Tangled Desires (Wattle Creek #3)

30

T his morning hit me like a bad hangover, even though I didn’t drink. Just me, flat on my back, staring at the ceiling, thoughts tangled up and fraying at the edges. Imogen was up early, slipping out quietly. She’d left a text saying she was heading past Isla’s.

Restless . That’s the word for it. Dad’s in my head again, like he’s standing just outside, waiting to bulldoze back into our lives. The kind of waiting that knots your stomach. Last night, I caved. Called Dr. Lowes. Left a message that probably sounded more desperate than I’d like. She rang back at the crack of dawn, squeezed me in. Now I’m heading toward Clifftop Haven, hoping Dr Lowes has something to settle whatever the hell this is.

When I’d left, Michael’s Ducati wasn’t out front. He must’ve taken off somewhere. I sent them both a text— just grabbing a few things . Michael didn’t reply. Imogen did, though. Quick and sweet, like always.

Imogen : Can you stop by the shops and get some parsley? I’ll need more for the potato salad.

Home. That word sits a little differently these days.

Dr. Lowes’ office smells like peppermint, same as last time. She’s perched behind her desk, glasses low on her nose, watching me like she’s got all the time in the world.

I sit, hands gripping my knees. “Gary called.” The words land heavy. “Out of nowhere. Just when things were… okay.”

Her head tilts. “What did he say?”

“Small talk,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. “Tried to act like everything’s fine. Said he missed us. Wants to catch up.” I laugh. “Like we’re some happy little family.”

She doesn’t flinch, just leans in a little. “How did that sit with you?”

A scoff breaks loose. “Angry. Sick. Take your pick.” My jaw tightens. “He gets to walk back in, like he didn’t burn everything to the ground. It’s bullshit.” There’s a long pause. She waits. “I snapped. At work. At Mum. It’s like… every time we talk, we’re at each other’s throats. She picks at things, you know? Like she knows better.” I grind my teeth. “But how could she? She doesn’t even know who I am.”

Her pen taps gently. “What do you think that’s about?”

“She let it happen,” I say, low and steady. “Left me to handle him. To raise Michael. Maybe she didn’t mean to, but she did. And knowing that? It doesn’t take the edge off.”

“Have you considered that maybe your mum was more influenced by your father than you realise? That she might have felt powerless, or that she was too hurt to act differently?”

The words settle heavy in the room. I keep my eyes on the floor, tracing a crack in the tile. “Yeah, I have. I know he probably messed her up more than I’ll ever understand, and maybe she didn’t mean it. But knowing that doesn’t change the fact that she let it happen. And it’s hard to feel anything but angry about that.”

Another pause. She waits again. “Why today, Harrison? Why reach out now?”

“It’s Michael’s birthday,” I admit, the knot in my gut twisting tighter. “And I’ve got this feeling…” Words fail. It’s like trying to describe something that sits just out of reach, gnawing at the edges. I roll my shoulders, trying to ease it away.

“I see. Well, you changed your number. That was the right thing to do. It gives you control over who gets access to you.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t stop… this.” I press a fist against my chest. “There’s this ache. Dull, but constant. Some days, it’s like I can’t even breathe right.”

“That sounds like anxiety, Harrison. The body’s way of holding tension and fear, even when the threat isn’t right in front of you.”

I sit back, trying to process that. “So, what’s the difference? Between this and a panic attack?”

“A panic attack hits fast, like a wave. Heart racing, dizziness, feeling like you’re losing control. Anxiety is more of a slow burn—a constant hum in the background. Both are tough, but they need different approaches.”

I rub my hands over my jeans, grounding myself. “What do I do? How do I stop it?”

“You manage it. Slow, deep breaths. In for four counts, hold for four, out for four. Ground yourself—notice five things you can see, four you can touch, three you can hear. Remind yourself you’re safe. Move your body, even if it’s just walking.” Her voice is gentle but firm. “And when it feels too big, reach out. Don’t carry it alone.” I nod once, trying to absorb it. The weight doesn’t lift, but something shifts.

“Let’s shift gears. How are things at home?”

“Good. Michael, Joe—they’re solid. Imogen…” Her name comes out quieter. I sit back, folding my arms.

Dr. Lowes perks up. “Imogen?”

A slow breath leaves me. “She’s… We’re having a baby. Soon.”

Her face lights up. “Congratulations! How’s that been for you?”

“Like standing on the edge of something big,” I say after a beat. “Terrifying. But right.”

“And Imogen? What’s she like?”

The corner of my mouth quirks up. “Sharp. Tough. Calls me out without blinking. She’s got these ribbons—always in her hair. Doesn’t take crap from anyone, least of all me.” I pause, remembering the way her eyes spark when she’s mid-argument. “She pushes me. Hard. Doesn’t let me coast. Keeps me honest.”

“She sounds like someone special.”

“She is,” I murmur. “Makes me want to show up. Be better. For her. For our child.”

