Page 49 of More Than I Can Bear

Why would you like shit like this?one stranger had said in reply to one of my regular commenter’s praise.

This is shit, said another.My kid brother could draw better than this.

Shit, the comments said, over and over in as many variations as they could come up with. Over and over they described just how awful my work was and then, by extension, me. Dumb slut. Stupid bitch. Who do you think you are? He’s too good for you. But why, that’s what I wanted to know. Why were all of these people taking time out of their day to hate on me? Then as if in answer to that, a call from my dad came through.

“Freya?” He didn’t give me time to answer. “Freya, love, is there something you need to tell us? They’ve got you on the telly.”

No.

That couldn’t be true. The phone fell from my fingers, and I could only hear Dad’s voice coming thin and tinny through the speakers. This was what I didn’t want. I didn’t want a fuss, didn’t want my name in the mouths of journalists. I was happy as I was, quiet, invisible. For some reason my eyes went to River, as if he’d somehow have the answers. I stared at him, mutely pleading for my father to be wrong, but instead of lying to me, he handed me the remote. I turned on the TV with a strange kind of fatalism, scrolling until I found the news channel.

Brent Hollow was the talking head that droned away every evening on the current affairs show Mum loved to watch. I was used to tuning his voice out, not paying attention to it. He wore a crisp navy suit and a slight frown as he spoke to the camera.

“2023 Magarey Medal winner, Adam Farrelly, had an incredible year in football, but the same couldn’t be said off the field,” Brent said. “The first slip up was missing the medal count altogether, embarrassing both the SANFL and his team by not being present when it was announced he’d won. Then there was this apology.”

I hadn’t been able to watch the clip closely when I first saw it. Adam had said my name on state television and that had everyone looking at me. How many Freyas in the city could there be? That’s what they all mutely asked, then not so mutely. Katie had said something, then Gloria, their voices drowning Adam out, but now I caught Adam’s every word.

“Freya, if you are seeing this, I…” I watched his throat work on the TV screen, saw the real pain there and wondered at it. What did he have to be sorry about? He’d done what he wanted to, bitten me, claimed me. “I’m sorry. I…” He was struggling, I could see that, contrition clear in the way his brows creased and then smoothed again, his jaw muscles. “I did the wrong thing.”

He shouldn’t have claimed me, he seemed to realise that, or did he regret claiming me at all? Was it something that just happened in the heat of the moment and then he’d recoiled in horror, just like I had when I’d seen Kaine?

“I screwed up,” he said so earnestly, staring into the screen, “and I’m so, so sorry.”

And that was the trouble with this kind of thing. Adam had decided to talk to the media, he’d decided to apologise publicly, drawing focus on him and me. But it was all so completely one sided. He didn’t find me, have a conversation, explain what he’d done and then fall on his sword. No, he’d known what I was to him the moment he met me and he’d decided to sweep me off my feet. When he had me right where he wanted me, he’d swept in, making me feel more pleasure than I dared dream of and then...

“Freya…” River said quietly.

“No.” My fingers clutched the remote tight as the video footage of Adam faded away and was replaced by the studio set again. “No.”

“Freya—”

“And is this heartfelt apology for the football supporters?” the presenter asked, his lips thinning. “The loyal fans who turn up, rain or shine, to watch the games? No, Farrelly is only interested in making reparations to this Freya.” His eyes seemed to glitter. “ThisFreya, we believe.”

I was up and on my feet, unable to stop myself from physically recoiling when I saw the photo on the screen. It was one Jack had taken when I had set up my first craft fair, but my embarrassed smirk was meant to be displayed only on her personal Insta feed which was followed by friends and family, not on TV.

“Freya North, is an employee of the Java Hut, though it isn’t her coffee creations that seem to have caught the eye of the footballer, but these. She describes herself as a creator of custom fashion, adorning everyday objects with her own distinctive style of art and selling these repurposed objects at a local craft market. A style viewers might recognise from the post-medal press conference Farrelly gave.”

This was it, the smoking gun that had shot me right in the heart. This was the neon arrow directing all those fans’ ire at me. River was saying something, but I couldn’t hear it, not over the whoosh of my blood in my ears. My eyes flicked all over the screen, as my greatest dream and nightmare happened all at once.

Several of my product shots from my social media were flashed up on the screen, giving me a kind of exposure I could only dream about, but that’s the problem with a higher profile. Jack had explained it to me several times like this. Organic reach was slow but it helped you find the right people online who’d support your work. More artificial reach, like a news article, brought all the boys to the yard. In my case, there were those that supported Adam, no matter what. Others that were just angry I’d touched someone they wanted to. The anger, the bile, made more sense now, but it didn’t make me feel any better.

“Farrelly mentioned that a young woman had helped him through a bout of…” The presenter made a small sound of disbelief. “…gastrointestinal distress, that she’d left a shoe behind, one that appears to have been customised by this same Freya North, though I don’t believe this apology stems from forcing a young woman to assist while vomiting. We’ve seen media reports of bad behaviour from our sportsmen over and over, where privileged young men act out in ways that make clear they are no role models. Is this Freya yet another victim of a sporting culture that ensures proper behaviour on the field, but cares little for what happens off it? We spoke to a few people who know the young woman to try and get some insight into what happened.”

“No…” I whispered as I saw Katie flash on screen. This was shot in the cafe, after I’d left. I recognised the way she’d had her hair tied up, the colour of her lipstick and the twinkle in her eye as she regarded the camera.

“Freya? She’s always been kinda quiet, low key, y’know. You barely know she’s there.”

I didn’t want this, didn’t want a cross section of people in my life giving their hot takes on who I was for the camera.

“Freya.” River was up and out of his seat, blocking the view of the TV with his broad body and padding closer. “I’ll turn it off. This is bullshit.”

“Freya?” The view on the screen flashed to a guy it took me a few seconds to recognise. Jesus. Mark? We’d been to school together, hung out in the same friendship group until I developed an unfortunate crush on him. He looked different, no longer the clean-cut guy from art class. But that crooked smile, I knew it anywhere, because I’d memorised it, mooning after him while the teacher taught us about modernism and postmodernism, then catching his every response in the school yard. He wrinkled his nose now and then snorted. “I mean she’s a nice girl and everything, but I think you’ve got the wrong person. She’s not exactly the type football players chase after.”

He was saying exactly what I’d been thinking, so why did that sting so much?

I flinched at that, the decisive click of the TV being turned off forcing me to look up. River set the remote down on the kitchen counter, but didn’t come any closer.

“I left…” I said, telling him something I needed to tell Adam, but he was the only one here. “Even though I didn’t want to.”

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