Page 124 of Muddy Messy Love

Vomit surges up my throat, and I slam my hand over my mouth as I run for the kitchen sink, déjà vu swamping me as acrid yellow slime splashes against stainless steel. I heave, over and over, as the idyllic relationship I thought Beth and I shared shatters into a million pieces. It was all a lie. She’s my mentor—my best friend—my idol. How could she keep this from me?

Pain slams through my chest like nothing I’ve ever felt. I ache, throb, and burn. Every muscle screams like my blood is acid and eating me from the inside out, aiming to leave an empty husk—anumbhusk. One that’ll blow away and never be missed.

Braced against the sink, I work to calm my panic, then wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, clearing away the vomit. I rinse the sink and watch beads of water trickle into the drain, all the while feeling my devastation return to rage. “Who is he?” I don’t turn around or even raise my hanging head, but I speak loud enough for Sheila to hear. Fuck her—she’s Sheila now—no longer is she Mum.

“Hewas a nasty, manipulative arsehole.”

I release a heavy sigh. This old gem. More bullshit. More everyone else is to blame. I don’t want to hear it. Sheila wasa married woman who cheated and fell pregnant. Period. “His name. What’s his name?” I grit through clenched teeth.

“Thomas.”

That’s only half the answer. I spin around, my glare shooting razors at her face. I’ve never felt a stronger need to be violent, and I’m not sure I’m in control.

Sheila’s throat bobs. “Thomas Nilsen. He’s a…politician.”

“Does he know about me?”

“Yes,” she whispers, eyeing her lap, at least having the sense to finally adopt a smidge of humility.

This man knows I exist. He knows and, evidently, wants no part of my life.

I survey the big, open room around me, which suddenly seems fuzzy and fake. Why am I here? Why do I subject myself to Sheila’s toxicity now that I have a choice? Because of blood? Because she’s my mother? Mothers are sacred and universally adored for a hundred reasons missing from mine. There’s no soft place to fall—unconditional love—or trust my best interests even rate. On the contrary, my mother seeks to hurt and destroy me like a missile disguised as a shooting star. So again, I ask, why am I here?

And why the hell is she?

I meet Sheila’s gaze, hoping I’m wrong—hoping I’ll see a glimmer of reason to close my eyes again. But beneath her splotchy cheeks and the speck of genuine fright swims everything I feared. Satisfaction. Excitement. Victory—dancing in the depths of her pupils, the glow of her cheeks, and at the up-ticked side of her smug mouth. She’s enjoying the goddamn show—the psychological horror she creates.She’s enjoying my pain.

Hellfire shoots up my spine, and something snaps inside my brain. The final fucking straw. “Get out of this house,” I seethe under weighted breaths.

Sheila gasps. “You don’t have the right—”

“Get the fuck out!” I growl, my voice unrecognisable with feral rage. I charge to the sofa and grab her under the armpits, yanking her upright.

“Let me go! You’re hurting me.”

I let go only when Sheila complies and stands up in her piss-coloured dress. Then, stealing a page from her bitch-face handbook, I scan her from head to toe, spraying my contempt like Roundup on weeds. Her face is ghostly pale, and her veined feet wobble inside their expensive metallic heels. She’s terrified, and that fact makes me smile a crazy Joker smile. She wants to pretend I’m a monster? Well, wish fucking granted. “You have ten minutes to pack your shit and get the fuck out of this house, or I’ll remove you myself.”

Wide, panicked eyes skitter across my face, scanning for sincerity, but a shaky nod is granted, and Sheila turns away, then rushes from the room.

The lock latches on Beth’s bedroom door, followed by the thump of suitcases being dragged down from the closet shelf.

I sit in numb silence as the front door squeaks open. I count down the seconds as suitcases roll through the gallery. And I fist my hair and scream at the top of my lungs when the door slams shut.

Twenty-Five

I lie in bed,numb and devoid of presence, staring at the roof windows as the sun climbs the blanket of grey, then disappears from frame. Apart from calling in sick, I’ve not spoken to a soul, nor answered my phone the half dozen times it’s rung. I know who it is. Sheila wouldn’t have wasted any time relaying my monstrosity to Beth. No, with the zeal of a tween on speed, Mother dearest would’ve painted a glowing halo above her head and blood-red horns on mine.

I should phone Beth back—explain why I took such liberties in her house—but I don’t want to. That’ll make it real, and right now there’s still hope. Hope that Sheila’s full of shit and I’m still Dad’s treasured girl. Hope that Beth didn’t lie to me all these fucking years.

Wincing, I rub the ache in my chest. Beth’s betrayal swims like hot sewerage, drowning every good deed she’s ever done. Right or wrong—fair or not—I’m gutted. She kept the source of my existence a secret yet still looked me in the eye. She let me envyher—idolise and trust her. And what’s worse, Beth knows about me. About my perpetual unsteadiness—the mental tightrope I walk. The fact I crumble like cake when hurt. Most people are built on a slab of reinforced concrete, and betrayal merely causes a crack. But me, I stand on a Jenga tower forever missing half its blocks.

My phone rattles against the bedside table again, and my eyes fall shut.

Answer it, you coward.

I do without speaking.

“I’m flying home,” Beth says, all flustered and breathless. Car horns blare and engines sing in the background. It sounds like she’s speed-walking through the heart of Sydney.

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