I close my messages and stare at my reflection in the darkened bus window, the passing cars dissolving into a static blur.There’s nothing to see – just my own tired face – but I still pretend I’m in a music video no one asked for.And I can’t stop wondering if it’s raining at the farm.
Is the drought still breaking?
Or did the clouds dry up again and leave everything cracked and withered?
Is Luke doing okay?Is Cutlet still alive?
God, I miss that stupid calf.
I also miss the way Banjo moved beneath me, how it felt to ride as if I belonged in a body that was allowed to take up space.
Maybe I could look into riding lessons.There has to be a stable tucked somewhere between the overpriced bakeries and screaming childcare centres in Randwick.
But I already know it won’t be the same.A horse trotting in a ring while a twelve-year-old in jodhpurs yells ‘Heels down!’isn’t riding.
It’s pretending.
And I’ve had enough pretending to last a lifetime.
Still, I don’t want to sit alone in my apartment for another night.Not with Luke’s ghost bleeding into every shadow, into every quiet second that makes me regret the person I’ve turned into.
So, instead, I text Tom.
What are you up to tonight?
He replies a few minutes later.
Not much.Why?
Innocent.Eager.Probably shirtless and folding laundry like a functional adult.
Wanna grab dinner?
He picks a Japanese place in Bondi.I pick up a cheap bottle of wine on the way home and jump in the shower trying to rinse off every self-deprecating thought I’ve had this week.I dig through the pile of clean laundry dumped on my bed and search for something decent to wear to dinner, pulling out t-shirts and jeans until I find—
Luke’s shirt.
The one I wore when I ran out of clothes to wear at the farm and made it look like a choice instead of a last resort, now crumpled at the bottom of the pile like it’s hiding.Soft.Familiar.
I freeze.
Some part of me must’ve packed it up in my rush to leave the farm.Or maybe Iwantedto keep it – like a bruise under my clothes no one else could see.
I shake my head, toss the shirt aside as if it’s radioactive and grab the tiny white dress I was looking for in the first place.
Perfect.
Tom’s already waiting when I arrive, menus in hand, half-smile in place.He stands and kisses my cheek again.Gentle.Polite.
I try not to recoil.
Dinner is fine.Better than fine, actually.He talks about work.I nod and smile and pretend to care about the digestive tract of alpacas.
‘Did you end up reaching out to my friend?’he asks, picking at the leftover edamame.‘The one with the kelpie pups?’
I freeze mid-chew.‘Oh.Not yet,’ I lie, forcing a casual shrug.‘Still trying to find the right time.’Code for:never going to happen.
Tom doesn’t seem fazed.‘Let me know if you change your mind.They’re great dogs.Really active.’
