Luke wipes the sweat off his brow with the edge of his shirt, revealing a sliver of tanned skin that should absolutely not affect my breathing but, inconveniently, it does.I’m still crouched beside the calf, one hand stroking the fragile line of her back as if she might turn into a puppy and follow me home.Her eyes are half lidded, her belly full.
Luke glances over at me, then at the soft pink light spreading across the horizon.‘What are you feeling for dinner?’
I look up slowly, eyebrows raised.‘Are you asking me out on a date?’
A faint smile tugs at his lips.‘Do you want it to be a date?’
‘Doyouwant it to be a date?’I echo, mirroring his tone.
He tilts his head, grinning now.‘You can’t repeat everything I say.’
I shrug, standing up and brushing dirt off my legs.‘I can try.’
Luke rolls his eyes.‘Have a shower then pick out any of the dishes left in the freezer from the funeral.I’ll be in soon – just need to fix the gate so Cutlet doesn’t escape overnight.’
‘See,’ I say.‘It’s a great name.’
He shakes his head and turns towards the shed.The sun catches on his sandy blond hair, the sweat-soaked strands already drying with dust as he undoes the first two buttons of his shirt.I stare too long.Then I blink, hard, as if I’ve been caught watching something I shouldn’t have.
The kitchen is dim except for the soft yellow glow of the overhead light.I dig around the freezer and find a pie that someone left for Luke.It’ll do.I preheat the oven, double-check the temperature, andthen – because I don’t know how to wait for someone without feeling awkward – I wander through the house.
Past the laundry room.Past the guest bathroom.My hand drifts along the hallway wall as I walk.Then I see a door that’s been closed the whole time I’ve been here.
It isn’t locked, and I don’t mean to open it.Not really.My fingers curl around the handle anyway.The smell hits me first.Old linen and lavender.The air inside feels heavier, like it hasn’t been stirred in a while.
It’s the master bedroom.
The bed is perfectly made.There’s a rocking chair by the window, a crocheted blanket folded neatly and hanging over the back of it.Old wedding photos in mismatched frames sit on the dresser.A strand of pearls hangs over the corner of one.
I swallow hard.There’s something deeply reverent about the space; it’s still waiting for someone who’s never coming back.
Suddenly, I feel like I’m intruding, tiptoeing into someone else’s grief barefoot and uninvited.I back out slowly and close the door as gently as I can, as if the ghosts inside are light sleepers.
Back down the hallway, I pass the room where Ella and Darcy stayed.The bed is neatly made now, their things gone.I pause outside the doorway, wondering if Luke will want me to stay in there tonight.In that space between guest and something else.Betweenpastandmaybe.
I keep walking.
The shower hisses to life with a wheeze of old pipes and lukewarm promises.It’s not hot – barely even warm – yet it does the job.Dust rinses from my legs in rusty swirls, and the water beats against the back of my neck.I brace one hand against the tile wall and let my forehead rest there for a second.
When I shut the water off, it’s quiet again, as if the house is holding its breath, waiting to see what I’ll do next.
I towel off and wrap myself up, standing in front of the fogged mirror.I pull on soft pyjama shorts and a singlet, the cotton clinging slightly to my still-damp skin.No make-up.No bra.No facade.Just little old me from Clovelly.
Barefoot, I pad into the lounge room, the floorboards cool under the soles of my feet.The oven hums in the background, a grounding reminder that we are, somehow, still pretending this is a regular night.A regular dinner.
On the shelf beside the turntable is a stack of records.I thumb through them, not really knowing what I’m looking for until I find it.Icehouse –Great Southern Land.
I smile and gently lift the vinyl out of its sleeve, about to slide it onto the turntable, when—
‘What are you doing?’
I jump, nearly dropping the sleeve.
Luke’s in the hallway, freshly showered, hair wet at the tips, shirtless in a way that should be illegal.A towel wrapped around his hips.Barefoot.Just him.
‘Sorry,’ I blurt, then wince.‘I didn’t mean to—’
He steps forward and takes the record from my hands, carefully.‘These haven’t been touched in years,’ he murmurs, more to the vinyl than to me.He lifts the needle, sets the record down.The first chords of ‘Great Southern Land’ drift through the room – a memory that’s warm and a little haunted.
