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Fighting off a fresh batch of grief, she fiercely wiped the tears from her cheeks. She’d had enough of crying. She’d wept oceans since the accident. But now Shea needed her. Therefore, she had to find a way to be there for her best friend. Big girl pants and boots were in order.
Not that she’d worn a pair of boots for over ten years. She’d actually made a conscious effort not to. The country girl was long gone, left in the dust of Gum Tree Gully, only to be replaced with a stylish citified version of herself. One she’d tirelessly pretended had a clean slate, a fresh start, a second chance. But now, as she dealt with her husband and his sordid affair, along with his hardhearted approach to their separation, it felt as if her concerted efforts to make a happy life for herself were going up in smoke. What a fool she’d been to believe that living in another part of the world would give her the miracle of becoming a brand-new person with a brand-new life. As a haunted eighteen-year-old girl, she’d told everyone who’d listen that coming here had been all about a journey of self-discovery and healing. Who’d she been trying to fool? It was plain as day that it was, in fact, herself. Nothing, and nobody, was ever going to be able to heal this kind of engrained hurt out of her. She knew that now.
Hindsight could be a real pain in the … heart.
Sucking in another short, sharp breath, she stood, squared her shoulders and firmly told herself for the umpteenth time this past six months that she was a successful, independent, in-control, and, in her firm opinion, very-low maintenance woman, even though her soon-to-officially-be-ex-husband liked to tell her otherwise. Just because she like to be loved with passion didn’t make her high maintenance, or did it? Man oh man, she was sick of second-guessing herself. As a highly sought-after risk analyst, she should know better than to do so. But as with most things in life, it was easier said than done. She could hand out logical advice to her clients, but to heed it was another thing altogether.
Closing her eyes, she began to pace back and forth as she silently lectured herself …
Don’t sit in idle thought for too long. Work hard. Then work harder still. Carbs are evil. Keep moving forward. Get some decent sleep. A bottle of wine won’t fix the problem. Focus on the future. Let go of the past … yadda yadda yadda
When the blaring of a car horn rudely interrupted her thoughts, she slumped back into her leather office chair and with one high-heeled foot propelling her, began slowly spinning in circles. Resting her head back, she stared at the ornate ceiling that was older than any building in Australia, as the hollow ache in her chest reminded her just how much she’d lost. How was she ever going to discover the true core of the woman she was when, beneath her cool, calm, collected exterior, she was still a lost, broken, anxious teenage girl? Feeling as if she were tumbleweed – or hairy panic grass, to speak her native Aussie lingo – at the mercy of the ever-changing winds of life, she’d found herself asking this confronting question frequently of late. Not long ago, she’d thought she’d found everything she needed in her life to feel somewhat happy, somewhat content, somewhat fulfilled. She’d even begun to humour the thought of giving up her career to have the children she so longed for. The children she’d believed Benjamin had longed for. She anticipated that a baby would fill the void that lingered within their marriage.
Pfft.
Yeah right.
And pigs flew too.
There was no way anything she did would’ve made their marriage complete.
Not with Benjamin’s lies rotting the core of their nuptial vows – to love and to cherish.
What-the-hell-ever!
With her track record she might as well give up on love entirely.
As much as she wanted to find her person, the one she could live to a ripe old age with, she now had so much baggage packed into her tortured heart it would be almost impossible to unload it all, let alone have room within it to harbour love for another. So maybe she needed to give up the hope of ever having a family to call her own. Or perhaps she should give up on the notion of meeting a man who truly loved her, and instead go down the route of a donor father? Why not? So many women did it. Then again, perhaps she needed to stop pondering all of this, before she drove herself nuts.
But with her maternal clock ticking, it was terribly hard not to …
Groaning, she heaved a weary sigh as she spun her office chair faster. As a teenager, all she’d ever wanted was to eventually settle down, buy a chocolate-box house, name some pets and start a family. Then, with the snap of fate’s ill-omened fingers, that childhood dream was snatched away from her, as were her parents, in tragic circumstances. Now, with only a few months until her thirtieth birthday, alone, childless and about to officially become a divorcee, she no longer believed in destiny, or cosmic plans, or fate, or soulmates, or wishes coming true, even if she’d once believed in the magic of wishing upon a star. She’d once been a dreamer, in another life lived far away from here, but not anymore. The accident, the catalyst that had forced her to shed her skin and move across the oceans, to become someone her past self would barely recognise, had also set her on the career path to becoming a successful risk analyst. And now she was a realist, a woman who believed that magical thinking was just the way people tried to make sense of what was, most of the time, a chaotic and ever-changing world.
