Page 133 of Muddy Messy Love

“I don’t care,” she says, but I don’t budge. “Let’s sit down, then.” Jen walks over to my makeshift bed and plonks down on the quilt, proving she’s as brave as she is caring. That quilt is covered in snot, sweat, and sadness. I wince on her behalf before shuffling down beside her, resting my right shoulder against her left as we lean against the wall. She threads our hands together, giving mine a little squeeze, then pins me with soft yet determined eyes. “Now tell me everything.”

I take a deep breath and stare at the scraps of purple nail polish left on my toes, then relay every single horrible detail of the forty-eight hours that broke me.

Jen cries when I cry—my pain her own—and I apologise for dumping on her, but every time I do, she insists that’s what friends are for. She doesn’t proclaim Cole a bastard or Sheila a psychotic shrew. Nor suggest I hear Cole out or chastise me for quitting my job. She doesn’t even get angry. Jen simply holds space while she holds me and promises everything will be all right. And when the well of tears has finally drained, I’m ushered to the shower.

Jen gifts me fresh clothes from my room, saving me the brutality of going up there, then makes us hot chocolates and cheese toasties.

I curl up on the sofa with my knees guarding my chest and nibble at the corner of my lunch. My hair paints wet patches on my Adele concert tee, but some of the tension in my muscleshas gone along with a morsel of despair—washed down the drain with the dirt and stench of my rotting heart.

“Do you remember when we met?” Jen asks from the other end of the sofa, cradling a jumbo geometric mug in her hands.

“Of course,” I reply. It was at the start of grade four. I went to wash my hands at the end of recess and heard small, huffy sobs echoing from a toilet cubicle. I knocked on the door, asking if she was okay, but no answer came, yet the sobs continued, leaving me only one choice. I dropped to the filthy wet floor and wormed my way under the door to find the new girl from my composite class. She had tear-stained cheeks, frizzy copper braids, and a cute spatter of freckles across a heart-shaped face. Instantly, we were friends.

“You saved me that day.”

I scoff. “I didn’t save you.”

“Yes, you did.”

I roll my eyes.

“Don’t do that.” Jen frowns at me. “Don’t discount that experience for me.”

Her words slap me in the face. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”

Her expression softens. “I wanted to die that day. For the first time in my life, I questioned if I should be here.”

I close my eyes and shudder. “I didn’t know.” I mean, tiny Jen was super sad, sure—but contemplating death at age ten? No. That wasn’t on my radar. It might have been a year later, thanks to Dad, but certainly not then.

“That’s just it,” Jen smiles wistfully. “I didn’t feel that way for long. A fierce heroine charged in on her white horse and dragged me to safety, forever changing my life.”

My cheeks heat, but a smile cracks through the sorrow. “They were idiots for saying those things to you.”

Jen chuckles. “And boy, did you let them know it.”

Recalling my tirade, I smirk. “They had it coming.”

Jen beams as she shakes her head. “I’d never met such a ballsy nine-year-old. What did you say to them? That if they dared taunt me again, your sister would sue them so bad they’d be homeless and their family would starve to death.”

I shrug. “Beth was almost a lawyer. We could have made it happen.”

Jen smiles. “You made them apologise, take back every cruel word they ever said in front of the whole canteen. And then,” Jen chuckles, “well I don’t have to remind you about that.”

I smile to myself. It wasn’t easy getting all the seat posts out of their BMX bikes, but filling them with sardines was one of the most satisfying experiences of my young life—well worth having fishy fingers for a day. No one messes with my bestie.

“You saved me that day in so many ways. By believing in me. By defending me. By showing me a truth I couldn’t see: that I was worth fighting for. Now I’m going to repay the favour.”

My stomach twists as a teardrop splats to my plate. “This is so different, Jen.”

“No, it’s not. Someone’s been bullying my best friend for years, and it’s time it stopped.”

“Sheila’s long gone,” I say.

Jen shakes her head. “I’m not talking about your mum. I’m talking aboutyou.”

I almost choke on my toastie. “Me?”

As I plonk my plate on the coffee table, Jen raises her brows. “Yes, you. When you told me what happened earlier, beyond Cole’s deceit, Sheila’s barbarity, and your broken heart, there was one big problem.” I frown, and Jen continues. “Do you realise how many awful names you called yourself? The horrible things you said aboutmybest friend?” Jen counts her fingers. “You claimed you’re stupid, trashy, naïve, delusional, unlovable, fatally flawed, and worthless. You are your own worst enemy,Avery Masters. You wouldn’t let anyone speak to me or anyone you care about the way you talk to yourself. Am I right, or am I right?”

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