TWENTY-TWENTY
TWENTY-TWO
The next time I wake, it’s to the sound of birds – echoing calls that are stitched into the landscape itself.
No traffic. No sirens. No distant hum of the city.
Just the layered chorus of magpies warbling, cockatoos screeching in bursts and the soft rustle of a swamp bloodwood tree brushing across the tin roof.
The light pushing through the thin curtain adds a soft golden filter to the room as it slants across the faded quilt in long bands.
I blink against the brightness and turn to the other side of the bed.
Empty, but not cold.
Luke’s spot beside me is still faintly warm, the pillow creased in the shape of a head that probably hasn’t rested properly in days. His suit from last night is crumpled in the corner on the chair. The room smells of him – that deeply masculine scent of soap, sun and earth.
I sit up slowly, my body sore in that emotional-hangover way. I run a hand over my face.
Did last night really happen? Why does this place already feel familiar? What the hell am I doing here? Seriously. What is this? It’s too quiet for answers, and too noisy in my head to ask the questions out loud.
So, I swing my legs off the bed and find the floor cold beneath my feet. I grab one of Luke’s shirts and slip it over my head, noting I need to get my own bag out of the car.
The kitchen is filled with the smell of bacon and eggs and I’m still here.
I tread softly into the kitchen, trying not to look like someone who slept in someone else’s bed and is now wearing their clothes.
Ella’s barefoot, hair piled on top of her head, balancing Daisy against her chest with one arm while flipping eggs in a pan with the other. Domestic chaos, executed in perfect ballet form.
Daisy watches me over Ella’s shoulder with wide, curious eyes. She’s quiet, alert, filing away this moment for future judgement.
‘You’re still here,’ Ella says, not turning around. Her voice is casual, yet there’s something teasing under it. A challenge.
‘Barely,’ I mumble, scratching the back of my neck.
Ella plates the eggs one-handed, sits down at the dining table, and props Daisy against her boob as if it’s nothing.
She then eats with one hand while I sit beside her and try not to overanalyse the fact that I feel like I belong here.
She slides another plate over to me, which is filled with perfectly fried eggs and the exact quantity of toast I love.
‘Thanks,’ I say quietly, another child for Ella to feed.
She doesn’t respond. Just smiles and keeps eating.
Daisy makes a soft noise against Ella’s chest, her fists curling in that newborn way where she’s either about to cast a spell or start a riot. Ella shifts her little body slightly, adjusting her grip like she’s done it a thousand times. Then she drains the rest of her coffee quick smart.
‘I’m going to jump in the shower before the boys get back and the house turns into a dust cloud,’ she says, already untangling Daisy from her boob and depositing her in my arms like a fragile, slightly grumpy football.
I panic only a little.
‘Pat her on the back until she burps,’ Ella calls as she heads down the hall, tossing the words over her shoulder. ‘You’ve got ten minutes before she demands round two.’
I adjust Daisy awkwardly against my shoulder as if I’m preparing to carry a sack of very precious, very breakable flour, and I start patting her back gently.
Nothing.
More pats. Firmer now.
Still nothing.
Then, out of nowhere, an unmistakable, impressive burp erupts over my shoulder, followed by a contented sigh.
‘Well,’ I whisper. ‘That was alarming.’
Daisy snuggles into the dip of my shoulder, tiny fingers curling into her blanket.
She whines. I sway. Back and forth. Back and forth.
And it works. She settles. Her cheek is warm against my collarbone.
I keep swaying, just in case.
For a split second, something in me shifts. Okay, I think. Maybe she’s kind of cute. Maybe she’s more than cute. Maybe she’s some kind of Baby Yoda.
Or maybe I need a coffee.
Either way, I don’t put her down.
Ella comes back into the kitchen looking miraculously composed for someone who had a baby sucking the life out of her ten minutes ago. Her cheeks are flushed pink from the shower. Her hair’s damp, shoved into a messy twist at the base of her neck.
‘Here,’ she says, taking Daisy back. ‘That wasn’t so bad.’
‘Mostly,’ I say, rubbing the baby ghost from my shoulder.
Daisy releases a grunt and nestles against her mum as if she’s been through something harrowing. Which – honestly – she probably has.
‘I’m going to go rinse off,’ I say, already stepping into the hall. ‘And maybe pretend I’m the type of person who thrives in the great outdoors.’
‘Try not to fall in love with the place when you see the retro plumbing.’
I soon realise she’s not wrong.
The bathroom is aggressively old school.
A rusted showerhead. Wall tiles the colour of beige regret.
A floral shower curtain so stiff it could stand up by itself.
Still, the water pressure is surprisingly good – the kind that drills into your back and makes you forget your chiro appointment next week.
I wash quickly, dry off with a towel that smells of sunshine and soap, and fish out a pair of denim shorts and a white linen top from my bag – light, easy, something that makes me feel slightly more human.
I brush my hair out, skip the make-up, and glance in the mirror.
My green eyes are tired, yet there’s colour in my cheeks again. I look less haunted. Slightly.
Back in the kitchen, I start making coffee. Luke’s ancient machine gurgles like it might explode, then miraculously produces something dark and promising and caffeinated.
