Luke doesn’t miss a beat.He swings into the ute, reverses towards the silo with surgical precision, and hops out to angle the chute.The grain pours into the tray, loud and steady, no hesitation.
I watch him work – his arms braced on the side of the ute’s tray, hat low, completely focused.I don’t say it out loud, but it’s kind of hot in that ‘you know he has a good grip and a tragic backstory’ kind of way.
I linger on the porch, hoping – naively – that I’ve entered the observation portion of the day.
But then Luke tosses me the keys to the ute.
‘You’re driving,’ he says and heads for the passenger door.
I stare down at the keys in my hand.‘Uh … problem.’
He freezes mid-step.‘What?’
‘I can’t drive a manual.’
He blinks once, as if the heat warped my words.‘You’re joking.’
‘I’m deeply not.’
There’s a long pause as he stares at me, processing.Then he sighs.It’s not dramatic – more the quiet deflation of a man realising his day got ten per cent longer.‘Get in.’
‘Are you deaf?’I hold the keys up.‘I don’t know how to do this.At all.’
‘I’m going to teach you.’
‘Oh, great.This will really make us hate each other.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ he says, already rounding the bonnet to the passenger side.
‘No, it won’t,’ I mutter, climbing into the driver’s seat with slow reluctance.
He gets in beside me and says, ‘All right.Left foot’s your clutch.You’re going to push it all the way down first.’
‘Using two feet for a car is unnatural.’
Luke ignores me.He leans over, reaches for my hand and places it on the gear shift.His hand is warm, strong, completely unfazed.Mine is clammy and shaky.
‘First gear.Like this.’He shifts it into place, guiding me through it, patient but way too close for someone who’s not trying to be distracting.
I glance at him.‘You do know this is foreplay in most countries.’
‘You’re stalling already and we haven’t even moved.’
‘Thanks, coach.’
It takes five attempts to even get moving.Each time I lift my foot off the clutch, the ute jolts and promptly dies.
On try six, we lurch forward in a violent bunny hop that throws both of us half out of our seats.
‘Fuck me,’ I gasp.
Luke chuckles, hand braced on the dash.‘She’s moving.Not pretty – but she’s moving.’
After thirty minutes of grinding gears, praying out loud, and accusing Luke of giving me shit instructions, I finally manage a semi-respectable crawl in second gear.
Luke leans his elbow on the windowsill and grins.‘See?You’re a natural.’
‘A natural disaster,’ I grumble, yet I’m secretly proud.‘Where to now?’
