‘I have a record player at home,’ I offer, desperate to explain myself.‘Just a small stack of albums, but I feel like music always sounds better on vinyl.’
‘They were my mum’s,’ he says after a moment.‘When she died, the music sort of died with her.’
I glance at the rest of the collection – Australian classics, some ABBA, a few albums so torn the sleeves are taped together.‘She has quite the collection.’
He huffs out a soft laugh.‘She does.’
It’s one of those moments that doesn’t need a punchline.Just the sound of the record, the creak of the old floorboards beneath me, and something slow moving between us.
Then the oven dings.
The spell breaks, and Luke glances towards the kitchen.‘Two seconds,’ he says, moving back down the hall.‘Need to throw on a shirt.’
‘Take your time,’ I say, too easily.Like we’ve done this before.Like this is … normal.
I serve up the meat pie and grab two mismatched forks from the drawer.The dining table is old – scuffed, the legs uneven – and there’s something right about sitting at it barefoot, my thighs sticking slightly to the wooden seat, while the record plays in the background.
Luke reappears in a clean t-shirt and shorts, his hair still damp.He sinks into the chair across from me with a quiet sigh.
We eat in silence.
It’s not a bad silence but not exactly a good one either.Maybe we’re both too aware of the other person’s breathing.Of the way we’re sitting across from each other as if this could be a normal occurrence for us.As if this dinner isn’t a stand-in for all the things we’re still not saying.
Unable to sit with my own thoughts any longer, I swallow the mouthful I’m currently chewing and say, ‘I grew up lying.’
Luke’s fork pauses mid-air, raising an eyebrow before he takes a bite, waiting for me to clarify.
‘My parents … weren’t really around.Which is probably a good time to explain that they never celebrated their thirtieth wedding anniversary like I told you.I grew up learning how to fake normal so no one called child services.At thirteen, I was booking my owndoctor’s appointments.I was doing the grocery shopping.Raising my sister.Every time a teacher asked where my mum was, I lied.Every time someone at school asked about dinner at home, I lied.’I keep my eyes on the cutlery sitting loosely in my hands.‘Over time it got easier to lie than admit I didn’t have anyone.And now it’s become part of me.It’s how I breathe.’
Luke still says nothing.
I chew my bottom lip, teeth digging in like maybe pain can keep the vulnerability from leaking out any further.
And then—
‘You lie,’ he says between mouthfuls, ‘and yet you’re also the worst liar I’ve ever met.’
I let out a startled laugh.‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
He gives me a wry smile.‘You shouldn’t.’
We look at each other.
The tension diffuses enough for my lungs to remember how to work.‘Are you heading back tomorrow?’
I hesitate.My flight back home tomorrow is still booked.‘I don’t know.’
Luke studies me, and for a second I think he’s going to let it drop.Then, softly, he says, ‘You don’t have to go yet.’
My chest tightens.‘I don’t want to overstay.’
‘You’re not.’
He reaches out and lays his hand over mine.
‘I want you to stay.’
Unsure what to say, I’m saved from giving an answer because Luke gets up abruptly, crosses the room, and lifts the arm of the record player.The music stutters into silence.
