I rest mine on his shoulders, then allow them to float up into his hair, which is silky and damp and infuriatingly nice for someone who wrestles cattle and my nerves for a living.
He raises a brow.‘So, daddy issues?’
I sigh.‘How old are you?’
‘Thirty-four.’
‘Then yes,’ I say solemnly.‘Absolutely.’
He chuckles, the sound low and close in my ear.‘Thirty-four isn’t old.’
‘Thirty-four is ancient.You probably own a vacuum with a cord.’
He laughs again and we sway.
His chest is against mine, heartbeat steady.I breathe him in – eucalyptus soap, cotton, rain.And him.That impossible Luke scent that lives in the hollow of his neck and the memory of my hands.
His fingers tighten slightly on my waist when the chorus hits, the lyrics saying what we won’t.I tilt my head back.Our eyes meet.
And then his words come back to me.
You’re just showing up with good intentions and links and pretending this is a puzzle you can fix in a week.
He didn’t mean it kindly.
Maybe he’s right.
Maybe this is a dream – one I’ve been trying too hard to sell myself on.A neatly packaged fantasy, strung together with borrowed shirts and borrowed feelings.When I step back and look at the whole thing clearly, honestly, I see it for what it is: I’ve merely shifted shape again.Tried to fold myself into someone else’s life as if I belong here.
But I don’t.Not really.My real life is waiting back in Sydney – tight deadlines, midweek takeaway, my cushy job and my shoebox apartment.My real life doesn’t smell of horses or sound like birds.It’s fluorescent-lit and familiar.It doesn’t scare me the way this does.
Because this isn’tFarmer Wants a Wife.This is real life.And in real life, the sun sets, the men leave, and I carry on alone.That’s the rhythm I know.The one I can count on.
Then –buzz.
My phone lights up in the kitchen where I left it on the counter.
I break away and reach for it.
Issy:
Where are you?
Another message from her pings through before I can answer the first.
Mum just rocked up at mine blind drunk.Again.I can’t deal with this right now.Can you come over?
I stare at the screen, my heart sinking.
Of course this is when she needs me.Of course Mum’s timing is impeccable in that messy, catastrophic way only she’s ever mastered.
‘Everything okay?’
‘Yep,’ I say smoothly and set the phone down, smiling as if reality didn’t just puncture this blissful dream.
I walk back and fall into the comforting sway of his arms, holding on a little tighter for a second too long – to memorise this before I let it go.Because people need me in Sydney.Peopledependon me.
His hand brushes a damp strand of hair behind my ear.He lets his thumb rest on my cheek like it forgot how to leave.It’s perfect.It’s unbearable.
