Page 9 of Muddy Messy Love

My eighteenth fucking birthday.

Someone must be screwing with me. A court clerk with a sadistic sense of humour. Or Sergeant Nile as payback for thelies I told. Eighteenth birthdays should be marked with pride, not shame.

The kitchen air thickens to syrup, and my lungs scramble to work. I fist the front of my T-shirt, rubbing my chest as my breaths grow shallow. Dropping the summons to the island, I race to the sink and brace my hands on either side, hunching my shoulders as tears join the chaos. Death grips me, and terrifying thoughts spin until one crushes me in its giant fist, allowing no escape.

In three short weeks, I’m going to jail.

And with that, I spill the contents of my stomach into Beth’s designer sink, heaving like a rabid dog choking on a bone while my dignity circles the drain, bright yellow and acidic.

The second I physically can, I drag myself upstairs, crawl under the covers like I’ve longed to all day, and sob into my pillow until the room grows dark and keys jingle at the front door.

Beth’s heels click against the gallery tiles, growing louder as she nears, before ending in two thuds. The fridge door clatters, followed by the unmistakable chink of a long-stemmed glass settling on granite. One generous serve of sauvignon blanc is Beth’s nightly ritual and as sure as she is smart. Papers rustle, silence follows, then light footsteps hike the stairs. “Aves?” Beth flips the light, and I shield my face with the covers and groan. The mattress dips next to my knees. “Are you okay?”

I lift the quilt without showing my face. “I’m going to jail on my birthday. I can feel it in my bones.”

She squeezes my calf and tsks. “We’ve been over this. That’s unlikely. This is your first offence.”

The wordunlikelyreplays in my head. Not impossible, butunlikely. It was unlikely Mum would disappear interstate. It was unlikely a pandemic would hijack half my teens. A strangled sobescapes my throat, and Beth tugs at the covers. “Oh, honey, come here.”

I surrender my grip but avoid her stare, and she pulls me into her tiny embrace. She smells of Chanel and success, and I sob on her shoulder, ruining her perfection—soiling her silk blouse with snot, mascara, and tears.

“You had another one, didn’t you?” she asks.

I hate that I’m so weak, and I hate that these humiliating attacks broadcast that fact. Beth sighs when I nod against her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” I say, but she shakes her head.

“Don’t apologise. That’s all you’ve done for two long weeks.”

I sniffle in a ragged breath. “Does that mean I’m finally forgiven?”

Beth pulls back to meet my gaze, and her glistening pools of pity reflect the disaster I’ve become. “I don’t hold grudges, Aves, you know that, and I think you’ve been suffering more than enough.” She strokes away the strands of damp hair stuck to my forehead and smiles at me like most mothers would their child. “Listen, I won’t let anything bad happen to you. I’ll call in some favours at work. Find someone to represent you. We’ll make sure this goes away.”

I frown. “You can’t be my lawyer?”

“I don’t specialise in criminal law, but I’ll find someone who does. Someone good, I promise. Trust me, okay?”

I trust her more than I trust myself, but Beth is an eternal optimist and drama tends to leave her be. She walks her path with hard work but little resistance, whereas I’m knocked on my arse at every left turn. Dad is the exception though, I suppose. That knocked us both, but we never talk about that because it turns out timedoesn’theal all wounds.

Beth squeezes my shoulders. “Does that sound like a plan?” Bunching the quilt against my sternum, I nod. “Good. That’ssettled, then.” She raises my chin, forcing my eyes to hers. “You’re not alone, Aves. Know that.”

Why is it, then, I always feel precisely that?

Three

Yesterday, Comet Park soundedlike torture. Today it sounds like death. But Jen quashed my attempt to bail using every weapon she owns. Rows of praying emojis. Selfies of pleading eyes and pouty bottom lips. Declarations of love.The threat of kidnap. Then came this: “You can’t hide in that house forever, and what true friend would let you?”

She has a point, so here I am. Face puffy from last night’s mess, nerves frazzled, skin paler than my hair. But I do what I do best. I cage the swamp monster and mask up. “You can do this,” I tell the mirror before practising a smile. It doesn’t twinkle across my empty stare, but most people wouldn’t notice. Slade included.

His smirk flickers through my mind, and I whimper. I wish I could talk to him, visit him, know when he’ll be back. But that’s not how we work. He contacts me. He visits me, and that’s the way it’s been since the day we first met—the day he boarded my near-empty train and flashed that magic smile. It took monthsof odd behaviour to discover why, but by then it was too late. My heart was his, and Slade’s velvet words and hypnotic promises were everything it longed to hear.

The distinct purr of Liam’s car sails up to the mezzanine. I close the lid of my mascara, shove strawberry lip gloss into my satchel, then ram my feet into black high-tops. I grab my fake leather biker jacket—one of my better thrift shop finds—and plod downstairs, hitching it on and over the cropped purple turtleneck I found at the same Salvos store.

Beth glances up from her book and smiles. Her jade cable-knit jumper drapes off one delicate shoulder as she sits curled up on the velvet sofa. She owns exactly one outfit for relaxing, because that’s all she needs. One evening a week requires no more.

“Have fun,” she says. Last night’s worry has vanished from her brow. The hermit is leaving the building for the second consecutive day, and she’s pleased. I wish I felt the same way.

Leaning down, I plant a kiss on her cheek. “I’ll try.”

I climb into Liam’s back seat, holding my breath against the acrid fumes, and once sealed inside, plaster onthe smile. Liam and Jen turn in their seats. “Hey, Aves.” They speak in unison, then giggle like love-drunk fools. Their gooey eyes meet, and the sinking sun beams through the windscreen, silhouetting their profiles in a poster image of young love.

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