Page 55 of Power Moves
‘Do you live in a new-build?’ I blurt.
Archie raises his eyebrow.
‘Like a new-build apartment,’ I say in a rush. I didn’t mean to ask that but now I really need to know. ‘It’s just—you look like a new-build kinda guy. I bet you have a leather couch and a giant flatscreen TV and a massive stainless-steel fridge full of steak and raw eggs and other forms of calorie-efficient protein. Hence the …’ I wave my hands at his muscles, which effectively means I wave my hands at all of him. ‘How many bedrooms?’ I ask, unable to help myself. ‘One? Two? Don’t you dare say three.’
Archie smiles. ‘Two,’ he says. ‘Tyler is always saying I should rent out the spare.’
I let out a low whistle. ‘Two? That isluxe, Archibald. Meanwhile, I have zero bedrooms. My bed is next to the fridge which is next to the TV, and I bought a coffee table but it blatantly doesn’t fit because I live in a shoebox.’ I cackle at my own hopelessness. ‘It’s like I still live in a dorm room.’
Archie glances at the ground, and then back to me. ‘How are you getting home from here?’
‘Bus,’ I reply, pointing to the road that leads to the bus depot.
Archie shakes his head. ‘I’ll drive you. My place isn’t too far away. I just need to grab my car keys.’
‘So we’d have to go to your apartment first?’
‘Is that okay?’
Is he joking?Of courseit’s okay. That would be better than going backstage at the ABC. It would be like seeing the inner sanctum of the devil himself. Imagine the power it would give me. To know the lair is to know the beast. Imagine what I could do with that knowledge!
I’m about to sayHell to the yeswhen I realise Archie isn’t smiling. There’s something in his eyes that unsteadies me.
‘Uh, oh, er, no thank you,’ I stutter. ‘I don’t need a lift.’ My cheeks are suddenly prickling with heat and I’m desperately thankful for the cover of darkness because I do not need Archie to see me blushing.Whydid I have to be so polite?! I made it sound like there’s something awkward between us, when there clearly isn’t. The past week was an exercise in military gamesmanship, nothing more.
I swig more water from my bottle and swallow slowly. Archie is watching me intently, his eyes like charcoal sieves. He’s taking in everything, sifting through it, cataloguing it somewhere in that frustratingly retentive brain. As we look at each other, it strikes me that we are very good at this. If someone ever asked me to list the skills at which I excel, I would be able to say: political analysis, political communication, early nineties–style hip-hop dancing, and staring for extended periods of time at Archie Cohen.
‘I’d better get to the bus stop,’ I say.
‘I’ll walk you.’
‘No, honestly—’
‘It’s late,’ he insists. ‘I want to walk you to the bus stop.’
He looks so sincere that I submit to the urge to pat his arm. ‘Archie, thank you,’ I say, smiling, ‘but I get myself home every night and I’m always fine. And I really need to be going. I have lots of work to do.’
‘It’s nine-thirty on a Friday night.’
I shrug. ‘I’m a star employee.’
Something like concern flickers across his expression and thank goodness. He probably thinks I’m planning a big announcement, which is perfect. While I’m dancing around a field, he’ll be scanning his emails all Saturday and Sunday, waiting for the media release to drop, and then he’ll be grumpy he wasted his whole weekend.
With Archie angry at me, the world will be back in balance.
I hold out my fist. ‘Have a good weekend, Archibald.’
Archie clenches his jaw but gently fist-bumps me back. And with that, we pivot away from each other and stride off in opposite directions.
CHAPTER 25
Spotify’s ‘Noughties Mood Boost’ playlist is blaring through the speakers and our skin is starchy with salt. Outside, the sun shimmers on the serpentine highway that cuts a path through the floodplains, with the hinterland hemming us in from the west. After stopping for a quick swim in Port Macquarie we’re back on the road, now only four hours away from Byron. Jessie has hidden my work phone somewhere and she’s also dropped a sticky Frosty Fruit wrapper in the passenger footwell. I’m attempting meditative breathing to make myself not care.
The traffic is cruising, my sister’s eyes are sparkling, Spotify is nailing every song choice, and yet with each breath I feel like I’m trying to suck myself into a whalebone corset that doesn’t fit.
It’s been forever since I’ve had fun for the sake of it. During uni, I’d mix goon with orange juice and buy festival tickets from random dudes in alleyways, never stopping to considerwhether that was a good idea (knowing inherently that goon wasalwaysa bad idea). Now, I’m struggling to remember the last time I even wentoutout. Sure, I’ve made it to birthdays and engagement parties and weddings, but these days, my fun is diarised weeks in advance. To be going to a festival for no discernible reason feels unnatural. Like tempting fate.
Dancing with Jessie at festivals used to be my version of flow state. We could twirl and twerk and fist-pump, and since we’d already judged the shit out of each other during our teenage years, there was no judgement left to give. Every time we came up for air, all we’d see was each other. The same eyes, the same smiles, different hair, different bodies, but twin souls in a psychedelic safety net of joy.
