TWENTY-FOUR
The sun hangs low, bleeding gold across the dusty windshield as we pull up to the house.
My skin is covered in a layer of dust and sweat, hair sticking to the back of my neck while I take out my phone and open the Notes app, thumb hovering for a second before I start typing: Alternative feed solutions? Government grants?
I stare at the list. Then, impulsively, I swipe back out of the app and open my messages.
New text. Dylan. My fingers pause over my screen, then start moving before I can second-guess myself.
Hi. Me again
Random question: where do you source your hemp?
Is the NT too hot to grow something like that? Is that even a thing?
I read it back. It sounds clumsy, like I’m trying to come off casual and end up maybe sounding a little desperate. I hit send anyway.
Part of me is convinced Dylan has deleted my number and moved on. Another part – the part still baking under the red heat and dry sky – wonders if cattle isn’t the be-all, end-all for this land.
I don’t say anything to Luke.
Not yet.
I pocket my phone and watch him set up a small pen beside the house while I lean on the fence and keep an eye on the calf. He disappears in the shed and comes back with a metal bucket, a clean bottle and powdered milk. He mixes it then hands me the full bottle.
‘You want to try?’
I take it awkwardly in my hand. ‘I have no idea what I’m doing.’
‘Just aim for her mouth.’
‘That’s what he said,’ I mutter.
Luke snorts.
I kneel beside the calf. She stares at me, blank and blinking. I press the rubber nipple to her lips and wait. Nothing. Then, as I’m about to give up, Luke’s rough hand lands on mine and guides the bottle up at an angle. Instantly, the calf latches on and starts to suck.
My eyes widen. I look up at Luke, who’s crouched beside me now, hand covering mine.
‘We might have a fighter on our hands.’
I smile, brushing a hand down her back. She’s still fragile. Still a long shot. But she’s trying. ‘You think she’ll make it?’ I ask, ignoring the fact that he hasn’t let go.
Luke watches her for a long moment. ‘I’ve seen worse come good.’
We stay there until the bottle empties. Then Luke releases my hand, and I pass him the bottle.
‘I think we should name her,’ I say.
Luke raises an eyebrow. ‘Dangerous game.’
‘C’mon. What about … Survivor?’
‘Too earnest.’
‘Jamie Junior?’
‘I’ll shoot her myself.’
I grin. ‘Fine. What about … Cutlet?’
He blinks. And then, to my absolute delight, he laughs. It’s a real one. Loud and rough and kind of beautiful.
I can’t help staring at him. ‘What?’
He glances down, then up again, shaking his head. ‘Nothing.’
We sit in silence as the light turns gold.
As the calf rests her head in the dust.
As our arms stay touching.
And the heat, for once, feels bearable.
Luke wipes the sweat off his brow with the edge of his shirt, revealing a sliver of tanned skin that should absolutely not affect my breathing but, inconveniently, it does.
I’m still crouched beside the calf, one hand stroking the fragile line of her back as if she might turn into a puppy and follow me home.
Her eyes are half lidded, her belly full.
Luke glances over at me, then at the soft pink light spreading across the horizon. ‘What are you feeling for dinner?’
I look up slowly, eyebrows raised. ‘Are you asking me out on a date?’
A faint smile tugs at his lips. ‘Do you want it to be a date?’
‘Do you want it to be a date?’ I echo, mirroring his tone.
He tilts his head, grinning now. ‘You can’t repeat everything I say.’
I shrug, standing up and brushing dirt off my legs. ‘I can try.’
Luke rolls his eyes. ‘Have a shower then pick out any of the dishes left in the freezer from the funeral. I’ll be in soon – just need to fix the gate so Cutlet doesn’t escape overnight.’
‘See,’ I say. ‘It’s a great name.’
He shakes his head and turns towards the shed. The sun catches on his sandy blond hair, the sweat-soaked strands already drying with dust as he undoes the first two buttons of his shirt. I stare too long. Then I blink, hard, as if I’ve been caught watching something I shouldn’t have.
The kitchen is dim except for the soft yellow glow of the overhead light.
I dig around the freezer and find a pie that someone left for Luke.
It’ll do. I preheat the oven, double-check the temperature, and then – because I don’t know how to wait for someone without feeling awkward – I wander through the house.
Past the laundry room. Past the guest bathroom. My hand drifts along the hallway wall as I walk. Then I see a door that’s been closed the whole time I’ve been here.
It isn’t locked, and I don’t mean to open it. Not really. My fingers curl around the handle anyway. The smell hits me first. Old linen and lavender. The air inside feels heavier, like it hasn’t been stirred in a while.
