Page 98 of Power Moves
That’s when Dad opens the door.
CHAPTER 46
‘I’m fine!’ I cry, pre-empting their concern as I fall onto one of the wingback chairs. I knock over the lamp on my way down, but to my extreme mortification, no one even laughs.
I push my palms into my eye sockets. I just need a moment. Or a million moments. Maybe a year. Or another six.
My voice is tiny when I finally manage to speak. ‘Am I the last to find out?’
‘It’s very new,’ says Dad quietly.
Jessie crouches in front of the chair and her hands find mine. ‘Dad wanted to tell us all together but I’d suspected for a while, so I asked him outright a few weeks ago.’
Maxy perches on the arm of the chair. ‘I call Dad most night shifts when it’s quiet, so I worked it out pretty quickly. He’s not the most cunning of blokes.’
‘And you didn’t want to tell me?’ I can’t meet Dad’s eye.
Dad perches on the other edge of the wingback chair and his hand lands on my shoulder. He smells like the OMO thatcomes in the giant blue box, which brings even more feelings to the surface: he’s still buying Mum’s favourite laundry powder. ‘Oh Mill,’ he says. ‘Of course I did. It’s just …’
‘What? You thought I couldn’t handle it? You thought I’d lose my shit?’ (Noting I fully recognise that I just broke a lamp and am now hyperventilating about laundry powder.)
Dad’s voice is quiet. ‘I wanted to protect you, Mill. We know how hard you’ve been working, and we didn’t want to create a distraction for you.’
I know Dad having a girlfriend is not the end of the world. He’s mourned, he’s lived alone, he deserves some companionship, but I can’t help the way my intestines feel like they’re being turned inside out. This is why I’ve spent six years planning and anticipating: so I don’t have to deal with feelings that roll in like dust storms and leave me gasping for air.
Dad pulls me to his chest and I plant my face on it, trying to soak up his goodness as guilt skewers my stomach. My family still don’t know I betrayed them in the worst possible way.
Dad’s voice is soft as I lean into him. ‘No one’s expecting you to be instantly okay with this, Mill. If you’re uncomfortable, I can ask Alex to leave and she can pop over another time when you’re ready.’
‘No,’ I say, pulling away and rubbing semi-circles under my eyes with my shirtsleeve. ‘I’m fine. I’m sorry I’m crying, I hate doing this to you guys.’
Jessie’s hand rests on my shoulder. ‘You don’t have to apologise, Mill. No one is worried by you crying.’
I wipe the heels of my hands over my eyes. ‘Okay, so let’s pretend this never happened, and if Alex asks, I have badhayfever.’ I try to stand up but I’m barricaded in by three above-average-height humans. ‘Jess, can you please move?’
Jessie, Dad and Maxy share a look, then Dad takes a deep breath. ‘Mill, this is probably not the right time but …’ He pauses, and an alarm bell sounds somewhere deep in my subconscious. As if in slow motion, I see the bob of his Adam’s apple. He’s opening his mouth. I know what he’s going to say and I don’t want to hear it but I don’t know how to make him stop. ‘We want to talk to you about Mum,’ he says.
The sound that comes from my mouth is half-shriek, half-laugh. Nope, nope, nope. I amnottalking about this.
‘I’m fine!’ I say, in a higher voice than I’d intended. ‘I just got a bit overwhelmed about the Alex thing, but I can see now that I was being a massive drama queen, and seriously, Alex seems great. I’m judging her from the quality of the footstool you made, because I haven’t said one word to her yet, but if you like her, I like her, Dad. I’m on board!’ (I’m obviously not—yet—but I could be one day. This is my only positive personality trait: perseverance. I will say the things until I believe the things.Dream, believe, achieve!)
I bark out a slightly hysterical laugh. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ I insist. ‘Keep calm and carry on. Where’s the potato salad? Do you need me to make the dressing?’ I try to stand up again, imagining how I might do some kind of Fosbury flop over Jessie, but Maxy gently forces me back into the chair.
‘Ha,’ I laugh. ‘Nice try.’ I stand up—successfully this time—and push past them, but Maxy’s Go-Go Gadget arm stretches out to catch me.
‘Nice try yourself,’ he says. There’s a smile in his voice but I can’t look at him, because I can feel more stupid tears welling behind my eyes. Suddenly my face is being crushed against his shoulder, his arms are looping around me, and it’s different from the Dad hug. Dad’s hugs are souvenirs from childhood, warm and comforting like buttery toast with strawberry jam. This, on the other hand, is unfamiliar. Maxy and I don’t hug. We playfully punch each other in the arm like we’re testing the air pressure. We flick each other’s upper ears and steal hot chips off each other’s plates. We show our love through DM-ing ferret memes. We only hug when shit gets really, really real, and we haven’t hugged since the time when we couldn’t stand on our own two feet, so we hugged each other to keep ourselves from falling down, and it was the worst thing I’ve ever known. Worse than seeing the hospital bed in our living room and the pill bottles on the coffee table. Worse than holding that fragile, spidery-fingered hand that bore no resemblance to the one that used to slice a serve across the court with just enough topspin to tangle your legs like spaghetti. By the time Maxy and I were hugging, everything had gone to shit. Mum was already a memory.
‘Mill, we’re trying to talk to you,’ he murmurs.
I disentangle myself and aim for an air of calm and grateful understanding. ‘Thanks Maxy, but I’m all good.’ I turn around. ‘Thanks Dad, thanks Jessie, but I am A-OK. Please don’t stress about me.’
‘Mill, you’re not okay,’ says Jessie, standing up. ‘You’ve never cried!’
‘Of course I have!’ I insist. ‘I’m crying right now! I cry every time the Premier’s office calls on a Sunday night toask for urgent talking points. I cry at spin class! I cried when Archie … oh well, don’t worry,’ I mutter shaking my head. ‘The point is, I cry all the bloody time. And I’m fine.’
‘You know what I mean,’ Jessie insists.
‘No, I don’t!’ I lie desperately. Can we please not have this conversation when Dad’s not-male-friend-but-actual-love-interest-slash-POSSIBLY-MY-FUTURE-STEP-MOTHER is outside on the deck?
