Page 79 of Love, Just In

Which is where you need to be, Josie Larsen. You are moving back to Sydney in a couple of months. Don’t screw up fourteen years of friendship over a moment of repressed sexual attraction rising to the surface.

Slapping myself into BFF mode, I head for the highway out of Sydney, making one more stop at Christina’s favourite op shop in North Sydney after spotting its late-night ‘open’ sign. The clothing racks fail to impress me this time, but a book on display catches my eye. It’s a large hardback titled:Why Does My Poop Smell Like Food I Didn’t Eat? 200 Questions You’re Too Embarrassed to Ask Your Doctor.A laugh sneaks out of me, and I buy it to go with Zac’s birthday whisky.

The rest of the way to Newcastle, I remind myself that this is the safe space I need to stay in: gag gifts, friendly texts and zero romance. I can do this.

Zac must’ve got home from night shift before my morning alarm because when I do my zombie-walk towards the coffee machine, I notice his bedroom door is shut. The poor thing’s going to sleep the day away on his birthday, but I’m pretty sure he’s now starting his run of days off, so we can celebrate tonight and get our chance to talk. Nerves whip up my stomach, and I do my best to drown them in dark-roast coffee.

Before leaving for work, I set out Zac’s favourite coffee mug beside the birthday whisky bottle and book. On a piece of paper, I scribble:

Happy birthday, favourite.

I’m taking you out tonight, no excuses.

Dress to impress and be ready at 6.

Work plays out smoothly, and Lola and Isabella help me choose the perfect place for tonight: a live music bar called Nightjar that also does whisky tastings. I text Zac the address, offering to drive us home if he can Uber there. I need to stay sober tonight so I don’t screw this up and try to kiss him or—worse—ask him again why he didn’t pick me over his ex, who has sincedied.

I cringe in absolute horror and shame every time I think about it.

The moment I’m done at work, I zip across town to Nightjar, wanting to scope out the perfect spot for us to sit before Mr Punctuality arrives.

The bar is a dimly lit speakeasy hiding in the basement of a luxury hotel, the snug space packed with round tables topped with flickering candles in glass jars. The one table that’s vacant sits in a particularly dark corner opposite the stage.

That table does not look at all like the perfect place to kiss the life out of someone until you get kicked out for indecency.

Tossing slightly annoyed glances at the other patrons taking up the less romantic spots, I order a lemon, lime and bitters and settle into the corner table, keeping an eye on the door and a hand on my stomach to stop it from collapsing.

Five minutes after six, Zac pushes through the door, and an instant rush of affection tightens my throat. A woman goes to exit just after he steps in, and he lurches back to hold the door open for her, giving my eyes a chance to soak him in. He’s in charcoal slacks that sit somewhere between smart and casual, and his light-blue button-down shirt is rolled up at the sleeves. As he approaches me with a slightly flushed smirk, he runs a hand through the curls that flop handsomely over his head.

I am so totally fucked.

‘Happy birthday,’ I say with a strained smile, rising to wrap an arm around his neck, inhaling mint, body wash, and a touch of heaven.

‘Thank you.’ He slides in beside me on the couch, his heavy thigh skimming mine. ‘How did you know I had that poop book on pre-order?’

A laugh rumbles out of me as I hand him the menu. ‘And here I was worrying you’d think it was crap,’ I say with an addedboom-tish. ‘Have a look at what you want to eat, but for drinks, I already ordered you the whisky-tasting package.’

‘Oh wow, thank you. Just me?’

I mime driving a car, and he nods.

‘You could leave the car overnight, and I can drop you off in the morning,’ he offers, tapping the menu against the full bottom lip that I sucked on three days ago.

What’s my name again?

‘Thanks, but it’s OK,’ I manage through my scrambled brain. ‘Some of us actually have to work tomorrow.’ I notice he seems more interested in my face than the menu. ‘How was Sydney?’

The tremble in his voice echoes mine as we catch up over some awkward small talk about work, ignoring the eight-tonne gorilla in the room that looks a lot like the fact that, a few days ago, our tongues were wrapped around each other’s.

A waiter glides over with a tray of whisky tasters, and we each order a plate of buffalo wings off the snack menu. We chat a little more about everything other thanthat wedding, andthat kiss, and when the indie-rock trio kicks into their first set, I mentally thank the universe for giving us a reprieve. But I can’t let Zac leavethis bar without us talking about what happened. Not if we want to stay friends.

The band tears up the stage, and we relax into the couch seat, watching everything but each other.

When the musicians announce a break, the space floods with light chatter and background music, and I turn to look at Zac with an inferno in my chest.

‘So, Zac Jameson,’ I dangle, not playing this coolat all.‘You and I kissed the other day.’

He coughs, nearly spitting whisky back into his glass.

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