Page 4 of Lying Is My Love Language

I nearly spit my coffee across the crate.‘Jesus.Don’t remind me.I lost five IQ points on that date.’

‘Speaking of living in the moment …’ Abbey side-eyes me over her now-empty cup.‘Have you packed for Ella’s wedding?’

I let out a strangled noise that resembles a dying koala.‘No.I’d rather pack my bag the night before.’

Abbey and I are due to fly up to the Northern Territory next Friday for Ella’s wedding that weekend.I’m still hoping to come down with shingles or something equally inconvenient, preferably with a dramatic rash, so I can skip it.But, as per usual, the universe offers me robust good health and a window seat on a Jetstar flight to what I’ve affectionately dubbed Bum-Fuck-Nowhere.

‘Well, get your shit together,’ Abbey says, kicking at my foot with her sandal.‘Ella will lose it if you miss your flight.I will too – but mostly because I refuse to be one of those tourists who go missing in the outback.I’m not dying for someone else’s wedding hashtag.’I roll my eyes as she adds, ‘And I refuse to be featured on a true crime podcast.That’s a very real fear of mine.’

‘No one wants to be featured on a true crime podcast,’ I mutter.

Abbey shrugs.‘Either way, you can’t make me do this alone.You’re my support person.’

‘I won’t,’ I lie.God, I hope I will.Does that make me a terrible friend?But honestly, it’s on Ella.I mean, who moves to one of themost remote parts of Australia and then expects everyone to fly out there for a bush wedding?

‘Good,’ Abbey says, leaning back with a satisfied smirk.‘Because I’ve got it on good authority that the men up there are somethin’ else.’

I narrow my eyes.‘Let me guess.Your goodauthorityis also the only person we know up there, who is Ella?Who is getting married to one of those men?’

Abbey lifts her empty cup in a toast.‘You would be correct.’

‘Well, now that I know your source is hopelessly biased, I’m inclined to disagree.However, I shall reserve judgement until I’ve conducted a full survey of the local male population.’

The truth is, I don’t hate the idea of sleeping with someone outside my usual Tinder radius.A quick regional romance with a guy whose job doesn’t involve quarterly meetings or brand development.But how many options are there, really, in the red centre?Who voluntarily lives somewhere with no Uber Eats?

‘Seriously?When was the last time you even went to a bar that wasn’t Brookie’s?’

I blink.‘What’s not to love about Brookie’s?The cocktails are strong, the bathroom has real soap and the bartender lets me cry without judgement.’

Abbey groans.‘That’s my point.You never do anything new.Aside from your Tinder rotations – which don’t count – when was the last time you did something actually exciting?’

My mind flashes to this week’s performance reviews.A real thrill ride, being passive-aggressively evaluated by middle managers who still think ‘viral’ means contagious.Other than that, I’ve got nothing.

‘I do exciting things,’ I argue weakly.

Abbey raises an eyebrow.Waits.

‘I … I—’

She holds up a hand.‘It’s okay.I wasn’t trying to put you on the spot.I’m just saying it wouldn’t kill you to mix things up.’

I laugh, because what else can I do?‘Yeah, yeah.I’m the vanilla ice cream in the Neapolitan trio.’

Her expression softens.‘You’re not vanilla.I’m just saying … try something new.Take up a hobby, like painting or pottery or something.Eat at a restaurant without laminated menus.Flirt with a Northern Territory cowboy.Or whatever they have up there.’

I imagine myself painting for fun and recoil.I once took my mum to a Wine and Paint night, and she got hammered and accused the instructor of sleeping with my dad.Hard pass.

‘Less vanilla, more strawberry.Got it.’

Abbey gives me a look that says I completely missed the point.

Which I did.On purpose.Because the thing is, she’s not wrong.I am the hobby-less friend.The nine-to-fiver who never does anything risky, unless you count sleeping with strangers who pretend not to know what condoms are.I build fake Tinder bios for fun.I swipe as though I’m writing a thesis.I ghost people in curated intervals.If I really think about it, there is nothing – nothing – remarkable about me.

Average height.Shoulder-length brown hair.Greenish eyes most people think are brown, because no one looks long enough to notice the difference.No cool hidden talent to showcase, no side quest to accomplish, no plot for revenge.But hey, I’ve got a decent credit score and an impressive collection of house plants.So, you know – winning.

My phone starts vibrating on the crate.

Abbey peeks at the screen.‘Tell her to divorce him already and keep the good mugs.’