She doesn’t know it, but she’s become this anchor—keeping me grounded when the past gets too loud. The way she talks about the baby, like it’s already a part of her world, makes me want to believe I can fit into that picture. That I won’t screw it up. It’s the quiet moments, too. When she’s not looking, and I catch her rubbing her belly, lost in thought. When she falls asleep on the couch, ribbons tangled and slipping free, and all I can think is, don’t mess this up, Price.

Imogen doesn’t ask for anything—doesn’t need to. She’s built like that. Independent, untouchable. But that only makes me want to give her everything. To prove that maybe, just maybe, I can be the kind of man she deserves.

“It sounds like Imogen challenges you in ways that matter. Makes you reflect, step up. That’s important, Harrison. Especially now.” She crosses her leg, folding her hands in her lap. “Being a father isn’t about perfection. It’s about presence. Consistency. Kids don’t need a flawless parent; they need someone who shows up, who loves them through their mistakes. And it sounds like you’re already thinking about how to be that person—not just for your child, but for Imogen, too.”

I nod slowly, the weight of her words settling in. The ache in my chest loosens, just a little.

“You’re carrying a lot,” she continues. “Guilt, fear, expectations of what you think a father should be. But parenting isn’t about erasing your past; it’s about learning from it. You already know what not to do—what your father got wrong. That’s a powerful place to start.”

“It’s just hard,” I murmur. “The past... It’s like I’m dragging it behind me every step I take with them. How do I get rid of that? What if it’s not enough?”

“That weight won’t just disappear, Harrison. But confronting it can make it easier to carry. Maybe it’s time to talk to your mother—your brother, too. Just the three of you. Look the past in the eye, bring all that pain and resentment into the light. If you want to move forward, to give Imogen and the baby the best of you, it may be the only way to find closure.”

Her voice softens. “But know this—you are enough. It will be. Because you care enough to ask that question. Because you’re willing to do the work.” She holds my gaze. “And when it feels overwhelming, lean on the people around you—Imogen, Michael, your friends. You’re not in this alone, even if it feels that way sometimes.”

The backyard hums with life—smoke curling from the BBQ, beer bottles cracking open, and voices blending into a warm, familiar chaos. Bradley and Xavier are manning the grill, bickering over the “perfect” way to cook ribs like it’s a sport. I hang back, half-listening, content to be here, soaking in the easy rhythm of it all. On the patio, Michael’s with the girls. Liv says something that sends Imogen into a fit of laughter, doubled over, hands on her knees. It hits like a spark—sharp, bright, undeniable.

“Mate, it’s been too long since we all got together like this,” Brad says, flipping the spare ribs. “How’s everything on your end, Harrison? Life good?”

“Yeah, good.” I take a swig from my beer. “Busy, but good. Been a wild few months.”

“Life, pregnancy, love, and footy—that’s what it’s all about.” Xavier raises his tongs in salute. “Speaking of, heard about that last game—your team got smashed. What happened?”

“Don’t remind me.” I laugh, shaking my head. “We got cocky. Thought we had it in the bag. Lesson learned.” The conversation rolls on, easy and familiar—work, footy, old stories from nights we can barely piece together. It’s all surface-level until suddenly it’s not.

“I’m seeing a counsellor,” I say, the words slipping out like they’ve been waiting too long.

Silence, then Xavier freezes mid-toss of the tongs. “No shit. What brought that on?”

“Imogen,” I say, rolling the bottle between my hands. “She found someone. And Michael’s been on my back about it, too. Figured it was time.” They trade a glance. Something shifts in their eyes—not pity, not shock. Respect, maybe.

“Imogen’s got you sorted, huh?” Brad’s voice is quiet, deliberate.

Xavier grins, jerking his head toward the patio. “She’s good for you. And with the baby coming... Well, that’s something.”

“Nah, this would’ve happened, anyway,” Brad says, smirking. “Baby just sped it up.”

Xavier laughs, shaking his head. “Fast track to adulting, mate.”

Brad steps forward, pulling me into a quick, solid hug. “I’m proud of you,” he mutters. The word lands hard. Proud . It’s not something I hear often—if ever. It scrapes at something raw, something buried deep under years of keeping it together on my own. It feels strange. Good, but strange.

When he steps back, Xavier points at him. “Bloke doesn’t go hugging just anyone.”

Brad shrugs, glancing at Amelia across the yard, and there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. “Yeah, well. Things change.”

“First step, bro. Big one. Keep going. You’ve got this,” Xavier says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. We lift our beers, clink them together. The moment stretches, no need for words. Just quiet understanding.

The music drifts softly, Luke Combs twanging in the background. I walk inside, the cool air from the fridge brushing against my face as I reach for a beer. The cap hisses, releasing a sharp breath as I twist it off. Headlights sweep across the driveway, cutting through the dark—parked too far down for Joe. I step out, heart pounding before my mind can make sense of it.

