Page 50 of Lying Is My Love Language

‘Didn’t come up?’Her voice went high-pitched with offence.

‘Well, flights are kind of expensive and—’

‘Nonsense.’She waved this away as if I’d suggested we couldn’t afford toast.

Then – God help me – she pulled out her phone and opened her CommBank app with the nonchalance of rich folk making a charitable donation.

‘Mum, you don’t have to—’

‘Be quiet.What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t help my daughter?’

The petty part of me had several answers to that.I bit my tongue.She tapped furiously.‘Done.’

She turned to Dylan with a smile that was both warm and terrifying.‘You two should come over for dinner one night.Jamie’s useless in the kitchen, of course – couldn’t boil water without a tutorial – but we manage.’

I fought the urge to throw myself – or her – into the nearest gutter.

Dylan, however, didn’t miss a beat.‘She made me shakshuka last week.It was excellent.’

I stared at him.I bought himtakeawayshakshuka in areusable container.He was lying.Forme.

‘But we’d love to come for dinner,’ he added cheerfully, and I knew then that we could never break up – not unless I wanted to lose custody of the one person who’d ever defended me in front of my mother.

‘Okay, well,’ I cut in, grabbing Dylan’s hand and backing away, ‘this has been lovely.So good.We’ve got to run.’

Dylan offered my mother a little wave.‘Bye, June!’

‘Say hi to Ella!’Mum called after us.

Once we were out of earshot, Dylan nudged me.‘Your mum seems nice.’

So, now I’m stuck flying to Ella and Darcy’s baby shower with a man who thinks I enjoy yoga, organic kimchi and fucking with the lights on.

Ella’s still talking on the phone.‘Maybe some fresh air will bring some perspective.’

Perspective?What I need is a one-way ticket to a timeline where I didn’t say yes to Dylan, or kimchi, or a relationship I built on a foundation of curated Spotify playlists and performative affection.

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ I say, glancing at my screen.‘Listen, I’ve got a meeting, so I’ve gotta run.I’ll see you in a few days, okay?’

‘All good,’ Ella replies, still suspiciously chipper.‘See you soon.’

The call ends.I stare at my laptop.

No meetings.Not a single one.Just a blank calendar mocking me:you lying little fraud.

Sometimes, you are the disaster.And sometimes, you’re simply along for the ride, white-knuckling your way through a lie that’s snowballed into a couple’s flight across the country and an imaginary classical piano career.

The air smells like sunburn and misplaced optimism: crispy leaves and a hint of death.My eyes squint against the vast blaze of red dirt, and I wonder if it’s possible to sunstroke your feelings clean.

Déjà vu hits as the helicopter pilot hands me my leather duffel bag with a sympathetic nod that seems to say,You’re on your own now, sweetheart.Accurate.

‘You made it!’Ella’s voice cuts through the January heat.She still looks positively glowing – pregnancy suits her in that unfair way that makes me want to hug her and also throw her in a pool.

‘How was the flight?’

‘Surprisingly quick,’ I reply.‘Especially when you don’t have Abbey talking your ear off the whole way.’It’s a joke, mostly.But the truth is, she would’ve been the perfect buffer for a weekend like this.If she wasn’t still in Kyoto with her family, I would’ve dragged her here by her perfectly exfoliated heels.

Ella snorts, but her attention shifts past my shoulder.‘And this must be Dylan!Jamie’s told me all about you.’