‘She’s very pretty,’ I add, refraining from doing an impersonation of Meghan.
He returns to his line-up of perfectly shaped meatballs. ‘She is certainly pretty.’
Then, for reasons I can’t explain, I don’t want to talk about Meghan anymore.
‘How wasyourwork this week?’ I divert, firing up the centuries-old stove and tipping a lug of oil into the pan. ‘Any news on that job?’
‘Not yet. The last few days were quite hectic, actually. We had six deaths in two days.’
‘Oh god, that’s terrible. And you only just started back doing on-road duties.’ My lips turn down as I unstick a knife from the magnetic rack to slice up some basil.
‘Yeah. All of them were cancer patients.’
The knife slips in my fingers.
‘Sixcancer deaths in two days?’ I sound like I’m being choked.
‘Yep. They were all getting end-of-life care already and were at home with their families, so there’s that.’
I can’t feel my face. I can’t feel my hands. I can’t feel my breath. All I can feel is my heart beating a hole through my chest.
‘Are you OK?’ Zac’s palm lightly lands on my upper back, a crease forming between his eyes.
‘Yeah, ’course.’ I slice into the basil, nearly nicking my finger. ‘What sort of cancer did they have?’
‘By this point, who even knows where it started. One woman was only thirty-two. So sad.’
The knife slides out of my hand and bounces across the linoleum floor.
Zac gasps. ‘Shit, are you OK?’
‘I’m fine,’ I mutter as he picks up the knife, angling myself away from the eyes of the one person who used to know me better than I know myself.
I snatch up my phone and escape into the downstairs bathroom, locking the door and running the tap. I sit on the toilet and google ‘32-year-old woman cancer death Newcastle’, but no related articles spring up. Instead, millions of stories flood the screen about other thirty-two-year-old women who’ve died of cancer.
Tears burn the backs of my eyes as I frantically read through them, searching for positive outcomes.
‘Josie? You OK?’ The door muffles Zac’s soft voice. I’ve been in the bathroom for nearly ten minutes. God, he must think I have diarrhoea.
‘Coming!’ I sing out and swipe away my mascarastains with my thumbs before opening the door with a smile that’s totally overcooked.
‘I don’t have diarrhoea,’ I say for the record, but make a show of washing my hands anyway. ‘I just checked some work emails and got stuck.’
He lets out an unsure chuckle. ‘I’m happy to hear that. Do you want me to turn the meatballs over?’ He leads me back to the kitchen and points at the smoking pan.
‘Oh, for the love of—’ I dash to the stove and thrust a wooden spoon beneath a meatball, but it’s glued to the pan and crumbles apart.
‘Let me do it,’ Zac offers gently, reaching over my shoulder with a slotted turner. He finishes off the meatballs and pasta sauce while I’m relegated to boiling the spaghetti—doing whatever it takes to shove those cancer articles out of my head.
‘Davide left while you were in the loo,’ Zac says as he fossicks around for plates and cutlery. ‘He mentioned something about a full moon party and said he won’t be back until tomorrow. Actually, he invited us to come too, but I said no. Is that OK? Did you want to go?’
A tentative look finds its way into Zac’s eyes. He clearly has no idea that the thought of having him all to myself in a quiet house—like we’ve done a thousand times before, but not for a painfully long time—has every cell in my body somersaulting. I couldn’t think of a better way to keep my anxious mind occupied.
‘Hell no; we’re staying here for my meatballs masterpiece,’ I say firmly. ‘And given that Davide’s out forthe night, I totally think that you and Trouble should crash over.’
Zac slides his hand into the back pocket of his athletic shorts and bites down on his bottom lip. ‘Do you think Davide would mind?’
I lift a brow. ‘The guy who walks around with his ass out and leaves his trimmed pubes in the toilet? Yeah, I really think we need that guy’s opinion.’
