Tangled Desires (Wattle Creek #3)

9

Break Me - elijah

“ H ave you heard from her lately?” Isla asks, casual as anything.

“Who?” It’s automatic. Stupid.

She’s in full multitask mode—grabbing glasses, filling a jug, Callie’s little babbles spilling out of the lounge. There’s that faint clink of dishes and this low hum from somewhere—probably the fridge. Why does their fridge hum? Should I check my fridge? Fuck, I forgot milk again. Isla cuts me a look, sharp enough to snap me back. It’s the weekend, and we just got back from shopping for furniture—Xav’s idea, not mine.

“You know who. Imogen.”

My chest tightens at the mention of her name, like a screw being turned too far. Her name just... lingers. Before I can slam on the brakes, words tumble out. “No. Should I have? Is she alright?”

Isla laughs. Not a mean laugh, more like I’m adorable for freaking out. “Relax. She’s fine. Just wondering if you’ve spoken to her. You know, friends. ”

Friends. Sure. That’s the word we’re going with? My brain is running laps—she’s fine, she said she’s fine on her own, so I’m giving her the space she wants. Needs? Whatever. Why am I this spun out? Just friends. That’s what she wants. That’s what I’m giving her. But I don’t want to give her just that.

More than just one night. Was that a mistake? I mean... she’s pregnant with my kid. Holy shit. She’s pregnant with my child. This is crazy, right?

Isla snaps her fingers in front of my face, bringing me back. “Hello? You just spaced out. I didn’t worry you too much, did I?”

“Huh? Oh, no.” I shake my head, rubbing the back of my neck. “It’s just... a lot.”

“Yeah, I bet. But look, I think you should message her.”

I blink at her. “Should I? She said she doesn’t need help.”

“Trust me, she’ll appreciate it. Deep down, anyway.”

“Right,” I mutter. “That makes me feel better.”

“Just message her!”

With a sigh, I pull out my phone. Keep it simple. No emojis. Definitely no hearts. Maybe just one? No, no hearts. This keyboard is slow as fuck. The text box mocks me, waiting. One quick message. That’s all.

Me: Hey. Just wanted to check in. How you going?

It’s... weird, but not bad. She texted me the other day—out of nowhere—to say Isla gave her my number. She could’ve just asked me directly. That would’ve been better. Personal. But no, she went through Isla. Not like I’m mad or anything, but it bugged me. It would’ve been nice to know she wanted my number enough to ask. I’m lucky she even reached out.

The door swings open, and Xav stomps in, lugging one of those flatpack boxes like he’s the star of some action flick. He drops it on the floor with a grunt so loud it’s a miracle Callie doesn’t freak out.

“Don’t mind me,” Xav huffs. “I’ll just carry all this crap by myself. You stay comfy, mate. It’s fine.”

I laugh, turning to Isla. “And he says I’m the dramatic one.”

Isla’s shaking her head with her hand on her hip. I push off the stool and head outside to grab the last of the boxes from Xav’s truck before he decides to lecture me about pulling my weight.

“Don’t hurt yourself, pretty boy,” Xav shouts behind me.

“Fuck off,” I shoot back, grinning as I heft a box onto my shoulder.

We lug the rest of the flatpacks upstairs, dumping them in the spare room before heading back down. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and as soon as I pull it out, her name flashes across the screen—Imogen. Her name does things. Can’t explain it. Just… does.

Imogen: I’m fine, Harrison.

Imogen: FYI, baby is the size of a raspberry, apparently. Seven weeks in, in case you forgot how to count.

Seven weeks. Makes sense. Her sass pulls a grin from me, wide and stupid.

Me: Oh, I can count. Just wondering how a raspberry’s living rent-free in there.

Imogen: Better a raspberry than you.

Cute. Real cute. She wasn’t complaining when we christened the seat of my car. That memory crashes in hard—the way she soaked the leather, the sounds she made, the absolute mess we left behind. Yeah. I’d relive that night in a heartbeat.

Me: Harsh. You’re gonna scare the baby, talking like that.

Imogen: Please. If this kid has half my attitude, you’re screwed.

She’s not wrong. Not even a little. I’m so far out of my depth, it’s almost funny. Almost.

“What’s got you grinning like that?” Isla’s voice snaps me back to reality again. Both she and Xav are watching me now, eyebrows raised, like I’m the entertainment.

“Uh… Imogen says the baby’s the size of a raspberry. Seven weeks.” My hand drifts to the back of my neck. “Wish I knew this stuff without having to ask her all the time, though.”

