Page 23 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

I wait for her to continue. Run my hands over the backs of my knees – they won’t stop sweating.

‘I actually need to talk to you about something but didn’t really want to do it here.’

‘Then you should’ve married someone with a better poker face,’ I say, jerking my thumb at Bruce, over by the cannons. ‘He told me to come talk to you.’

She groans. ‘Jesus, Bruce.’ Then she straightens, placing her hands flat on the table. Closes her eyes, exhales. ‘We’re—’

My phone erupts. An onslaught of text messages come through at once, the alerts so loud it startles both of us.

I pull my phone from my back pocket to see who’s trying to contact me. Two of my colleagues – Dora and Ivan. How odd. I never hear from them on a weekend. Then it’s my mother. My sister. And finally, Graham.

I open his message first.

It’s not your fault.

And then another, not ten seconds later.

You’re safe. I made sure of it.

‘Everything okay?’ Genevieve asks.

‘Not sure.’

I open Naya’s text.

Just saw the news. Are you okay?

‘Oh god,’ I say. ‘Something’s happened.’

Genevieve is alert, and, I suspect, grateful for the distraction. She tucks her hair behind her ears and darts around to my side of the table so she can read over my shoulder. ‘What news?’

‘Don’t know.’

I switch to the internet, search the first news outlet I can think of, and wait for the homepage to load.

And it’s right there: breaking news.

Gone! Veteran radio host Graham Jackson axed after atrocious ratings quarter .

Genevieve clasps my shoulder, squeezes so tight I fear I might bruise.

Fired.

He’s been fired.

‘He’ll finish before the end of the financial year.’

I was wrong; he wasn’t safe. We weren’t safe. Graham is getting fired.

This man I’ve known for six years. Someone I look up to, someone I genuinely love seeing every morning at the station. Someone who has become my sounding board when I’ve been struggling. Has been one of my biggest supporters.

And now he’s leaving. ‘He lied to me.’

Fired .

He’ll be gutted. Distraught. I’m picturing him alone, at home, with no one to talk to. If I weren’t at this gender reveal, I’d be driving to his house.

I don’t say anything for a second, then close the article and lay my phone on the table. Feel my heart beating so fast I need a second to calm myself.

‘Should you call him?’ Genevieve asks.

Nearby, I sense Bruce getting agitated. He’s impatient for the reveal to start.

‘After,’ I say.

Genevieve nods.

And then I remember. ‘Oh god, what were you going to tell me? Sorry.’ It’s hard to pivot when my mind is reeling, when I feel this blindsided, but it’s not lost on me that I’m here, at this park, for Genevieve. That she was gearing up to tell me something when the news came through.

She tries to wave it off, dismissive. ‘Another time. Tomorrow?’

‘No, now.’ I tap the seat next to me. ‘Come on.’

Genevieve resembles a wounded animal.

‘Are you okay?’

She readjusts her position on the bench. Sneaks a look at Bruce, who clocks it and grows sheepish, turning away.

‘Is someone dying?’ I ask.

She grabs my hand. ‘We’re moving, Charlie. To be near my parents.’

It’s remarkable how quiet everything suddenly seems – I can no longer hear chatter from the group, or the squeals from the children playing in the distance. No birds, no laughter, nothing.

It’s hard for me to form words.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘But that’s interstate,’ I splutter. ‘Hours away. And I can find you listings. I will find you listings. Let me help you.’

Let me help you like you helped me. Let me be there for you after all these years of you being the best thing in my life.

‘We already found somewhere, actually.’ She fidgets. ‘When we went home, my parents showed us a house nearby. It’s really beautiful. We bought it.’

I have to say it aloud to believe it. ‘You bought somewhere already.’

What I really want to say is, You bought somewhere already and I had no idea.

Something monumental in your life and I wasn’t there for it.

It’s selfish, I know, to feel cut out of such a big moment.

I didn’t know she was considering such a drastic move, didn’t even think that was a possibility.

She’s never once mentioned it – wouldn’t that be something she’d want to talk about with me?

But that’s not something I’d ever say aloud. I’ve got nothing to do with this. Genevieve is checking off all the things she’s been dreaming about since childhood – marriage, children, house. Who am I to make her feel anything but ecstatic?

‘Congratulations.’

She offers a warm smile. ‘I realised I was missing my family,’ she says. ‘And we couldn’t afford to buy here. And I know that things might not go according to plan, and then we’ll be in a house we don’t need, but—’

‘You don’t have to explain. I’m happy for you, I’m just—’

‘Sad?’

‘Yeah. Really fucking sad.’

Sad because my best friend is moving away. Sad because my marriage didn’t work out. Sad because of those group chat messages. Sad because my family live on the other side of the country. Sad because Graham got fired, and I don’t know what this means for my job.

I’m going to have no one left.

Nearby, a child starts crying. Genevieve winces. ‘This is terrible timing, telling you here. I’m sorry.’

‘When do you leave?’

Her silence, and that crushed expression, tells me it’s soon. She pulls me in for a hug. ‘I’m going to miss you.’

All I can muster is a nod.

‘I’ve been wanting to tell you for days, but I couldn’t do it.’

‘Can I see it? The house?’

‘Of course.’

But we’re interrupted by Bruce, who comes over to reiterate Genevieve’s apology. ‘Charlie, so sorry. But we’re going to come down and visit, obviously. Fly down as often as we can.’

Everyone always says that, when they move away. It’s what I told Mum and Naya when I left home, and even then I knew I was lying.

Bruce taps Genevieve’s shoulder. ‘We should probably start.’

‘Right, yeah, okay.’ Genevieve turns to me again, her eyebrows lifting in an empathetic expression.

‘Don’t apologise,’ I say. ‘I’ll be fine.’

Will I be fine? Will I? I honestly have no idea what life is going to look like for me now. I feel like I’ve been left behind while everyone else is moving forward.

‘I’m always going to worry about you,’ she says. ‘You’re my family.’

I grab the ends of her wispy hair. ‘Well, as your family, I feel I need to be honest with you. Let’s buy you some product before you leave. Because this will not survive the humidity.’

‘You think I should just shave it all off?’

‘Yes.’ We laugh, then I ask, ‘Can you do something for me?’

‘Anything.’

I pluck the nail polish from the table and drop it into her hand. ‘Paint your nails both colours.’

She smiles. ‘Alive and healthy?’

‘Alive and healthy,’ I repeat. She does what I tell her, before being whisked away to fire off the cannons.

Turns out, the baby is a girl.