Page 15 of Broken Trails
Green tea. I try not to scrunch my face up at the thought of drinking it.
“This is good for relaxation,” she says. “And suppressing the appetite. It’s divine.” If that’s not a dig, I don’t know what is.Suppressing the appetite.
Because God forbid we have a conversation without some passive-aggressive commentary on my weight. I stare at the cup, the bitterness already clinging to the back of my throat.
I stare at the tea with disgust. “I don’t need my appetite suppressed.” My smile doesn’t reach my eyes. “It’s been that way since I came back home.”
She pauses, and the room goes still. Too still. It’s subtle, but I catch it—a flicker of something in her face. Concern? Guilt? It’s gone before I can name it, replaced by the same polished mask she always wears.
Her eyes skim over me, and I feel every pass, every lash of silent judgement. The weight I’ve battled my whole life, thanks to stubborn insulin resistance that doesn’t care how many diets I’ve tried. The freckles dotting my skin—face, arms, back—she’sbeen commenting on since I was a kid. The cellulite on my thighs, the tiny spider veins winding their way across my legs like tiny maps to nowhere. And my face—
Thirty-six years written in faint creases around my eyes, in the frown line Liam always hated. “You should get Botox,” he’d say, all casual, like it was a kindness. “And your lips. They could use more shape.” I never did.
And God, how he hated that.
Back in Sydney, it was easier. Or maybe I convinced myself it was. I had my routines, like Pilates with Ana, my Brazilian instructor, a ray of sunshine wrapped in leggings and a thick accent.
“Zoe, darling, you’re too hard on yourself. Breathe. Relax. The universe loves your flaws; why can’t you?” For an hour a day, she made me believe my body didn’t need fixing.
But now, sitting here with Mum, I feel every flaw under her gaze.
“Still, you should drink it more regularly. It has all kinds of health benefits. Jazzy and I drink it all the time—oh! That reminds me.”
Here we go.
“You must come to tea on Saturday. It’ll be good for you to get out, mingle with others. Jazzy will be there, with Toni.”
Ah. Toni. The girl who made high school hell and somehow managed to keep the same energy well into adulthood. Perfect Toni. I’ve never liked her.
“I don’t know, Mum—”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just something small. We do it every Saturday, and you will come.”
Her tone leaves no room for argument, but I still hesitate, the idea of sitting through tea with Toni making me queasy.
“I’ll let you know,” I say finally, forcing the words out. But we both know I’ll be there. I always am, in some way or another, even when I swear I won’t be.
The conversation lulls, her satisfied silence grating against my nerves. I glance around the room, at the same damn walls, the same photos, the same suffocating sameness. I force a sip, the bitter taste coating my tongue, and put the cup down a little too hard. It clinks against the saucer, and I flinch at the noise. Mum doesn’t seem to notice—or maybe she does and just doesn’t care.
She keeps talking, her voice a steady murmur I’ve stopped listening to, and I wonder if I’ll ever feel comfortable here again. If I ever truly did.
The café smells of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries.
I’m craving a decent coffee, and this little spot on the corner of Wattle Creek’s town square looks promising. It’s been too long since I’ve been in a town so small that strangers say hi on the street. Not like Sydney at all. There, no one looks twice unless they want something. Here, people smile, nod, and, unfortunately, whisper.
I push open the door, a little bell jingling above me, and instantly feel out of sorts. The space is cosy, with walls painted a warm cream and mismatched wooden furniture that screams rustic charm. A few patrons glance up at my entrance before returning to their conversations. I step toward the counter, scanning the chalkboard menu.
“Hi there! What can I get you?” asks a young girl behind the counter, her smile so wide it almost disarms me. Almost.
“An iced matcha latte, please,” I say, already anticipating the answer. She shakes her head apologetically.
“Oh, we don’t do matcha. Sorry!”
Of course, they don’t. “Right. Uh, do you have alternative milks?”
“We’ve got soy, almond, oat—”
“Oat?” My brows lift before I can stop them. “You have oat milk?”