Xav smirks. “There’s an app for that, mate. Isla made me download it when she was pregnant with Callie. Tracks the whole thing.”

An app? Seriously? Of course, there’s an app. There’s an app for everything. Pulling up the App Store, I start scrolling. “Alright, let’s see.” The first preview loads, and holy shit—there’s this giant blinking baby head, all creepy smiles and oversized eyes. Straight-up nightmare fuel.

“What the fuck is this?” I hold my phone out for Xav. “Is this supposed to help or just haunt me forever?”

Xav leans in, grimaces, then shakes his head. “Nah, that’s not what it looks like. Isla, help him, please.”

“You two are bloody useless.” Dropping my phone, with my hands up, I step back, letting Isla take over.

“Hey, he’s the hopeless one,” I say, jerking my chin at Xav. Couple of taps later, Isla hands the phone back with a smile.

“All set. Now you can see everything—from what fruit size the baby is to how Imogen’s feeling, symptoms and all.”

The screen flashes up, and there it is: Good morning, Harrison. Your friend is 7 weeks, 2 days pregnant.

Weird. Seeing it written out like that… it’s a whole other thing. Not just an idea or a conversation. It’s real. Swiping through, there’s a tiny baby icon, little updates, even a section for how Imogen might feel this week. Overwhelmed. That’s one of the symptoms. Same.

It’s like reading a cheat sheet for a test I didn’t study for.

“This is… weird, right? Feels like I’m…” Words are stuck somewhere between my brain and my mouth.

“Like you’re what?” Isla’s eyebrow goes up.

“In her space. Like, invading or something.”

They both laugh, loud and unapologetic. “Oh, Harrison,” Isla says. “You’re too precious.”

“Yeah, cute as hell,” Xav adds.

It’s not cute. It’s… fuck, maybe it is cute, but it’s also terrifying. I have no clue what I’m doing. But if it keeps me even a little closer to Imogen—closer to her and this little raspberry—it’s worth it.

Every confusing, scary second of it.

Couch, cold beer, Mighty Car Mods on the TV—bliss. Nothing but the hum of engines, the clatter of tools, and the glorious sound of Marty and Moog arguing over which turbo to slap on some clapped-out nugget of a car. Rituals are important. Keeps the chaos in check. Just me, the boys on screen, and the sweet nectar of hops doing its thing. The day’s noise fades. Engines roar. All’s right in the world.

The door swings open. No knock. No warning. Just bang , and there’s Michael, strolling in like it’s his lounge room and not mine. Annoying prick. He doesn’t even look at me, just makes himself at home. Now, don’t get me wrong—he’s my brother, yeah? Love him to bits. But seriously, who does that? I shoot him a side-eye, one that screams piss off , but he’s oblivious.

The bloke’s been doing this since we were kids—never bothers to knock, couldn’t give a rat’s ass what he’s walking in on. He walked in on me once with a girl on this very couch. Things were heating up, hands everywhere, and he just strolled in—right on the couch, too. The two of us going at it and Michael just barges in. Didn’t bat an eye, didn’t apologise. Just, “Got any socks I can borrow?” Socks . Dickhead.

Didn’t even kill the vibe. I mean, he’s seen worse. We grew up open about… everything. One time, he walked in on me with two girls going to town, and all he did was complain about the music choice. Just grabbed his charger and waltzed out. The bloke’s unbothered to a fault.

I shake my head at the memory. “Dinner’s ready,” he announces now, leaning in the doorway. “Mum cooked,” he adds.

That gets a snort out of me. “Mum cooked? You’re shitting me.”

“Yeah, for once,” he fires back, heavy on the sarcasm. I can hear the grin in his voice, but Mighty Car Mods has my attention, and it’s staying there.

“Be there in a sec,” I mutter, eyes locked on the screen as Marty revs a freshly tuned RB26. Perfection.

Michael doesn’t move. Of course, he doesn’t. The sigh that escapes him is practically a speech. Loud, long, dramatic. Classic Michael.

“Harrison, come on. Joe wants you inside.” I tap the side of my beer can, weighing the next move. Engines rev, a turbo spools, and honestly? It’s a tough sell to move right now. Beer’s cold, and Marty’s halfway through explaining why you always use a catch can on boosted engines.

“But it’s the new episode,” I say, taking another swig and gesturing to the screen like, obviously, this is more important.

Another loud, exasperated sigh from him.

