Page 31 of Love is a Game

“Viv uprooted her entire life—and Finn’s. Gave them both a fresh start. Gave Brady the chance to finally know his son. And the whole restaurant thing has taken off. Plus, the food tours. They’re even writing a cookbook together!” she exclaims as we exit town.

I confess I’m still grappling with viewing Brady as a responsible adult—and an obviously committed dad—something I never would have imagined.

“Well, after meeting Brady’s parents, I’m not surprised he’s a good father,” Misha asserts. “They’re so down to earth and sweet. They adore Vivian and Finn, that’s for sure.”

A smile softens her features. “Steven’s family is super nice, too. I think that’s a big thing to know about someone, don’t you think? What kind of family life they have…”

A nugget of discomfort lodges in my chest. Is that what it inevitably takes? To be a good partner and parent, you need to have that exampled to you throughout your life? To feel it through those early years when experiences layer into your psyche?

Tuck’s parents are good people too, through and through. The type who demonstrates their love with hugs and encouragement, attention and care. Whose love for their son is so encompassing, I feel it flowing out of them even as I exist on the periphery.

Meanwhile, my formative years were spent on the road with my parents’ arguments and all-around instability. When the unrest would make me shrink into made-up fantasies to escape. Like inserting myself into TV sitcoms as a much-adored middle child with a real bedroom, stuffed toys, family dinners, and actual friends.

“How a guy gets along with their family, especially their mother, tells you a lot!” Misha emphasizes.

“Except, you also don’t want them to get along too well with their mothers,” I counter. “My last boyfriend took off back to Brazil six months ago because he missed his mom so badly.”

“Mmm, Brazilian.” Misha bites her lip. “Hot, I bet?”

“Seriously hot. Unfortunately, I don’t think he could ever love another woman as much as his mom.”

Misha giggles.

Maybe it’s my altered state—still vaguely hungover—or Misha’s unfiltered enthusiasm, but the tension I’ve been carrying starts to unravel.

She handles both the oversized Jeep and the conversation with effortless confidence, chatting easily, even as she smoothly navigates around touring minibusses and the occasional transport truck rumbling north.

There’s something disarming about her openness, the way she shares without hesitation. It only makes me more aware of how guarded I keep myself. I’m as closed off as an Egyptian mummy next to her.

Even when I get stuck on my phone, juggling a few urgent messages from my studio, she keeps the conversation flowing. Before I know it, we’re cruising downtown Newcombe.

We pass John’s office—my mom’s workplace—and my heart stalls, my gaze snagging on the red-brick building, the weathered sign.

Misha chatters on, oblivious to my flicker of unease, and I slowly take in the other elements of the bustling township.

Mom spent so many years here. Did she have a favorite among the string of quaint cafés? Did she stop by Office World for supplies, exchanging polite small talk with the clerk? Or was she as guarded here as she was in Blue Mountain Lake? Quiet. Distrustful. Always keeping to herself.

We stop for lunch in a cute corner place called Kirabees. Its white-washed walls, polished wooden floor, and cascading ferns provide a cool retreat from the sun-drenched street.

The menu proves to be Lebanese-inspired, and soon we’re chowing down on heavenly flavors of baked eggplants, zaatar, hummus, charred capsicum, fetta, watermelon radish, and succulent Lebanese sausages.

“Who knew you could find a gourmet oasis like this in the middle of nowhere?” I scoop up another bite of red pepper dip with warm flatbread.

“Oh, there are heaps of good food spots around,” Misha assures me. “I got all Vivian and Brady’s tips, and I’ve barely worked my way through half the list. I guess the boom in tourism helps sustain all these small businesses.”

“Amazing…it’s sonothow I remember this town. It was more like a single grocery store, one butcher, a baker, and a couple of uninspiring boutiques with odd names like Ula-La and Classic Touch.” I laugh.

Misha flips a hand at my top—a striking matcha-green color, with a wide, exaggerated cowl neck. “So, this isn’t where you got your fashion flair, I take it?”

“God, no.”

As we dig into the meal, she gently prompts me for information—where I learned to sew, when I first discovered my eye for design.

After more conversation and sips of cardamom-scented coffee, something shifts. Maybe it’s the relaxed pace of the meal, or the way Misha listens without pushing—but I take a leap. One I rarely allow. And soon, I’m opening up about myself.

It’s a risk, letting someone see beyond the solid facade.

But it’s also like I have no choice. The emotions stirred by my mother’s death are so big, so all-consuming, they’re pressing against the edges of everything. Something has to give. Some tightly sealed drawer in the cluttered archive of shame and self-pity.

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