FIVE
The sound of soft snoring drifts from the other side of the bed, delicate but persistent, like a slightly congested ghost. I blink at the white digits glowing on the bedside table.
Gross.
‘Oh god,’ I mumble into the sheets. ‘Did we … did we do the Nutbush?’
Abbey stirs beside me and the congested ghost vanishes. Her dishevelled black bob is a structural marvel – defying both gravity and logic. ‘What? No. Did we?’
I sit up slowly, eyeing the battlefield that is our room: two empty wine bottles on the floor like fallen comrades, glitter on my arms – origin unknown – and Abbey looking like a raccoon who lost a fight with a pillow.
‘I hope not.’ I groan again. ‘I blacked out sometime after the Macarena.’
Abbey collapses back onto the mattress with a strangled moan. ‘I think I’m gonna throw up.’
‘Same,’ I say, clutching my forehead. My skull pulses with what I can only describe as divine punishment. ‘I need coffee. Litres of it.’
Abbey says something unintelligible into the duvet – possibly a spell, possibly a cry for help – before disappearing beneath it again. I stumble into the bathroom and the lights blind me instantly.
I lean against the sink, pressing my hands to the cool porcelain before I turn the tap on and drink straight from it. When I finally lift my head, I catch my reflection in the mirror and immediately regret it.
My brown hair is a science experiment. My make-up looks as though I spent the night sobbing while listening to ‘Landslide’ on a loop. I look like someone who barely survived a high-speed run-in with glitter, sweat and alcohol. So, you know – on brand.
I shower first, then attack my face with micellar water, hoping it’ll erase last night. Plot twist: it doesn’t.
Because naturally, he creeps back in.
Blue Eyes. The human embodiment of a red flag wrapped in unsolicited opinions. His smirk that was somehow both smug and smooth, filtered through that annoyingly deep voice of his. I spit my toothpaste into the sink and shake my head as if it’s an Etch A Sketch.
Snap out of it.
He could be a climate change denier. He probably listens to Joe Rogan and thinks cargo shorts are still acceptable.
‘Hey!’ Abbey calls through the bathroom door, voice weak. ‘I think I’m gonna be sick.’
That’s my cue: I bolt from the bathroom, dart through our room and onto the verandah.
The air is already thick and sticky, drenched in early morning heat and that golden glow that turns everything out here stupidly cinematic.
The dirt is every shade of burnt – burnt orange, burnt brown, burnt dreams – and even after only a day here, I can tell it gets everywhere.
In your socks, your mouth, your nails. I scan the horizon and there’s …
nothing. Well – nothing except for the spindly grey- green scrubs stretching out in every direction.
Spiky wattles line the track, daring you to get close, and the occasional bloodwood tree stands off in the distance, limbs gnarled like arthritic fingers reaching for a storm that probably isn’t coming.
And somehow, even though the whole place looks deserted, everything’s alive – skittering, crawling, chirping, watching.
The air buzzes with a constant low hum of insects.
I drop onto the verandah steps and take a seat in my singlet and shorts, the fabric already clinging to me.
A red-tailed cockatoo lets out a screech from somewhere above me.
It flaps off a nearby branch with a dramatic rustle of wings, disappearing into the wide blue sky as if it’s got somewhere better to be, while cicadas shriek like faulty smoke alarms and birds call to each other across the trees.
Nothing about this place is quiet. It’s hot and loud and wild and – annoyingly – kind of beautiful.
As if someone painted a postcard using only earth tones and heatstroke.
Which is exactly when I hear footsteps.
The door next to ours creaks open. I glance over my shoulder, expecting to see one of Ella’s relatives or a country bumpkin with rosy cheeks and a summer dress.
Of course, it’s not.
It’s him.
Blue Eyes leans against the doorframe as if deciding whether to pick another fight or give silence a try. Sandy blond hair tousled, crooked smirk already in place – smug, and somehow hotter for how little effort he’s putting into being the problem.
‘You again,’ he drawls.
Jamie, one. Blue Eyes, zero.
‘It’s hard to sleep when the air is Satan’s armpit,’ I mutter.
I don’t look up at him right away. Instead, I cross my arms, which reminds me I’m not wearing a bra and life is a cruel, vindictive joke.
‘Sure,’ he says reluctantly. ‘But it’s a pretty hell. Sunrise and dehydration – what more could you want?’
