My parents are total market snobs. Before I was born, Michael and Olivia Burton lived in a single-fronted miner's cottage around the corner from the South Melbourne Market. Even though they moved across the river to the inner-East when my mother was pregnant with me, their loyalty to 'the Market' borders on fanatical.

They have their favourite cheese shop, their preferred butcher and the coffee guy who grinds their personal blend by the kilo bag. The stall holders greet them by name. In return, my mother writes them all Christmas and birthday cards. 

Donna the florist invited my parents to her daughter's wedding. They went. 

It's a bit weird.

When my father finds me eating cereal in the kitchen the morning after Robbo's party, I know he's expecting his "You up for adventure at the Market, Frankie May?" to be met with a resounding "Hell, no".

That is, after all, my standard response to any and all requests to play happy families with the Burtons.

I almost say it.

But then an image of Travers Riordan's dying Dad pops into my head and "Okay" pops out of my mouth. I'm not sure which one of us is more shocked.

"Umm. Great. That's... yeah... that's great," my unflappable father flaps. "Really great. I'll... go tell Mum. Ready to go in half an hour?"

"Sure," I say, already regretting stepping over the imaginary line that I've kept so heavily chalked between us.

It's not until I'm sitting in the back seat of my father's Range Rover, frantically finger-combing the knots out of my hair because I forgot to brush it, that it occurs to me to ask whether we're meeting anyone else at the Market.

My parents treat the Sunday shop like it's a social festival – catching up with friends for breakfast before they hit the stalls, or for brunch once they've finished. Which is usually great for me because it means that I have the house to myself for most of most Sundays. Not so great when I actually have to participate in the festivities.

"So, umm, are you guys brunching with anyone today?"

(Please say no, please say no, please say no).

"Actually, we are," my mother says, smiling in the rear view mirror. "We're catching up with the Burgesses. Amy's coming."

Fabulous.

Not.

Priscilla Burgess has been my mother's best friend since forever. Her daughter Amy and I go to St Mark's together. You might remember her from my Intro to BusComm class? We shared a not-so-warm-and-fuzzy moment when I got distracted thinking about bananas and strawberries.

Amy used to be my closest friend.

Now she's not.

Brunch will be the very opposite of fun.

Surprisingly, the actual shopping part of the Market trip is relatively painless. As always, my mother is a woman on a mission, striding from stall to stall with list in hand.

My father and I hang back a little, looking for interesting 'off list' items that we 'really, really need'. A brand of Swiss chocolate we haven't seen before, loose leaf tea that promises to be 'happiness in a cup', a set of fridge magnets shaped like Combi Vans. The two of us fall swiftly into the habits of old. He doesn't try too hard and for that I am grateful. I do my bit and try to go with the flow, enjoying the chance to hang out with my Dad again without overthinking it.

"I'm listening to a new podcast," he says, as we check out a stall overflowing with Moroccan crockery. "It's about Nobel prize winners, I think you'd like it."

"Sounds good, maybe I'll give it a try." I trace the pattern on a large platter with my finger, following the repeated blue and green lines like a pretty map to nowhere.

"You'll have to let me know what you think," he says.

"I will."

"Great."

"Umm, Dad... I ...thank you for the Harry Potter book. It's beautiful. I know... well... just... thank you."

"You're welcome, Frankie May."

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He's humming quietly to himself, the dimple in his cheek on show as he inspects a large, brass coffee pot. I can tell that I've made him happy. Much happier than a simple thank you should be able to. Which is probably a testament to just how bratty I've been over the past few years. Let's face it, when expectations are low, the smallest ray of light blooms overly bright.

"There you guys are," my mother says, appearing beside us with her Grandma-style shopping cart filled to bursting. "We better hurry, we were supposed to meet Priscilla, Rick and Amy five minutes ago."

Joy.

The Burgesses are already seated at an outdoor table at the café that has always been our collective favourite. My stomach growls in anticipation of triple stack pancakes and then promptly does a small backflip as I catch Amy's eye.

To say that things are kind of tense between Amy Burgess and me would be a massive understatement.

"Hi," I say warily, as my mother ushers me into the seat opposite Amy before leaning across the table to hug Priscilla.

"Hi," Amy replies, half standing like she isn't quite sure if we're supposed to hug too. Instead, she gives me a slight nod and sits back down.

I nod back. I attempt to smile but suspect I look more like a rapid dog baring its teeth.

Fuck. This is awkward. And it's entirely my fault.

You see, Cassie and I haven't always been a friendship duo. In junior school there were five of us. Amy, me, Cassie, Aisha Kapoor, and Natasha Friar.

We were a tight little group but it was an unspoken truth that Amy and I were the closest. Which wasn't surprising, considering that our two families socialised together a lot. With our dark hair and similar builds, we even looked alike. People sometimes mistook us for sisters, which we loved. Both only children, having each other was as close to a sibling as either of us were ever going to get.

Amy was the person I trusted most in the world. We shared all our secrets – the good, the bad, the embarrassing. Then I found myself drowning in a secret that was too big, too ugly and too scary to tell. It ruined everything.

Here we are, two years later, sitting stiffly together at a family brunch, scrambling for something to talk about while our parents chat obliviously beside us.