Gary Walters. My father. In the flesh. Leaning on his car door, swaying. Wasted. Same greasy smirk, same wreckage trailing behind him. My jaw clenches, breath coming sharp. My feet are already moving, fast and certain.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

He blinks, slow and sloppy. “Came to say hi... Mikey’s birthday, ain’t it?”

A bitter laugh scrapes up my throat. “Are you serious? Fuck off.” No need to ask how he found us. He always shows up when things are just starting to level out, like a bad habit you thought you kicked. “What do you really want? And don’t bother with the happy family crap.”

His chuckle crawls under my skin. “Look, I’m... desperate. Need money. Owe a lot to some big guys.”

The anger simmers, burning low and steady. I study him—graying hair, lines etched deep into his face. His eyes are the same shade as mine, but there’s nothing behind them. Hollow. “You’re unbelievable.” My fists clench, tight enough to hurt. “You got yourself into this. You can get yourself out. I’m not helping you.”

Gary lurches forward, hand outstretched like that’s supposed to mean something. “Harrison, c’mon. Just a little bit. You’ve got money. Help me out, mate.”

“Help you?” A bitter laugh escapes. “Over my dead body.” The door creaks behind me, and footsteps crunch on the gravel.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Michael grits.

“Mikey boy. Just came to say happy birthday.”

“Don’t call me that,” Michael steps forward. “You’re not welcome here.”

Gary shifts, his face twitching. “You don’t get it. I’m desperate. If I don’t pay these guys, I’m dead.”

“Then you’d better start running, because the only thing you’re getting from me is the door,” I mutter. Gary’s gaze flickers, searching, but there’s nothing left for him here. Not anymore.

Brad moves beside me, eyes sharp. “What group?”

“Some guys out of Sydney. They’ve got this crest... a snake, coiled up. Crown, flames—maybe a sword? Big deal, y’know?”

A chill tightens everything inside. That symbol. I’ve seen it before—years ago. They’re bad fucking news. “You’re done,” I growl. “Get off my property.”

Gary wobbles but doesn’t back down. “Harrison, please! I know you’ve got something.”

“Even if I did, you wouldn’t see a cent.”

Brad’s voice is steel. “You’ve been told. Leave.”

“And who the hell are you?”

Brad pulls out his badge. Flash. No words needed.

“Just having a chat with my sons.” Gary flinches, hands up.

Michael’s words slice through. “We’re not your sons. Get that out of your mouth.”

The door creaks open behind us. Imogen’s voice filling his ears. “Harrison, what’s going on?”

My pulse spikes. “Get back inside, Immy.”

“Do I need to call the police?”

Brad raises a calming hand without turning. “It’s handled. Just take the girls out back.”

Gary’s eyes track Imogen, a smirk curling. “That your missus, aye? Pregnant, too. Fuck, you never said you were gonna be a father.”

“Keep your fucking eyes off her, or I’ll put you in the ground.”

Gary’s grin widens. “Pretty little thing. Shame she’s stuck with a wreck like you.” Something snaps. The urge to lunge is electric. “One more word, and you’ll regret it.” Brad’s hand lands firm on my shoulder.

“Yer think you’re better than me now, huh? You were always a waste of space. Think you can raise a kid?”

Bradley steps forward. “Leave. Now.” Tyres screech, and we all turn our heads to spot Joe’s car. He and Mum are out before the engine cools.

“You got a lot of nerve showing your face, Walters.”

“Nice to see you, too, Price. Keeping her warm for me, huh?”

Mum’s face hardens. “You’re disgusting, Gary. Haven’t you done enough?”

Gary’s laugh cuts through, bitter. “Oh, please. Bottles, lines—that’s all you’ve ever been good at. No wonder these kids are screw-ups.”

“Shut the fuck up, Gary,” I grit behind clenched teeth.

“What? No ‘Dad’? Yer used to call me that.” His eyes flick to Imogen. “Wonder how long the blondie’ll stick around once she sees the real you.”

I lean toward Brad, voice low. “If he keeps talking, he’s getting hurt.”

Gary’s grin is so fucking smug, I want to bash his fucking head in. “Truth hurts, doesn’t it? You can’t outrun it, mate. Still just a—”

“Don’t listen to him, Harrison,” Mum’s voice cuts in.

Brad pulls out his phone, staring Gary down. “You’ve got five seconds to leave before police are swarming to arrest you for trespassing.” Gary falters, eyes darting.

“Five.”

He takes one step backward.

“Four.”

A stumble toward his car. Mumbling.

“Three.”

He’s in the car, tires screeching as he peels out, taillights fading into the dark.

“Call them, anyway,” I grunt. “He shouldn’t be on the fucking road.”

Brad nods. “One step ahead of you, champ.”

Thank fuck for that. But the air doesn’t clear. Not even close. Anger still coils tight in my chest, simmering low, ready to explode.