I glance sideways. His hair’s still damp. He smells of eucalyptus and lemon.
‘Let me guess,’ I say. ‘You’ve been up since four, wrestling livestock or learning to read or whatever it is men like you do out here.’
He grins. ‘Something like that. Followed by writing a very meaningful journal entry.’
I blink. ‘Did you just make a joke?’
‘Is that so hard to believe?’
‘Yes. You give off strong “calls therapy a scam” energy.’
He sits beside me, the wood creaking under his weight. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not here to talk about my chakras.’
‘Thank God,’ I mutter.
A pause. Then, ‘You went pretty hard last night.’
I groan. ‘I did the Nutbush, didn’t I?’
He leans forward, resting an elbow on each knee. ‘Worse,’ he says, eyes dancing. ‘ABBA. The singalong was loud. The choreography was … unique.’
‘Whatever you think you saw,’ I say, determined to keep my eyes forward, ‘you didn’t.’
‘I didn’t say it was bad.’
‘You didn’t have to.’
He’s quiet for a beat, and I think maybe, maybe, he’s done.
He isn’t.
‘I still don’t find you interesting,’ Blue Eyes offers.
I scoff. ‘Then stop orbiting me like I’m the only latte for fifty kilometres.’
‘Two-hundred and thirteen.’
‘Huh?’
‘That’s the distance to the next latte.’
‘Well, don’t let me stop you.’
Blue Eyes smirks. ‘You’re a car crash in heels. Hard to look away. Loud. Probably expensive.’
I narrow my eyes. ‘I’ve seen parking meters flirt more smoothly than you.’
His mouth twitches. He’s trying not to smile, which only makes it worse. ‘I’m not flirting,’ he says casually.
‘No? You sure? Because you keep talking to me. And unless you’re collecting insults for a rural stand-up routine, I’m struggling to understand why.’
He shrugs as if our whole interaction is a minor inconvenience instead of the highlight of his day. ‘Maybe I’m bored.’
‘There’s a whole wedding full of people to repel,’ I point out.
‘None of them talk back quite like you.’
‘Look,’ I say, careful not to sound flustered … or like I’m in any way noticing the stupid dimple that shows when he smirks, ‘if this is your version of small talk, I think we can agree it’s not working.’
‘Feeling entitled to something doesn’t mean you deserve it.’
Silence.
‘Did you just quote The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck?’
Blue Eyes shrugs.
‘You do look like someone who reads exactly one book a year and quotes it for the next six.’
‘I’ll take that,’ he says smoothly. ‘You, on the other hand, look like someone who tried to get into sourdough in 2020 and never recovered.’
‘Joke’s on you. I skipped sourdough and went straight to wine.’
He tilts his head, examining me. ‘You do strike me as someone who rotates between wine, work and scrolling through Tinder bios like you’re studying for an exam you already failed.’
I open my mouth, then close it again.
He smiles, satisfied, and continues. ‘No pottery classes, no rollerblading, not even some niche obsession with true crime podcasts.’
‘Wow,’ I say, genuinely impressed at how accurate that was.
Jamie, one. Blue Eyes, one.
He swats a passing fly. ‘I’ve met salads with more personality.’
‘You talk to your food? That tracks.’
He laughs, low and dark. ‘Do you rehearse these insults before you fall asleep?’
The door to room seven bangs open and another beautiful man walks out. He sees Blue Eyes talking to me and smiles. ‘Luke, you coming or what?’
So that’s his name.
Luke stands, brushing the invisible dust off his jeans, then grins when he finally eyes what I’m wearing. ‘I’ll see you around B1.’
I watch him go – not because I’m interested, but because I’m still mentally cataloguing all the ways I’ll destroy him later.
But for a brief, traitorous moment, I imagine being beside him in a ute, windows down, the hot wind in my hair, his thumb grazing the back of my hand as we drive into a sunset that smells of sunburn and roadkill.
Then I remind myself I’m not the kind of girl who rides off into the desert with a man who makes condescending comments about my dancing. That sort of thing only happens to people who say things like ‘I’m not like other girls’ without irony.
And also – this place is a goddamn sauna.
I’ll take my chances with emotionally avoidant men and overpriced lattes back in the city, thanks. At least they come with ducted air conditioning and a job that doesn’t follow them home.
Surely.