Page 92 of Power Moves
‘What are you up to?’ he asks.
‘Oh …’ I don’t feel as hysterical now. I feel devoid of energy, like I’m waiting on a hospital bed for a lung transplant. ‘I’m in Wagga for a work thing. Funny story actually, my boss just kissed me.’
‘WHAT?’ Maxy explodes.
‘Yeah, he just, uh … kissed me … in the corridor.’
‘Mill, that’s not funny!’
‘No, I know.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I just kind of ran away. I think I laughed.’
‘Youlaughed?’
‘Yes,’ I squeak feebly. ‘I didn’t know what to do.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘Not really.’ My voice is teetering now. The bravado of seconds before has vanished.
‘I’m coming,’ he says. I can hear something rustling on the other end of the line and the sound of a door slamming.
‘Don’t be stupid, Maxy. You can’t just drive to Wagga. You’re in Queensland!’
‘I can’t sit here and leave you alone with that creep!’
‘He’s not a creep,’ I whimper. ‘He’s … I just … I don’t know what happened.’
‘Millsy,’ Maxy’s voice is firm. ‘Call Jessie. She’ll drive down.’
‘I can’t.’ My voice cracks. ‘We had a fight.’ The sobs are heaving from my chest now, lurching up like hot, painful balls of tar.
‘Whatever it was about, she won’t care.’
‘You don’t understand,’ I sob. ‘I really upset her. Oh god, I’ve messed everything up.’
‘Listen to me,’ says Maxy sternly. For a knockabout kind of bloke, he can go full Winston Churchill when he wants to. ‘You need to write down what happened so you don’t forget, and then you need to tell someone. You can call the police now if you don’t feel safe.’
‘No, I just …’
‘Millsy, what he did wasnotokay.’
‘No Maxy, it’s fine, honestly. He’s my boss and we had all this wine and …’
A horrible thought occurs to me. It feels like I’m in a room of funhouse mirrors and everywhere I look there are memories of the last six years with Boss, warping and stretching before my eyes. The in-jokes, the late-night texts, the high-fives, the three-course dinners and—
‘Oh god, Maxy …’
I think of what Jessie said to me about Bryan.You’re pretty much leading him on.
‘I … It’s my fault.’ My voice cracks again. ‘I led him on. It’s the … the … the skirts.’
‘Millsy, it’s not your fault. Your skirts have nothing to do with this.’
‘You don’t understand,’ I wail, covering my eyes with my hand as though I can hide from my feelings. ‘Everyone comments on the skirts. I have so many. I kind of thought it was funny. Like having lots of hats but …’ I trail off, wincing at the painful realisation: I’ve got no one to blame but myself.