“Fine,” I mutter, dragging myself up. Michael doesn’t even look impressed. Just stands there, arms crossed, like he’s the one doing me a favour. Annoying prick.

The door creaks as I shove it open, that plasticky smile already in place, because, apparently, walking into this house requires a performance these days. The smell of steak hits me first—sizzling, smoky, proper steakhouse vibes. Joe’s at the stove, wielding a spatula and Mum’s on veggie duty, mashing potatoes. Joe glances over, all casual-like. “Look who finally decided to show up.”

“Yeah, yeah.” My hand’s already ruffling through my hair as I step in, catching a glance at my reflection in the microwave. Too long. Definitely too long. When was the last time I saw Dan? Must’ve been weeks ago. If he doesn’t squeeze me in soon, I’ll be rocking some shaggy surfer look.

Mum turns, a tea towel slung over her shoulder. She’s smiling, bright and animated like this is some kind of family reunion. “Thought we’d make something decent for a change. Hope you’re hungry.”

I flash a grin, even if it’s only half there. “Starving.”

Joe’s deep in conversation with Michael now, the two of them hunched together like they’re planning a bank heist. Mum’s still flitting around, cheerful, throwing in comments like she’s the glue holding it all together. And yeah, good on her. Fresh start, happy vibes, yada yada. Except there’s this little itch at the back of my head, a whisper of, Where the fuck was this energy when we were kids? I blink away the thoughts before they piss me off something fierce. Joe’s talking about some shiny new Jeep we had in the other day—Michael’s practically drooling over it.

A Jeep. Of course it’s a Jeep.

Don’t get me wrong, they’re fine if you’re into flashy toys that break down every five minutes. Good for business, sure. Keeps the shop busy. But owning one? That’s signing up for a lifetime of “fix me” lights and overpriced parts. Michael’s rambling about the latest tech, eyes lit up. Me? I’ll take an old-school muscle car any day—something with real guts. Fixing those new models is like operating on a bloody laptop. No thanks. I hide a smirk behind a quick swig of water Mum just set in front of me.

He’s grinning like it’s Christmas, which is ironic. We haven’t done Christmas properly in years—no tree, no lights, just awkward silences. Every year, the same excuses: “Got plans,” “Working late.” Anything to dodge the mess.

“So, what’s with the formal dinner?” Subtleties have never been my strong suit.

Joe doesn’t even flinch. “Can’t we all sit down and have a meal? Thought it might be nice for you boys to share dinner with your mum and me.”

“Yeah, right.” The words are out before I can stop them, sharp enough to slice through the steak. Nice? Us? Sitting down like some Brady Bunch fantasy? Sure. Joe sets the steak down, finally taking a seat next to Mum. The table’s set—steak, potatoes, salad—all laid out like they’ve been planning this. My stomach tightens, a knot forming.

I glance at Michael, who gives me a small nod. Right. No backing out now. I clear my throat, forcing the words out. “I’m going to be a dad.”

Mum freezes, wine glass halfway to her lips. “What?” Her voice is a sharp whisper, like she’s unsure she heard right.

Joe raises a brow. “Say that again.”

I exhale through my nose, bracing myself. “I’m. Going. To. Be. A. Dad.” The words feel heavier the second time, like they’re anchoring me in place.

“Are you serious, Harrison?”

“No, I’m joking,” I snap, more bite in my voice than intended. Her wide-eyed stare softens, but only slightly.

“Well, shit.” Joe shakes his head. “Didn’t see that coming.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. My thoughts are a mess—Imogen, the baby, being in the same room as Mum.

“So... who’s the girl?” Joe asks, folding his arms.

Mum’s eyes narrow. “I didn’t even know you were seeing someone seriously.”

“We’re not exactly serious.”

Michael snorts. “They’re not anything.” I shoot him a glare, but he just grins, the smug prick.

Joe chuckles. “Is it that blonde girl the boys at work keep teasing you about?”

Michael, ever the helpful brother, jumps in. “That’s the one. Her name’s Imogen.”

“Thanks, mate.” My jaw clenches.

Mum’s brows knit. “Imogen? Who’s that?”

“She’s just... a friend,” I mumble, arms crossing tighter. Sure. If by “friend” you mean the girl I can’t stop thinking about, who flipped my whole world upside down, and oh yeah—she’s carrying my kid.

“Do we know her? What’s her surname?” Mum questions. I don’t answer. Not going there.

“Hold on, so she’s just a friend?” Joe tilts his head. “She’s having your kid, Harrison. Surely there’s more to it.”

“Wish I could say there was.”

