And then it’s just me, Luke and thousands of hectares.
TWENTY-THREE
The house is quieter than it has any right to be.Without Daisy’s babble and Ella’s running commentary on baby sleep cycles and digestive quirks, the air feels heavier.
I stand by the kitchen counter, hyperaware of my limbs.My hand brushes the chipped rim of the nearest mug, then my gaze bounces to the window, then back again.Outside, the wind kicks up some red dust, and somewhere in the distance, a screen door creaks like the beginning of a horror movie.
I glance at the fridge.At the empty chair Darcy had been in sitting in only moments ago.At the coffee mug Luke left behind.
I should say something.Or leave.Or fake a phone call from the prime minister.Anything except stand here and have an existential crisis.
Luke walks back in, utterly unfazed.He grabs an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter and bites into it with a satisfying crunch.He doesn’t even look at me when he asks, ‘Do you have any work clothes?’
I blink.‘Work clothes?’
‘You know.For doing work.’
I cross my arms.‘My work clothes involve heels and manicured nails for writing passive-aggressive emails.Occasionally, a leather laptop bag.’
Luke glances at me then, amused.‘What about anything you don’t mind getting dirty?’
I shrug.‘Didn’t know I’d be playing Farm Barbie today.’
There’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth.Barely there, but it’s a full smile in Luke terms.He disappears down the hall and comes back with a sun-faded grey t-shirt so soft and worn it might’ve once been black in a past life.He holds it out to me.
‘You can put this on,’ he says, running an eye over my current outfit.‘Otherwise you’ll ruin that top.’I raise an eyebrow, and his smile deepens a fraction.‘I’ll be out the front.’
And then he’s gone.
I stay where I am for a second, staring at the shirt in my hands.It smells of bush and laundry powder and sun.It smells of him.Which is deeply satisfying and equally terrifying.
I duck into his room, close the door behind me, and change.The sleeves fall halfway down my arms.The hem swishes over my shorts like I’ve repurposed a picnic blanket into a fashion statement.
And yet, I don’t hate it.
I glimpse myself in the mirror above the dresser and pause.No make-up.A layer of dust already smudged into my skin even though I’ve barely been outside.My hair’s a mess, so I scrape it into a ponytail at the top of my head, ignoring the strands that rebel instantly.
I can’t help but stare.This version of Jamie … she looks like she knows how to start a fire.Not a metaphorical one.A real one – with sticks.She looks tired, yet solid.Scratched up and weirdly whole.
Who is this?And a more dangerous thought – do I like her?
I grab my sunglasses from my bag, square my shoulders, push down the flutter in my chest and walk out the door.
By the time I climb into the ute’s passenger seat, my legs arealready dusty and my pride is somewhere back in the kitchen beside the coffee mug I forgot to rinse out.Luke’s behind the wheel, hat on, elbow propped against the door as if this is another Monday and his parents aren’t buried in the ground nearby.
‘This could be the beginning of a road trip movie where I’d definitely die before the credits roll,’ I mutter as I yank the door shut.
Luke side-eyes me.‘Is this the part where you mumble about dreams the whole way, or where you complain about the dust?’
‘Depends,’ I say, adjusting my sunglasses.‘Will there be snacks?’
He snorts, starts the engine, and we lurch forward in a rattle of dust and an old suspension.The radio crackles and then smooths into something surprisingly nostalgic – ‘To Her Door’ by Paul Kelly.The kind of song that tastes of old heartbreak.
The ute rumbles over packed dirt and forgotten roots, kicking up clouds behind us that shimmer in the sunlight like smoke.Wire fences stretch for kilometres on either side, thin lines dividing land from more land.A wedge-tailed eagle glides overhead, a dark silhouette against the blinding blue sky as it scans the earth for food.
‘No one actually tells youhowflat it is,’ I say, squinting out the window.‘It’s like an optical illusion.’
‘It’s the bush,’ Luke says, smirking.‘It’s not meant to impress you.It’s meant to eat you up and spit you back out.’