Ella reappears, baby-less this time, and watches me with a look that’s half impressed, half suspicious.
‘I can help,’ she offers.
I wave her off. ‘I’ve got it.’
We move around the kitchen in easy tandem, making breakfast for Luke and Darcy – her slicing fruit, me cracking eggs – as if we’ve done this a hundred times before. We pass each other utensils without thinking. Bump hips without apology.
It’s unsettling how easy this feels.
Ella leans against the counter, sipping her second cup of coffee while she eyes the pile of folded linens on the couch where I was supposed to sleep last night. ‘So … I take it you and Luke are on good terms again?’
I pause over the pan. ‘I suppose.’
‘Wanna talk about it?’
I sigh. ‘Given my track record, probably not.’
She raises an eyebrow. ‘Is that the excuse you’re running with?’
I shrug.
Ella smirks. ‘Go big or go home, hey?’
‘Naturally,’ I mumble and flip the eggs.
Her smile falters slightly. ‘Be careful with him, okay?’
I stiffen.
‘I’m serious. He’s lost everything.’
My jaw ticks. ‘Can you stop talking to me like I’m the villain in McLeod’s Daughters?’
Ella doesn’t flinch. ‘I didn’t say you were. I’m only asking you not to become one.’
I open my mouth to argue, but the rumble of an approaching engine cuts me off.
The boys are back.
Luke and Darcy enter through the side door, covered in dust and sweat. Their shirts cling to them in all the wrong – and right – places. Luke tosses his hat on the dining table and pours a glass of water from the fridge as I suspect he’s done every day of his life.
Darcy scoops up Daisy from the spare room. ‘There’s my girl!’
Ella grins and kisses him on the cheek. ‘She was supposed to be napping.’
Darcy cradles his daughter as if she’s made of the finest porcelain. ‘We should head off soon. I told Dad I’d be back to help with the vet.’
Ella nods and starts plating food first. Pancakes, eggs, fruit. Darcy digs in.
Luke offers me a small smile – the kind that twitches at the corners of his mouth. As if he’s glad I’m still here. Like he forgot, for a second, why I came in the first place.
‘Thanks for making breakfast,’ he says, voice scratchy from the dust and the sun.
‘Don’t mention it,’ I reply.
Darcy swallows a mouthful of eggs and says, ‘This is one of the key advantages of marriage.’
Ella smacks him in the back of the head.
Luke’s eyes flick to mine, amused. Then he spots the mug on the counter. ‘You figured out the coffee machine.’
I lift my own mug in mock cheers. ‘Of course. It’s the only one for two hundred and thirteen k’s, remember?’
His smile grows and Ella and Darcy share a look as if something strange is happening.
Daisy emits a sharp little wail.
Ella sighs. ‘Nappy time. Then we’re out. Jamie, you ready?’
The question drops into the space between all four of us.
I glance at her a little startled. ‘Oh. Yep!’ I nod too quickly. ‘Yep. Let me grab my things.’
Luke coughs quietly. Clears his throat. Then, in a voice that’s far too casual, he says, ‘You could stay. If you wanted.’
My mouth opens. Then shuts again.
‘I mean,’ I say, fidgeting with my hands, ‘I came all this way to help Ella with the bub, so …’
Ella cuts in smoothly. ‘We’re fine. You’ve already helped out so much.’
I look at her. Then at him.
Luke shrugs. ‘It’s your call.’
The room holds its breath.
I hesitate, my grip tightening around my opposite hand. ‘Okay,’ I say finally, as smoothly as if I’d just agreed to marry him in front of a live studio audience.
Darcy, sensing my unease – bless him – swoops in and says, ‘Don’t let him convince you that chasing cattle is romantic, because it’s not.’
I grin. ‘There’s nothing romantic about me running.’
Ella swoops out of the room, baby in her arms, while Darcy clears his plate and downs the rest of his water. He looks at Luke. ‘Feed truck’s due tomorrow. I’ll make sure old mate swings by here after.’
Luke nods. ‘Appreciate it.’
Darcy turns to me with a lazy grin and winks. ‘Well then,’ he says, slinging his arm around Ella’s shoulders as she walks back into the kitchen with Daisy, ‘you’ve got nothing to worry about.’
Ella adjusts Daisy in her arms and crosses the room, eyes narrowing as she steps into my space. She wraps her free arm around me in a tight hug, her mouth close to my ear.
‘Don’t screw this up,’ she whispers.
I let out a breath that’s not quite a laugh. ‘You’re relentless, you know that?’
She pulls back, smirking. ‘It’s part of my charm.’
Darcy raises a hand in farewell. ‘Good luck wrangling him.’
I give him a look, then flick my eyes to Ella. ‘Good luck wrangling her.’
He winks again as the front door creaks open, then it bangs shut behind them. I step out onto the front porch as they buckle Daisy into her car seat and load up the back of the car.
Luke’s already standing there, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. He doesn’t say anything. Just watches them go, his face unreadable.
I glance at him, trying to catch some hint of what he’s thinking. Gratitude? Regret? A well-disguised internal scream?
Nothing.
The car pulls away in a slow crunch of gravel and red dust, disappearing down the long dirt drive.
And then it’s just me, Luke and thousands of hectares.