"How did you find the first few days of term?" I ask her, deciding that school is a relatively safe topic.

"Good," she says, with a tight smile.

"Yup, me too." One question in and I'm totally out of material.

"I mean, good," she says again. "But also... bloody petrifying. I can't believe we're in Year 12. It seems so... big."

"Yeah, it does, doesn't it? You'll totally nail it though. You always do."

"Thanks," she says, her expression softening. "I hope so."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"I saw you dancing at the party last night," Amy says. "You looked really happy."

"Yeah, it was fun."

"You looked like the old Frankie. First time I've seen her in a while." Amy's expression is wistful.

Seriously? First Trav. Now Amy. What's the sudden collective obsession with the 'old Frankie'. Is current me really that bad? I have a terrible feeling that maybe she is.

I don't know what to say so I just shrug.

"You and Travers looked pretty cosy."

"Trav and me? God no. We're barely even friends." For the second time in 24 hours, I wonder if that's exactly true.

"That's not what it looked like to me..." Amy's tone is cautiously teasing.

"Seriously, there's nothing going on. We got paired together for the BusComm project this week so we've been working on that. That's it."

"Pity. I always thought you guys would make a cute couple. I'm pretty sure he liked you back in Year 9."

Caught by surprise, I choke on the latte that's just been put in front of me, coffee spluttering unattractively out of my nose and all over Amy's white tee-shirt.

Amy looks down at the spreading stain and promptly loses it. She laughs so hard she snorts, which sets me off. She always was a snorter. I laugh so hard I cry. Each time one of us starts to calm down, all it takes is a glance across the table and we both lose it again. Just like that, we're back in Year 9, at Sunday brunch with our parents, gossiping about school and boys. It's as easy as it is weird and so familiar that it hurts.

You see, the thing that no one tells you about betrayal, is that the betrayal itself might not end up being the worst bit. Sure, the moment of discovery hits like a sucker-punch to the gut. And maybe, even years later, just thinking about it is still enough to tighten your chest and sting your eyes. But the part that will turn you inside out and upside down and hollow you out like freeze-dried fruit, is having to pretend that the sucker-punch never came.

Finding out about my Dad's affair took a sledgehammer to every fundamental truth I'd ever known.

Fundamental Truth #1 – my Dad and my Mum love each other

Fundamental Truth #2 – my Dad is a good guy

Fundamental Truth #3 – my Dad would never cheat on my Mum

Fundamental Truth #4 – my Mum would never stay with a man who cheats

Fundamental Truth #5 – my Dad hates spending so much time in Sydney and would be with us if he could

Fundamental Truth #6 – my Dad loves me

Fundamental Truth #7 – I am important to my Dad

Overnight, things I'd always been sure of were replaced with doubts and hurts and ugliness. The worst bit was that I couldn't tell anyone. Telling someone would just make my ugly new truths that much more real – give them air to breathe and room to grow and space to flourish. And I most definitely, absolutely, certainly could not tell Amy. Because Amy is Priscilla's daughter. And Priscilla is my Mum's best friend.

At 15, I didn't understand why my Mum didn't just leave my Dad when she found out about the affair. I still don't understand it. But she didn't. She stayed. We stayed. And although I was really, really mad at her for that – mad enough to quit dance because I knew it would hurt her; made enough to stop putting in as much effort at school because I knew she'd hate it when I stopped making the honour roll – I still loved her enough to want to protect her from the humiliation of her friends finding out about what my Dad had done.

So, we stayed and I stayed silent and tried to pretend like everything was okay. Even though my insides burned and blistered with rage. Even though my heart felt like someone had attacked it with a meat cleaver. Even though my whole life now felt like a lie. I stayed silent.

The problem was, I didn't know how to be convincingly silent around Amy. I'd never not told her something before. She knew something was wrong but I kept claiming things were okay. Lied to her face time and time again. Avoided catch ups and sleepovers and shopping trips and movie nights with lame excuses. Not seeing her was easier than seeing her and trying to pretend that I wasn't falling apart from the inside out.

Just when I thought Amy might be about to call me on my lies, I received a massive reprieve. Cass fell out with Aisha and Natasha. With tensions between Amy and me already running high, our friendship group quietly split along irreparable fault lines. Since then, it's been Cass and me on one side of the ravine and Aisha, Natasha and Amy on the other. These days, we barely even acknowledge each other.

"Why did you give up?" Amy asks, like she can read my mind.

I look at her, startled.

"Why did you give up dancing, I mean?" she clarifies.

"I guess I just outgrew it," I lie through my teeth (again) and shrug like it's no big deal.

"But I thought you really loved it?" Amy whispers. Her expression tells me that the question is important and I wonder whether we're still talking about dancing.

"I did," I whisper back, trying to apologise for all the things with my eyes. An invisible elephant wearing our former friendship dances on the table between us.

"You could always start taking classes again," she prompts. "I'm sure they'd love to have you back."

"I have really missed it..." The words "and you" hover in the air between us. Unspoken. But there all the same.

"Well, it's never too late to start again," Amy says, offering me a tentative smile.

"I hope not." 

I smile back and allow myself to acknowledge that maybe (just maybe) I miss the old Frankie too.