Page 67 of Love, Just In

Mum and Dad’s round-eyed regret over that fact filtered through their otherwise palpable excitement today, but my sparkling smile of encouragement seemedto 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 totry 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.

CHAPTER 24

Today

The first few nights after my discharge from hospital, I hardly sleep a wink. Every hint of a dizzy spell or twinge of a headache makes me worry that my brain is haemorrhaging from the concussion. What if I fall asleep and don’t wake up? Fortunately for Zac, being on night shift means he’s not home to bear witness to this neurotic behaviour. I’m fully aware it would seem extreme to him—to anyone, really—yet I can’t seem to make it stop.

When I finally accept that I’m probably not going to die of an undiagnosed brain bleed, I begin to relax. I spend my recovery days solving puzzles on the dining table, reading dog-eared historical novels in the bath, strolling around Hamilton with Trouble at my heels and chatting with Christina on the phone. I hardly even see Zac, who’s either sleeping the day away or out somewhere. When I text him to ask if he’s with Meghan or if I need to sendout a search party, all I get back is a one-word ‘no’, and zero explanation as to which question he’s even answering. Regardless, I feel guilty about commandeering his heavenly bed for so long, so I wash all the sheets and make myself a new spot on the couch. I expect a bit of pushback for that, but Zac barely says a word about it.

On day six, I realise that he’s being more than quiet. He’s avoiding me. When I’m in the living room, he disappears into his bedroom. When we cross paths in the kitchen, he keeps our conversations short. After Lola visits with a bunch of native flowers the size of Antarctica, I bring them to Zac and do the old ‘you shouldn’t have’ joke, but he barely cracks a smile.

Chatty, smiley, doting Zac has evaporated. And if there’s something worse in the world than Zac Jameson being upset with me, I haven’t found it. I’ll never forget the time he stopped talking to me for two weeks in high school when I continued to date an older uni student who felt me up after I’d asked him to stop. It took the agony of Zac’s silent treatment to scare me into action and dump the guy.

I watch Zac toss back his morning coffee, observing how he refuses to meet my eyes.

‘Can I come grocery shopping with you this morning?’ I ask, swallowing nervously. ‘I want to practise being around people again before I go back to work tomorrow.’

Dumbest excuse ever, but I need the face time with Zac to feel out this mood he’s in.

‘If you want,’ he replies, bending to stack the dishwasher without another word.

By the time we get to the supermarket, my gut is being slowly eaten alive by how little Zac’s saying to me—or even looking at me. I have to resolve this the only way I know how: by being an absolute child.

‘Look out!’ I cry, pushing past him to leap onto the back of the shopping trolley and ride it down the cereal aisle.

‘Jesus, Josie,’ he huffs as the trolley sails towards an elderly woman inspecting a packet of sliced bread. I leap off the trolley and jerk it away from her just in time.

Zac’s hand lands beside mine on the handle. ‘Are you high on painkillers or what?’ He carefully guides me and the trolley away from the lady.

I pout. ‘Don’t you remember doing that when we were kids? We always laughed ourselves stupid.’

‘You’re recovering from a concussion.’ He tosses a packet of dark-roasted coffee beans into the trolley.

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