Page 52 of Lying Is My Love Language

I hesitate.

The last time I was in this bed, I wasn’t pretending.There was no curated version of me to maintain, no lies about playing piano, no vegan miso marinades.Only heat and want and Luke’s voice in my ear.

I shake the memory off and smile at Dylan, my hands pulling at my shirt.

It’s fine.It’ll be fine.Just a weekend.Just a baby shower.Just one massive emotional landmine waiting to explode beneath my excellent vintage boots.

What could possibly go wrong?

FIFTEEN

We arrive as the sun slips behind the river red gums, casting a honeyed glow over the main house.The air is thick with the scent of dry grass, eucalyptus and something faintly smoky, as if the land itself is exhaling.Gravel crunches under our shoes as we approach the back porch, where lights flicker to life against the peeling timber.Dust curls in lazy spirals around our ankles, and insects buzz in the amber light, the whole scene humming with that peculiar outback stillness – alive and quietly watching.

From somewhere inside the house, music filters out – Fleetwood Mac.Dylan reaches for my hand, and I let him take it.Sophia Thornwood – Darcy’s mum and the elegant matriarch of this sun- scorched empire – appears at the door with a smile and two beers in her hands.

‘Here you go, love,’ she says, handing one to Dylan and waving us inside.‘The boys just knocked off for the day.They’ll be in shortly.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Thornwood,’ Dylan says.‘You’ve got an incredible place out here.’

He means it.It’s sweet.And tragic.

Dylan, with his conflict-free linen shirt and his alt-lifestyle, sticks out here like a compost bin at a rodeo.Sophia humours him with a polite nod and says, ‘You’re too kind.’

As we make our way through the house, Gloria passes us in a cloud of Chanel and white wine, laughing at something no one else seems to have heard.Ella spots us from the kitchen island.‘There you are,’ she says from behind the chopping board.‘Settled in okay?’

I nod, too casually.‘Cabin three.Feels like old times.’

Ella smirks, slicing cherry tomatoes.Her gaze slides to Dylan.‘I forgot to mention that the wi-fi is down, so you’ll be out of reception this weekend.’

Dylan smiles.‘No worries.The only person I speak to regularly is here anyway.’

Ella’s eyes jump between us, adding up the maths and not happy with the answer.‘So, Dylan, Jamie mentioned you’re working on a start-up?’

I brace.

‘Yep,’ he says.‘It’s sustainably grown organic hemp milk.High protein, low water usage.We’re in pre-launch but it’s gonna take off.’

Ella nods, expression unreadable.‘Hemp milk.’

‘Yep,’ he says again, proudly.

I resist the urge to implode.Ella’s too polite to laugh, but even the ceiling fan looks unconvinced.Before I can lie us out of the conversation, Darcy’s father, James, wanders in.He’s weathered and gruff and probably doesn’t understand Spotify, let alone Dylan’s start-up.

‘Musician, eh?’James says, eyeing Dylan as if trying to figure out his pronouns.

‘Sort of,’ Dylan says with a humble shrug.

James frowns, then slaps a hand on Dylan’s back.‘C’mon.The men are outside.’

Dylan looks to me and I give him a gentle shove to send him on his way.As they head outside, I turn to the kitchen – to the noise,the wine, the women who are the heart and soul of most homes.The ones who plan the meals, wrap the Christmas presents and remember the birthdays.While the men get to switch off and relax, the women dice tomatoes and shoulder the emotional labour of three generations.Every.Single.Day.

‘Jamie,’ Sophia calls out from where she’s mixing a pot of gravy on the stove, ‘would you lend a hand for a bit?’

Perfect.Nothing says escape like being drafted into kitchen duty.I’m halfway through pretending to know what a reduction is when Gloria corners me with a glass of chardonnay and a raised eyebrow.‘There’s my favourite misfit.’

‘Hi, Gloria,’ I say, kissing her softly on the cheek.

She doesn’t hug me, just hands me the wine and slides into my space.‘How are you really?’