noticed our subtle flirting, and suggested connecting us for a possible date. Buthe’s not looking to get involved with anyone right now.Me being the ‘anyone’.

I swipe out of the message, swallowing the small sting of rejection. Maybe Justin thinks I’m too much of a flight risk, given I’m about to spend the next six monthsliving a two-hour drive away. But perhaps this is the universe looking out for me. If I’m going to be stuck in this regional, beachside city for half a year, I should be channelling my energy into kicking butt at this TV reporting role so that I can impress the bigwigs down in Sydney. It seems counterproductive to leave town to get their attention, but the Newcastle news bureau is part of the same network, and Christina assures me it’s a sort of sideways promotion. Sweet of her to say when we both know that’s not really the case.

After my gaze makes another sweep for Zac, I take a moment to size up my new home. I’ve only been to Newcastle once: I was fourteen when my parents dragged me here for my older sister Ingrid’s soccer game, which apparently required as much attention as a World Cup Final. I’d screamed in my poor mum’s face for separating me from my boyfriend at the time, the blue-eyed, smooth-haired Damien Di Fiore, for yet another one of Ingrid’s higher-priority activities. I’d had no idea that Damien would dump me the following Monday because Clara Ng blinked at him.

Whatever happened to our school’s leading lady-killer? I’ll have to ask Zac, if he ever shows up.

Five minutes crawl by, each one whipping up more unease in my gut.

What if something happened to Zac on the way here?

A memory of my phone blasting at three am pushes into my mind, and I hunch forward until my forehead is between my knees.

But lightning never strikes twice … does it?

A piercing yap shocks my face back up. A pair of tiny coal-black eyes are death-staring me from within a ball of honey-toned dreadlocks that wriggles against a muscular lower leg. I lift my gaze higher and higher until it lands on Zac’s slightly flushed face. He must’ve rounded on me from the building behind us.

Oh my god, it’s the real, in-the-flesh Zac Jameson. The brightness I thought he’d lost has returned to his hazel eyes, and his chest fills out his white T-shirt, which is marked with the slogan ‘Shoot Hoops, Not People’.

Newcastle suits him.

The faintest trace of a smile edges his mouth as I climb to my feet. ‘Hey.’ His voice is deeper and huskier than I remember it.

‘Hey.’

I have much more to say than a one-syllable greeting, but my throat locks as a memory interrupts my vision. It’s of this exact face—younger, rounder, a touch spottier—standing over me on a train station bench beside our Sydney high school.

‘Josie, will you go out with me?’

‘I don’t think so.’

The tiniest shake of my head releases the flashback. We both step forward, our arms lifting and our elbows knocking in a clumsy, barely-there hug before we shift back again.

‘Hey,’ he says again.

‘Hey.’

God, does either of us want to say ‘hey’ for the fifth time? News just in: We’re awkward now!

An uncomfortable feeling tugs in my stomach, but the dreadlocked dog yaps at me again, interrupting my thoughts.

‘What the hell is that thing?’ I blurt through a grin, nodding down at it.

Zac scoops up the pint-sized pooch and presses his smiling cheek against its muss of Rastafarian fluff. ‘This is Trouble.’

‘Are you sure it’s not Bob Marley?’

I’ve forgotten that the cutest sound in the world is Zac Jameson’s laugh. The first time I heard it was when I secretly mimicked our Year Eight science teacher, Mr Rosebottom, who spoke painfully quietly and had a twitchy eye. Not kind of me, but hysterical to thirteen-year-old Zac. He’d laughed so hard that I’d suffered a fierce attack of the giggles too, and Mr Rosebottom had banned us from being lab partners for the rest of the term. Banished to the opposite side of the room, Zac would toss scrunched-up notes at me that said things like: ‘Dare you to twitch your eye every time Rosebottom looks your way,’ and ‘Do you think he speaks so softly so he can hear the voices in his head better?’

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