Page 19 of Power Moves
Remi’s dad is a very lovely, very literal accountant. On hearing even the vaguest polyamory references, he’d probably start googlinghow to chat to your daughter about her sexual preferences. He’s one of those parents who’s never been afraid to sacrifice his own comfort for the sake of an Important Conversation. Within our friendship group, his Intro to Contraception talk is the stuff of legend (‘only pill = more spill’). He’s definitely a wonderful father but I’ve always been grateful that my dad is more classically Australian, in that he likes to skip over awkward conversations and pretend everything’s fine.
‘It’s a clash with the ARIAs,’ explains Jessie.
Remi sighs. ‘Fair enough. Itisthe night of nights for Australian music. You might get to meet the purple Wiggle.’
‘I should be so lucky,’ Jessie groans.
‘I think he’s married,’ I interject.
‘Another life regret,’ Jessie deadpans.
Remi laughs. ‘So that just leaves you, Millsy. Do you have any life regrets to bring to the table?’
Even though I know it’s a joke, I’m immediately overwhelmed with the pressure to dissemble so they don’t realisethat actually, yes, I have many life regrets, including a giant doozie that rules my life like an overzealous TikTok algorithm. ‘Er, I once made out with the bouncer from the Royal?’
Jessie explodes into peals of laughter. ‘Oh my god, I remember that!’
I giggle with relief. ‘He was actually lovely.’
‘You say that about Bryan!’ hoots Jessie.
‘You say that abouteveryone,’ adds Remi.
‘Ha!’ I bark. ‘I was literally just thinking yourdadis lovely!’
‘Bryan, the bouncer from the Royal and my dad shouldneverbe in the same sentence,’ declares Remi. ‘That is too weird.’
‘Shoot, root, marry!’ cries Jessie wickedly.
‘Noooooo!’ Remi shoves her hands on her ears.
‘Don’t worry, your dad’s not shootable or rootable,’ says Jessie matter-of-factly.
Remi shrieks. ‘So you’d marry him?!’
Our collective burst of laughter is like dynamite, and every time we get to the point where the giggles should be slowing down, our bodies seem to decide that, nope, we’re in it for the long haul.
‘You guys are the worst!’ wheezes Remi.
I’m shaking so much my abs are hurting. ‘Jess likes to live boldly!’ I cackle.
‘Stop!’ gasps Jessie. Her face is lobster-red. ‘You’re going to make me wet my pants.’
Remi actually convulses and falls off her milk crate.
‘No, I actually am!’ cries Jessie, eyes widening. ‘I can feel it coming! STOP!’
That makes us laugh harder and when the guy behind the counter gives an unimpressed ‘ahem’ it’s even worse. We are three stupid, hilarious women and in that shimmer of a moment, I decide that if Jessie wets her pants it will be a life regret that was totally worth it.
‘Oh Jesus,’ says Jessie, as our giggles finally subside and Remi’s bodily control is restored to the point where she can sit on the milk crate again. ‘Let this be our lesson to never call anyone “lovely” ever again. It’s even worse than “means well”.’
‘Or “nice”,’ adds Remi.
Jessie nods vigorously. ‘Yeah, don’t ever call me nice.’
I chuckle to myself. I wouldnevercall Jessie nice. Brilliant, magical, the funniest chick in the southern hemisphere? Definitely. Butnevernice. Her eyebrows are way too condescending for that.
‘Mill, your phone,’ says Remi, pointing to it buzzing across the table.