Beginning to feel dizzy, she skidded the spinning chair to a stop, then once the room stopping twirling, kicked off her heels and rose to her feet. She may have become a realist, but never in a million years would she have thought she’d be on this treacherous trail of heartbreak again. It was like some cruel joke. After all the self-searching, all the counselling, she’d finally found the courage to allow her heart to be vulnerable to another again. And Benjamin had been so steady, so reliable, so sweet, so sure. She’d sincerely believed her heart had found its forever home in his. But now, she felt as if she were a character in what had once been her favourite sitcom, Grace and Frankie. Having trained herself to become prim and proper, with a fondness for dry martinis, she’d once likened herself to Grace’s respectable character, although, beneath her façade, she knew she was a lot more like the wild and free Frankie. And now she knew the truth, she understood why Benjamin had insisted on watching the show religiously. It was as if he’d been trying to tell her via the television that just like Grace’s husband, he was in love with, and loved by, a man: her friend Jane’s husband, Harry Holland. And had been for just over half their married life.
Never would she have believed it if someone had told her.
She’d had to see it for herself.
And now, as much as she wanted to, she couldn’t unsee it.
The images of the two men, wrapped up in each other’s arms, sleeping soundly in her marital bed after exhausting one another, were on continuous loop every single time her head hit the pillow at night. It was no wonder she barely slept. The fact that Benjamin had kept it secret from her had hurt her way more than the truth about his feelings. Lying was the epitome of disrespect, the root of all evil. Recalling how devastated, overwhelmed and raw she’d felt in that confounding moment, when she’d returned home for a very rare lunch break and walked in on Benjamin making use of their bed without her, she shook her head sadly. Up until that pivotal point in time, she’d been blind to her husband’s ways. But from that second on, at the very least, she’d learnt the cold hard truth of her failing marriage in blinding clarity. No longer did she need to blame herself. No longer did she need to try so hard to bring happiness into their days. They were done. Dusted. Finished. Ruined. Just like the version of herself she’d left behind in Gum Tree Gully. Thank goodness she’d chosen to keep her last name out of respect for her father – she was the only one left living in their family – so she didn’t have to go through the rigmarole of having to change it back.
Losing herself once again in hurtful thoughts, she mentally slapped herself. She needed to get a grip. She needed to focus on what she had control over. She might have lost so much, but the one thing she did still have was the ability to make a choice – although making one was far easier said than done. Shea. Maid of honour. Could she pluck up the courage to go back to the very place that had sent her running eleven years ago? Could she handle seeing Connor again? There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that he’d be Jack’s best man, because from what Shea told her, he and Jack were the closest of mates. Did she really have a choice, given the circumstances?
And there it was: even her power to make that choice was limited.
She did her best to think logically. In the risk analysis world, timing was everything, and now wasn’t the time to be traipsing halfway across the world. But would it ever be the right time to go back to the place that had changed her forever? A place where she’d have to gather the courage to stand at the graves a second time round, and finally admit to herself they were long gone. She had to find a way. Because how could she even consider not packing her bags, getting on that sardine can for two long hauls across the oceans and being the maid of honour at Shea and Jack’s wedding? What kind of friend would that make her, if she made the self-centred decision to stay put? It would one hundred percent make her the worst friend ever. After all her losses, she didn’t want to risk losing Shea, too.
Not only would making the trip mean paying a long overdue visit her parents’ final resting place.
She would also have to face the subject of Connor Gunn.
Could they ever move past what they’d done to try and ease the anguish?
Shadows began to stretch across the office and sirens echoed in the growing twilight, as the sounds of the high-street traffic travelled up to her office. After slipping her reading glasses off, she rubbed the ache in her temples, heaved what felt like the hundredth weighty sigh for the day and then wandered over to the window. Gazing out into the dark afternoon, she watched drifting snowflakes highlighted by the streetlights. And for that tiny moment, lost in a trance, she almost allowed herself to believe in that same old magic. Nearly said hi to her old self. But then she firmly reminded herself she was being ridiculous. As her last client for the day had cancelled, five minutes after they were meant to arrive – tardiness was a pet peeve of hers – she decided to take a rare early Friday knock-off. As cold as it was out there, a jog would be just what the doctor ordered to help blow out some of her internal cobwebs.
So, before she changed her mind and opted for her usual Friday night with Netflix, a takeaway, chocolates, a blanket and a bottle of red, or two, to keep her company, she grabbed her runners from where she’d tossed them into her storeroom two weeks earlier. From her closet in the staff-only bathroom, she retrieved the set of thermal gym clothes she always kept there, for such random moments, and after slithering out of her tailored suit, slipped the gym gear on. Pausing to look in the mirror, she grimaced at the dark rings beneath her green eyes. Good grief, she really needed to try and get some rest; if only the sleeping tablets her doctor prescribed her did the trick. Tugging her long dark hair up and into a ponytail, she tried to force a smile she was far from feeling, but instead looked like she was constipated. And that enticed a genuine chuckle. At least she could still laugh at herself – that had to count for something.