It’s the master bedroom.
The bed is perfectly made. There’s a rocking chair by the window, a crocheted blanket folded neatly and hanging over the back of it. Old wedding photos in mismatched frames sit on the dresser. A strand of pearls hangs over the corner of one.
I swallow hard. There’s something deeply reverent about the space; it’s still waiting for someone who’s never coming back.
Suddenly, I feel like I’m intruding, tiptoeing into someone else’s grief barefoot and uninvited. I back out slowly and close the door as gently as I can, as if the ghosts inside are light sleepers.
Back down the hallway, I pass the room where Ella and Darcy stayed. The bed is neatly made now, their things gone. I pause outside the doorway, wondering if Luke will want me to stay in there tonight. In that space between guest and something else. Between past and maybe.
I keep walking.
The shower hisses to life with a wheeze of old pipes and lukewarm promises.
It’s not hot – barely even warm – yet it does the job.
Dust rinses from my legs in rusty swirls, and the water beats against the back of my neck.
I brace one hand against the tile wall and let my forehead rest there for a second.
When I shut the water off, it’s quiet again, as if the house is holding its breath, waiting to see what I’ll do next.
I towel off and wrap myself up, standing in front of the fogged mirror. I pull on soft pyjama shorts and a singlet, the cotton clinging slightly to my still-damp skin. No make-up. No bra. No facade. Just little old me from Clovelly.
Barefoot, I pad into the lounge room, the floorboards cool under the soles of my feet. The oven hums in the background, a grounding reminder that we are, somehow, still pretending this is a regular night. A regular dinner.
On the shelf beside the turntable is a stack of records. I thumb through them, not really knowing what I’m looking for until I find it. Icehouse – Great Southern Land.
I smile and gently lift the vinyl out of its sleeve, about to slide it onto the turntable, when—
‘What are you doing?’
I jump, nearly dropping the sleeve.
Luke’s in the hallway, freshly showered, hair wet at the tips, shirtless in a way that should be illegal. A towel wrapped around his hips. Barefoot. Just him.
‘Sorry,’ I blurt, then wince. ‘I didn’t mean to—’
He steps forward and takes the record from my hands, carefully. ‘These haven’t been touched in years,’ he murmurs, more to the vinyl than to me. He lifts the needle, sets the record down. The first chords of ‘Great Southern Land’ drift through the room – a memory that’s warm and a little haunted.
‘I have a record player at home,’ I offer, desperate to explain myself. ‘Just a small stack of albums, but I feel like music always sounds better on vinyl.’
‘They were my mum’s,’ he says after a moment. ‘When she died, the music sort of died with her.’
I glance at the rest of the collection – Australian classics, some ABBA, a few albums so torn the sleeves are taped together. ‘She has quite the collection.’
He huffs out a soft laugh. ‘She does.’
It’s one of those moments that doesn’t need a punchline. Just the sound of the record, the creak of the old floorboards beneath me, and something slow moving between us.
Then the oven dings.
The spell breaks, and Luke glances towards the kitchen. ‘Two seconds,’ he says, moving back down the hall. ‘Need to throw on a shirt.’
‘Take your time,’ I say, too easily. Like we’ve done this before. Like this is … normal.
I serve up the meat pie and grab two mismatched forks from the drawer. The dining table is old – scuffed, the legs uneven – and there’s something right about sitting at it barefoot, my thighs sticking slightly to the wooden seat, while the record plays in the background.
Luke reappears in a clean t-shirt and shorts, his hair still damp. He sinks into the chair across from me with a quiet sigh.
We eat in silence.
It’s not a bad silence but not exactly a good one either. Maybe we’re both too aware of the other person’s breathing. Of the way we’re sitting across from each other as if this could be a normal occurrence for us. As if this dinner isn’t a stand-in for all the things we’re still not saying.
Unable to sit with my own thoughts any longer, I swallow the mouthful I’m currently chewing and say, ‘I grew up lying.’
Luke’s fork pauses mid-air, raising an eyebrow before he takes a bite, waiting for me to clarify.
‘My parents … weren’t really around. Which is probably a good time to explain that they never celebrated their thirtieth wedding anniversary like I told you.
I grew up learning how to fake normal so no one called child services.
At thirteen, I was booking my own doctor’s appointments.
I was doing the grocery shopping. Raising my sister.
Every time a teacher asked where my mum was, I lied.
Every time someone at school asked about dinner at home, I lied.
’ I keep my eyes on the cutlery sitting loosely in my hands.
‘Over time it got easier to lie than admit I didn’t have anyone.
And now it’s become part of me. It’s how I breathe. ’
Luke still says nothing.