Page 40 of Love, Just In

ZAC:Want me to? If you give me his number, I’ll also happily send him a fake text congratulating him on winning a lifetime supply of tie-dyed T-shirts.

ME:Haha, thanks so much, Dad, but I can do it.

ZAC:You never told me your dad is such a hottie.

ME:You want his number?

ZAC:Hell no. Have you met his daughter?

ME:I know! She has the absolute worst taste in friends.

ZAC:Exactly! They can’t stand her but are too scared to tell her that.

ME:

ZAC:Naw, I’m kidding, nutjob. *hugs*

My cheeks glow, and I have no idea why Zac and I can chat this way over text, but in real life, feel like the Great Wall of China is still standing between us.

I suck in a bracing breath of air and text Davide that I’m moving out and coming to get some stuff tonight, adding that I’d prefer it if he wasn’t there.

He replies an hour later with nothing but a sad-face emoji. I ignore it and continue reading the report I discovered on Zac’s desk while I was in fully-fledgedsnoop mode. It’s directed to the commissioner and chief executive of NSW Ambulance and essentially makes the case that more empathy is needed in paramedic practice.Oh, Zac. My chest twists up as I read through the well-written report, which argues that educators should study empathy to reduce paramedic burnout and increase patient satisfaction. When Zac delves into the suggestion that little empathy is typically shown for physically unharmed survivors at scenes of trauma, I close the report with a pained sigh. I’m still in two minds about whether his history makes him the best person for this critical care job that he’s going for, or the worst.

Liquid trickles into my underpants, and I freeze on the spot like I’ve just been caught shoplifting.

No.

A second trickle chases it, and I bolt into the bathroom, unbuttoning my jeans and yanking them down. A spot of blood deepens on the pad I put in this morning, and I hunch forward on the toilet seat, wrapping my arms around my head.

No, no, no. Please no.

When my phone pings from the kitchen, I change the pad and wash my quivering hands, trying to refill my lungs with air.

The text is from Christina, who’s sent a meme depicting someone turning into a skeleton while waiting for a phone call. Desperate to wrench my mind off the bleeding, I inhale four steadying breaths and tap her number.

‘Is that really you?’ she says in lieu of a hello.

‘I’m so sorry, I’ve been meaning to call you, but things have been a bit manic here.’

‘Manic?’

Leaving out my crippling fears about my weird health symptoms, I fill her in on Davide and his home brothel, and the fact that I’m dating ‘nudist Lindsay’—who’s actually turned out to be way less of a nudist than Davide.

‘It feels like you only got there five minutes ago,’ she exclaims, like I’ve done well on the drama.

‘Newcastle’s way more interesting than I thought.’

She chuckles, and I relax my mind by probing her for baby updates. Her voice trembles a touch when she tells me she’s planning to inform the network heads about the pregnancy next week.

‘You’ll be fine,’ I encourage. ‘You have every right to have a baby. Those bigwigs will be thrilled for you.’

‘OK, what drugs are they giving you in Newcastle?’

I laugh. We both know that pregnant female anchors are seen as a headache in network television, but Christina is as adored by her bosses as she is by her audience. When she launches into another speech about me becoming her replacement, I break it to her that NRN News’s resident favourite up here isn’t me but Meghan Mackay.

‘She’s also dating my friend Zac, if you can believe that,’ I add. ‘She seems totally smitten, so with any luck, she’ll have no interest in a Sydney job because he’s never, ever leaving Newcastle, apparently.’

‘Wait, back up. You mean your best friend, Zac?’

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