Page 110 of Power Moves
‘What are they saying about me?’
‘Hot woman with a terrible boss.’
‘Ha,’ I scoff weakly. ‘I’d read that headline.’
‘Then I’ll write it.’ Archie’s gaze holds mine and my cheeks are suddenly way too warm considering Eastern Suburbs apartments are renowned for their lack of insulation.
‘I’d invite you to come in,’ I say, ‘but …’ I point between the door and his body, which is firmly inside.
‘Yeah, I figured I’d invite myself in, since your manners can be hard to come by.’
I roll my eyes and smile, and Archie grins in response. For a tiny moment it feels eerily similar to the good old days, when we could sustain whole conversations darting from one sarcastic premise to the next, dodging landmines, teasing each other until one of us caved and laughed.
‘Why are you here?’ I ask softly.
Archie drops the newspapers on the coffee table. ‘I saw your statement,’ he says. He opens the first newspaper to page three, where there’s a tiny photo of me, pillaged from LinkedIn, inlaid against a full-page photo of Boss. His hair is as shiny as a bell.
Archie begins to read my words out loud:‘This is a statement I never wanted to make. Even writing it, I feel like a giant cliché. How did I end up here? Is it because I’m young? Female? Because I work in politics? Is it because I’m really unlucky? Or is it because I’m actually luckier than most, in that I’m fortunate enough to have a network of family and friends who are so loving and supportive that I feel confident enough to make this statement. I can imagine many women wouldn’t feel the same, and that’s why they might stay quiet.’
Archie continues but I can hardly listen. It feels so exposing to know that people around the country will be reading my sentences in all their clunky awkwardness, judging my every word.
The problem with language is that it forces us to choose which thought to articulate first, even though we may be feeling a thousand contradictory things at the same time. Do I feel angry? Yes. Am I sad? Yes. Am I hopeful? Also yes, and I feel grateful and embarrassed and privileged and guilty too, and I feel like people won’t understand this, but I also know that is their right. We’re all allowed to interpret things how we want to. That’s what makes the world diverse, and that’s how we learn.
I knew my statement wouldn’t be perfect. I wanted the articulation of the internalised misogyny to be sharper; I wanted the lines about sexism to be more nuanced. But I was scared of wading into or inciting a debate I still don’t fully understand my place in. I’ve existed in a bubble for six years, where the rules of the real world haven’t applied. I helped build the bubble and the bubble helped build me. I can’t separate myself from it, regardless of the words I choose.
I wanted to write a statement that cut to the bone but was also soft and slippery enough that people could lose themselves in it, until they realised it wasn’t only a story about me; it was about them too, and their mothers and brothers and sisters and fathers. We all make snap judgements and we’re victims of them too. We miss red flags and we push boundaries that can quickly become elastic. We judge people and resort to stereotypes as a shorthand to understand where we stand in the world. But maybe that doesn’t mean we’re fundamentally bad. Maybe we’re just human.
Archie finishes reading and I notice a disconcerting cloudiness in his eyes. He draws in a deep breath and rubs his neck. ‘Don’t punch me for saying this, Millsy, but I’m really proud of you.’
My laugh is more like a sigh. ‘Punching you would be a waste of time. I’d have to knee you in the groin.’
Archie holds out his arms. ‘Come here, you big idiot.’
‘Come here yourself,’ I say as I step towards him.
As his arms wind around me, I breathe in his familiar scent: earthy with a hint of citrus. His chest cushions my face; his body is as solid and grounded as oak. It’s a while before I realise I’ve made his shirt damp.
‘Sorry for crying,’ I mumble.
He squeezes me tighter. ‘You don’t have to apologise.’
I sigh heavily. ‘I do.’
I want to take the path of least resistance—the route I’m used to—and pretend like everything will be okay and life will go back to normal, but if I’ve learned anything over the last week, it’s that Kelly Clarkson was right: what doesn’t kill me will make me stronger. If I want things to get better, I need to accept the bad, see it for what it is, and find a way to push through—even if it’s uncomfortable.
These past few years I’ve always taken Archie’s good humour for granted and never said sorry for how I might have made him feel. His whole life he’s dealt with judgement and expectation, smiling when he could have fumed. He could have hardened and become bitter but despite everything, he continues to find the good in people: his friends, his mum,his colleagues, me. He never lost sight of the best parts of me, even when I did.
My eyes lift to his. ‘Iamreally sorry, Archie. For everything. Sorry for judging you, and calling you a footy-head and a Tinder bro. Sorry for calling you Archibald. I don’t want to be another person who takes you for granted or reduces you to some baseless stereotype. Youareso much more and you deserve so much more. I guess I was just too insecure to admit that to myself.’
Archie is quiet for a moment. ‘Thank you,’ he says eventually. ‘For apologising. That means a lot.’ He closes his eyes and when he opens them, he’s smiling. ‘I probably could have gone a bit easier on you, though.’
I shake my head. ‘I would have hated that.’ It’s true. Every day I worked alongside Archie I loved the challenge of it; the thrill of meeting his deadlines, the constant cardio-rush of trying to show myself what I could achieve, of trying to impress him. And at a time in my life when my family were walking on eggshells around me, Archie helped me remember who I was. I could set goals and achieve them. For every working hour of the day, I got to redefine myself. I was a person separate from the girl sinking under the weight of a lost mum. In Archie’s eyes, I was strong.
I clear my throat. ‘If it wasn’t for you and all the Nancy Miller stories, I wouldn’t be on TikTok and I wouldn’t have known the world had so much great baby-goat content.’
I pause, waiting for his smile, but it doesn’t come. Instead he nods slowly and I see that careful expression: the one he makes when he’s preparing his words. His eyes are so dark andfocused it’s overwhelming. And confusing. This is not how we interact. We parry, we joke, we dance across conversations and we smirk. We don’t do serious. I try to catch his eye again, to conjure that smile, but he’s staring at a spot just above my shoulder, determinedly avoiding my gaze.
Diamond pinpricks of rain dot his shoulder lapels. His fingers are still laced around my neck but his eyes are retreating, and I realise:Oh god.This is goodbye!I’ve finally apologised, so now there’s nothing more to say. He came for closure and I’ve served it up on a silver platter.
