In response, Ella rolls her eyes.‘Breakfast is served at seven.Hair and make-up starts at eight.Kitchen’s stocked, so help yourselves if you get hungry.Just don’t burn anything.’
I drop my bag by the door and pull Ella in for a hug.The light spills in through the window, casting soft, golden beams across the timber-panelled room.Abbey’s half-deceased body lies atop beige linen sheets, and I marvel at how my one shot at a ‘there was only one bed’ scenario – arguably my most beloved romance trope – hasbeen wasted on a woman who once threw up on my shoes after bottomless mimosas.
‘Is there wi-fi?’Abbey asks.
Ella pulls away, half laughing, half scolding.‘Yes, but stay off your phone if you can.’She throws Abbey a look.‘This is a TikTok-free weekend.’
Abbey pouts and scrolls anyway.She’s deep in reel territory – there’s no saving her.
‘I’m serious, Abs.You’re mine for the next few days.’Ella winks again and heads back out to answer a call, her bare feet thudding lightly against the floorboards.
It wasn’t my plan to stay past the wedding.I’d envisioned a quick fly-in-fly-out situation.And then Ella got on the phone and did her ‘We never see each other anymore’ guilt-trip routine, and how could I say, ‘Sorry, I’d rather be under a weighted blanket reading my smutty little books?’The answer is, I couldn’t.So I lied and told her there was nowhere else I’d rather be.
Ignoring Abbey’s sigh as the wi-fi cuts out again, I finish my champagne and reach for one of the hotel-style towels artfully rolled on the bed.
‘Do you reckon the main house gets better reception?’Abbey asks, phone still raised.
‘God help your engagement score if you don’t post for three days.’
‘I know, right—’ She stops when she realises I’m being sarcastic.‘You’re just worried I’ll find myself a hot cowboy and you’ll be the last one of us to settle down,’ she says, eyes twinkling.‘You’ll be one of those forgotten women in dusty novels.A spinster.’
‘Thornback,’ I correct.
‘Thorn-what?’
I grin.‘Thornback.It’s what they called unmarried women after twenty-five.Up to twenty-five, you’re a spinster.After that, you’re a thornback.’
‘Wow.That’s … depressing.’
‘Especially since single men are called bachelors, no matter what age.Dashing.Eligible.Jude Law immortality.’
Abbey narrows her eyes and smiles as if she’s about to make a very poor decision, which means I’ll be involved by default.‘All the more reason to find some hot men this weekend.’
I flop beside her on the bed.‘Correction: hot cowboys.I want to see if there’s a difference between men grown in the dirt and the ones raised in overpriced co-working spaces.’
Abbey grins.‘Rural experiment?’
I nod solemnly.‘Purely scientific.One night.No feelings.Just …
data collection.’
She snorts.‘You sound like you’re about to sleep with someone for a peer-reviewed journal.’
‘Honestly, I’d trust a man more if he came with references.’I stand up, suddenly desperate for a shower.
Abbey waggles her eyebrows.‘Oh please.You’d never hang around long enough to read his references even if they arrived stapled to his forehead.You’re allergic to commit—’
The bathroom door slams shut, cutting her off before she can finish her very on-brand hypothesis.
FOUR
Abbey and I step off the porch in front of our room.We are new women – showered, fresh clothes and feeling marginally less bitter about the whole bushland situation.The dirt road that winds away from the homestead carries laughter towards us, along with faint clinks of glassware and the soft hum of background music.The setting sun has disappeared, which takes the edge off the heat – barely.The sky remains ablaze with golden hues that give everything a cinematic, warm orange glow.
Abbey loops her arm through mine and mutters, ‘Let’s get this over with.’
Something rustles in the scrub to our left.We both freeze as if we’re inJurassic Park.
Seconds tick by.
