Two
Dallas
Five Years Later – Present Day
Istand outside the school with the other parents as I wait for Billie to come bounding over and recount her entire day with more detail than is required.
She definitely didn’t lose her passion. Every day is the same routine: she bolts out to greet me and doesn’t take a breath ’til we’re well and truly through the front door.
Then, she rinses and repeats the same cycle the second her Uncle gets home.
The school bell rings, doors flying open as dozens of kids rush out to greet their parents.
I scuff my boots in the dirt beneath me, my eyes scanning for Billie through the crowd.
Several minutes pass and the initial chaos dies down until only the stragglers remain, dragging their backpacks along the ground, much to the disapproval of their parents.
Still no sign of her. Where is she? My pulse races as I head into the school, trying to conceal the panic rising in my blood.
Boot-heavy footfalls echo through the empty halls with every step as I make my way towards Billie’s classroom.
As if my question was answered by a higher power, I hear a familiar, singsongy voice ring out of the room across the hall.
A door flings open with a loud thud as Billie emerges, backpack in tow, her guitar strapped to her shoulder.
“Thank you, Ms Harrington! See you tomorrow.” Her smile lights up when she sees me, and she bolts into my arms.
“Sorry I’m late, Daddy. Ms Harrington wanted to teach me how to use my capo,” she proudly announces, handing her guitar to me. Her school bag slides off her shoulder as she gestures towards the classroom.
“Who’s Ms Harrington? And what the heck is a capo?’” I ask, my brow creasing.
A soft, feminine voice follows my question as a tiny, pixie-looking woman waltzes into the hall holding a bizarre little clamp-type thing.
“That would be me, Sir, and this is a capo. It’s a little clip that sits on the neck of your guitar. It shortens the strings, and is traditionally used to alter pitch,” she explains, toying with the weird looking device in her hands. “And you… must be Mr. Northlane.”
She’s quite tall, probably around 5’7”, but she’d fit perfectly under my chin if I wanted her to.
Her mid-length, pastel pink hair falls in soft waves against her flushed, plump cheeks before resting against her collarbones.
She’s tucked a few strands of her bubblegum-coloured hair behind her ear, showcasing an elaborate array of golden studs in various places.
Her skin is the colour of a perfectly brewed latte, and I can’t help but wonder if she tasted just as good. Stop it, Dallas. She has big, round eyes that flicker in the light. A soft array of smoky makeup accentuates the bright emerald shade of green that sprinkles her irises.
A tiny, gold ring sits nestled in her left nostril and a matching necklace rests against her collarbones. She looks like a sparkly pixie or some kind of nymph. Is that the right word? Nymph?
A form-fitting, navy blazer caresses her curves before falling against her hips.
It hugs every inch of her so perfectly, like it’s been sculpted to her body.
I continue to run my eyes down her frame, soaking in the tailored dress-pants that could have been painted on her. This woman is a walking work of art.
Her voice chimes in again, interrupting my thoughts. “Mr. Northlane, are you alright?”
“Shit. Umm, I mean yeah, sorry. Hi, I’m Dallas, Billie’s Dad,” I stammer, my voice catching in my throat.
She extends a perfectly manicured hand towards me, more delicate jewellery adorns her fingers. “Annabeth Harrington. I’m Billie’s music teacher,” she offers.
Oh, I am absolutely fucked.
I kiss Billie’s forehead, closing the door behind her as she piles into my ute. Her golden curls wildly flow in the afternoon breeze.
“Ms Harrington is so cool, Daddy. Today, she told us how she played the violin with the Sydney Orchestra. She said her old school was a big fancy school in the city. She even has a ring in her nose, Daddy,” Billie explains, without taking a breath.
Her legs swing happily as she sticks her arm out the window, making it dance in a wave-like motion in the wind as we pull out of the car park.
Billie starts humming along to the radio and I can’t help but smile.
She’s always writing songs, telling stories, and living in her own daydreams. My girl has an imagination worth its weight in gold.
I hope to god she never loses that spark.
“I saw that, Angel,” I reply.
Of course I noticed. Annabeth is all I can think about since I met her all of fifteen minutes ago. I haven’t so much as looked at a woman since Sam, let alone been attracted to one. Yet, here I am wondering if this woman does in fact taste as good as a latte, and what else she has pierced.
The drive home has taken an eternity, despite being maybe an hour.
Billie rambles on about her day, telling me tales of playground antics and reciting her lines for the upcoming play.
Her voice echoes through the cab, and I mumble incoherent replies when needed – thankfully going unnoticed by Billie – but my mind is occupied with thoughts of the pink-haired pixie.
It has occurred to me, that the pixie is probably married.
Although, I don’t remember seeing a wedding ring, and that’s definitely something I would have noticed in my thorough scan of her body.
As we pull into the driveway, a trail of dust billowing from behind us, I decide that no matter what it costs my heart to do, I need to know more about Annabeth fucking Harrington.
My boots scuff against the scratched hardwood floors as I shuffle through the kitchen, dropping Billie’s schoolbag in the corner. I reach for the bottle of bourbon sitting on the bench, pulling two crystal glasses from the rack before filling them to the brim.
“Did you have a chance to look at the fence, Colt?” I ask my brother, my voice flat and monotoned as I hand him one of the glasses.
“Yeah, she’s fucked mate,” he chuckles as he accepts the drink. I see his brow crease as he stares at me and asks, “Hey, man, you okay?”
Taking a seat on the nearest bar stool, I prop my elbows against the bench.
I lean forward, taking a long sip of bourbon.
The sharp sting of the alcohol burns my throat on its way down.
I inhale deeply, swirling the brown liquor in the glass as my eyes drift up to Colt, who is staring at me with a look of panic in his eyes – our mother’s eyes.
“I think I met someone today…” I begin, my thumb tracing the rim of the crystal glass.
“Someone, like someone? Like a woman?” he asks, a delightful smile sneaking across his face.
“Someone like, Billie’s music teacher, someone.”
“Oh, I thought you mea—”
“That is exactly what I meant.”
Colt’s eyes darken, his smile fades slowly as he says, “Well, fuck me sideways, brother. Now what?”
“Colt, if I knew the answer to that, we wouldn’t be drinking bourbon at 3:45 pm on a fuckin’ Tuesday.”
I put Billie to bed after our evening routine.
Dinner, followed by what seems like a forty-five-minute shower, which continues into another forty-five minutes of Colt and I arguing about how to braid her hair, and not one, but four bedtime stories later, I’m finally heading out to do the rounds with Colt.
The night rounds consist of checking the stockyards, feeding the horses, and making sure the gates are latched – among other menial tasks.
We drag ourselves into the kitchen somewhere around 10:00 pm.
Colt stumbles in behind me, slowly unbuttoning his shirt.
He kicks his boots off at the door; the familiar, worn leather Ariats falling in their usual place by the firewood.
“So, are we gonna talk about the girl or what?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows.
I roll my eyes as I kick my own boots off and walk through the kitchen to the sitting room.
My eyes are fixed on the couch and the packet of cigarettes that Colt left on the coffee table – it’s beckoning me like a siren to a sailor.
I collapse in a heap onto the soft, navy fabric and let my body melt into the recliner.
Colt emerges from the kitchen, drinks in hand, and flops down next to me, extending a glass with a subtle nod. I accept the drink, taking a deep breath as I prepare myself to unravel the seemingly uneventful, yet life-altering, moment that was meeting Annabeth Harrington to my brother.