I slide into the driver’s seat.Slam the door.Twist the keys in the ignition.
The engine groans to life.
Gravel crunches beneath the tyres as I pull away, red dust curling into the air behind me like smoke from something just extinguished.
I don’t look in the rear-view mirror; I don’t have to.I can feel him there.Still on the porch.Still not moving.Still letting me go.
The house gets smaller.The fields blur.The light is too golden, too kind, as if it doesn’t realise what has happened.
‘This is for the best,’ I whisper.
But the ache blooming in my chest doesn’t believe me.Not even a little.
The road stretches out ahead – long, flat, merciless.
I drive.
No music.Just the dull roar of the engine and the quiet scream of regret in the back of my throat.
THIRTY-ONE
There’s something about returning to your own apartment after a failed almost love story that feels suspiciously similar to revisiting a crime scene.Everything looks the same, but off.
I drag my dusty duffel bag across the scuffed wooden floor of my Clovelly apartment.My plants are drooping in the window.One of them might actually be dead.It’s unclear.
I kick off my boots in the entryway and peel off my linen shirt, which still carries the vague scent of red dirt and rejection.
Luke.
No.Not today.I refuse to be the woman who unravels in her own apartment over a farm boy.
I wander into the living room and collapse on the couch, limbs sprawled.I grab the remote and scroll through streaming apps with the dead-eyed detachment of a woman who’s definitely not losing it.
Eventually, I land onYellowstone.If I’m going to suffer, I want to suffer in high definition.I want brooding ranchers and smouldering glances and horses that somehow understand the weight of emotional baggage.
I hit play.
It starts innocently enough – sweeping Montana landscapes, gravelly voices, everyone dressed as if they’re in a Wrangler ad for unresolved childhood trauma.
And then he shows up.
Rip.
Brooding.Built.Rough around the edges in a way that says,I’ll shoot someone for you, but I’ll also probably yell during therapy.A walking fantasy with murderous eyes and commitment issues.
All I can see is Luke.
I pause the screen as Rip looks dramatically into the distance, sensing my internal breakdown from the other side of the flat screen.I stare at him.He stares back.
‘Even fictional cowboys are triggering now,’ I mutter.I need something lighter.Something that won’t claw open my feelings like a feral possum in a wine bar.
Bridget Jones’s Diaryit is.
I queue it up, press play, and feel the blessed relief of British accents and early 2000s sweaters wash over me.Bridget stumbles through life with endearing awkwardness, emotional instability and wine-stained monologues.She’s a hot mess with a heart.A cautionary tale wrapped in lip gloss and desperation.
We could be sisters.
The voiceover begins.‘It is a truth universally acknowledged that when one part of your life starts going okay, another falls spectacularly to pieces.’
