Inbetween Days by Vikki Wakefield

else’s perfect pie but, by then, you’re partial to half-eaten pie, so you fuck up their pie and move on. First love is a show pie. Every love after it is a reheated delicatessen pie and it tastes like shit, because you remember what first pie tastes like and it’ll never be the same again. So, now you’ve learned to protect your pie and you’ll never make the mistake of holding it out with both hands again—now you’ll offer your half-eaten pie with one hand, while the other hand will stay behind your back, holding a fork.’
    ‘What’s the fork for?’ Mads asked.
    Trudy made a stabbing motion, then slapped her forehead. ‘My point is, Mads, never ever show both hands.’
    I laughed. ‘Love is not a pie. That makes no sense.’
    ‘It will some day.’
    ‘You’re a freak,’ I said.
    ‘Freaks like us,’ Trudy said triumphantly, ‘don’t get our hearts broken.’
    Trudy and Mads got steadily more drunk. I was only a couple of glasses behind. I lit a cigarette and smoked half of it expertly but without enjoyment, before Trudy snatched it away and ground it out. I kept whining. I blamed our possible break-up on distance, then on Luke, and finally on myself for not being older and more…just more. Trudy said letting go was classy and hanging on was undignified. Mads confessed she once drove past her ex’s house thirty times in one night and for six months she’d gone to sleep wearing one of his shirts that she’d stolen from his washing line.
    ‘This almost makes up for a very ordinary day. I love you, Gertrude,’ I said, goofily.
    Trudy smiled and mock-dabbed the corner of her eye. ‘Wanna play cards?’
    The cask emptied. This was how I had imagined every night would be, plus or minus Mads: our own place, our secrets and dreams spilled across the table. Ma would have loved to see her girls together like this. I’d caught up. My vision blurred and glittered; my elbows got sticky. We ate cheese without biscuits and licked onion dip from a spoon.
    ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ Trudy announced.
    ‘Oh, God. What is love now?’ Mads groaned.
    ‘Not about that. I’ve been thinking. You’re right,’ she said to me. ‘You should be able to invite your boyfriend over. Ma doesn’t live here and we do. So, it’s decided. He can stay over if that’s what you want.’
    Mads nodded and patted Trudy on the back.
    Trudy waited, bright-eyed, for my reaction.
    The alcoholic daze lifted. I was left with clear, painful perception. Trudy wasn’t given to performing random acts of kindness; she wouldn’t do anything for anyone if it didn’t suit her. ‘You’re seeing somebody.’
    She drew back as if I’d spat, but Mads’s expression gave Trudy away. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
    ‘Don’t even try to pretend you’re doing this for me.’
    Trudy looked uneasy, angry.
    ‘You are, aren’t you? You want to play sleepovers with your new boyfriend and you don’t want to look like a hypocrite.’
    Gypsy—who could always sense when we were about to boil over—pressed her body against my leg beneath the table. She shook.
    ‘You’re only seventeen. You could get me into a whole lot of trouble with Ma,’ Trudy said. ‘I thought you’d be happy.’
    ‘You went overseas when you weren’t much older than I am,’ I yelled. ‘I know it’s not for me—I’m not stupid. Thanks a lot. You’re about two weeks too late. Luke and I never had a chance.’
    Gypsy moved away and my leg went cold. Mads was already stuffing her things into her bag.
    ‘Don’t leave,’ Trudy said. ‘Sleep it off on the couch. She can leave. We were having a good time.’ She slammed the dining-room door.
    A violent draft blew my hair back. I stabbed my middle finger into the hole in the veneer.
    I found Gypsy lying on my bed. She huffed and moved over.
    ‘I hate her,’ I whispered, wiping her chin. ‘And I’m sick of carrying on better conversations with old people who drool and can’t talk back.’ I