Mum sighs, setting down her fork. “So, how is that going to work, Harrison? Does she even know about… you know, your situation?”

“What situation?”

“Well, with everything that’s happened—”

“What’s that got to do with this?” I say, too fast. My arms drop, fists clenching at my sides. “I’ve got my shit together now—not that you’d notice.” She’s reaching, but she doesn’t know half of it. Joe does. He’s seen it firsthand—caught me in the middle of a nightmare once when I was eighteen. Nearly put my fist through the wall that night. That’s when the granny flat happened. I could’ve left, should’ve maybe, but I wasn’t about to walk away from Michael. Still won’t. Years we’ve lived under the same roof, and she never noticed. Never noticed that I was struggling, never asked if something was off.

She never asked. She never cared .

It was always about Michael. She fussed over him, worried about him, like he was the only one that mattered. Don’t get me wrong—I get it. He’s my little brother, and I’d take a bullet for him. But it stings, you know? It’s not that I wanted more than him, I just wanted… something. Now she wants to act like she’s concerned?

“You need to be serious about these things, Harrison. A baby is no joke,” Joe declares.

“Yeah, I know.”

“So sort it out sooner rather than later. You’re gonna be a dad, Harrison. Think about what’s best for the kid—and the both of you.”

Before the air even clears, Mum jumps in. “I agree. This is huge! You’ve got to start thinking about your priorities. You can’t just hide out in that flat forever.”

Priorities . Right. Like I haven’t been juggling those since I was a kid. “I’m not hiding. I’ve got my reasons for being out there.”

Mum leans in, that cigarette rasp of hers sliding out all condescending. “If you’re serious about this woman and raising a baby, she needs to know about your... illness.”

Illness? What the actual fuck? My jaw clenches. “I’m not sick. I have ADHD,” I snap. “And I’m fine. What’s your point?”

Her tone shifts to that sickly sweet warning. “You’ve got responsibilities now, Harrison. Have you even talked to her? Do you know anything about raising a child?”

I bite the inside of my cheek. Responsibility? That’s rich, coming from her. My teeth grind hard enough to turn enamel into powder. “You wanna talk about responsibility, Mum? Where the fuck was that when we were kids, huh? When Michael and I were the ones cleaning up your shit? We were your responsibility. What do you know?”

Her face twitches. With guilt? Maybe. “That’s not the point, Harrison. I thought we were past that. You’re an adult now, you need to stop acting like some reckless youngin. Staying out late, drinking. This is about your child. You need to grow up.”

Past that ? Is she out of her fucking mind? The table is vibrating under my leg now, the bounce so fast it’s practically a fucking earthquake. “You’re kidding, right? Moved past it? What exactly have you moved past, Mum? Do you even remember what happened? Or do you just block it out like it never existed?”

My jaw’s locked so tight it’s a wonder I can still talk, and my hands won’t stay still. They’re twitching, aching to throw, punch, grab something, anything, just to get this goddamn tornado out of my chest. She wants to lecture me about responsibility? Like she didn’t turn a blind eye every time he came storming through the house. Like she didn’t see me bleeding, didn’t hear the fucking shouting. Grow up?

How the fuck is someone supposed to grow up when they’re too busy surviving?

Joe raises his palm. “Harrison, listen. This isn’t meant to cause grief.”

Mum tuts. “No, he needs to hear this, Joe. He’s got a kid on the way—”

“Mum, just leave it,” Michael cuts in, but it’s too late. She’s already lit the fuse. I’m on my feet, chair scraping back hard enough to jar the room.

“Enough. You do not get to tell me how to raise my kid when you didn’t even raise yours.”

“Harrison!” Joe’s voice cuts through like thunder, sharp and commanding. It barely lands. Not now. Not with the noise roaring in my head, drowning out everything else.

Keys. Where are my fucking keys?

I don’t even remember moving, but I’m in my flat, yanking them off the counter. The door slams behind me, rattling the frame. Gravel crunches under my boots as I storm to the car, each step quick and unsteady, like if I slow down, the weight of everything will crash down on me. My hands tremble as I jam the key into the ignition and twist it hard. The engine roars to life—loud, raw, and furious.

I slam the accelerator, tyres screeching and spitting gravel in a messy spray. My car jolts forward, and I don’t let up, foot heavy on the pedal. The street blurs as I tear through it, windows down, the cold wind cutting against my face. It’s sharp, biting—drowning out everything else.

It’s the only place that makes sense. The only place where all the bullshit doesn’t follow me.