THIRTY
The rain taps against the tin roof in a rhythm so gentle it sounds close to a lullaby – the kind my mother never sang yet maybe would have if she hadn’t been so busy squeezing more money out of the divorce.
The whole house is swaddled in that steady hush, as if the weather is apologising for existing.
I walk barefoot across the cool wooden floor, hair damp. I head straight to the record shelf, because apparently I’m now the kind of person who starts every night with a vinyl and a quiet sense of dread.
My fingers skim the jackets. Bob Dylan. Nick Cave. Midnight Oil. Then – Powderfinger. Odyssey Number Five.
The cover is creased and familiar. I slip the record from the sleeve and place it gently on the turntable.
The needle drops.
A breath, a crackle. Then that guitar – warm and nostalgic and heartbreakingly alive.
‘Waiting for the Sun’ echoes through the room.
And in some sort of cinematic manifestation, he’s there.
Luke.
Framed in the doorway. He’s not smiling, yet there’s a softness in his face that wasn’t there this morning. It’s like he’s unspooling, like the rain has finally given him permission to breathe.
‘Do you know this one?’ I ask, eyes on the spinning record, though every nerve in my body is tracking him like a heat-seeking missile.
‘Yeah,’ he says. His voice is rough like the edges of something well used. ‘Brought that one back from uni, actually.’
I glance at him over my shoulder. ‘I have the same one in my apartment.’
Something flickers across his face – recognition? Nostalgia?
‘It was one of the first records I bought after my dad gave me a record player for my fifteenth birthday,’ I say, keeping the words casual – as if I’m not handing him a slice of something sharp and buried. ‘It was a “sorry I missed your birthday party, here’s a record player” kind of gift.’
Luke steps into the room slowly. I meet him halfway – because I always do. And I hate that I do. And I don’t stop myself.
His hands slide around my waist, because he knows I won’t pull away.
I rest mine on his shoulders, then allow them to float up into his hair, which is silky and damp and infuriatingly nice for someone who wrestles cattle and my nerves for a living.
He raises a brow. ‘So, daddy issues?’
I sigh. ‘How old are you?’
‘Thirty-four.’
‘Then yes,’ I say solemnly. ‘Absolutely.’
He chuckles, the sound low and close in my ear. ‘Thirty-four isn’t old.’
‘Thirty-four is ancient. You probably own a vacuum with a cord.’
He laughs again and we sway.
His chest is against mine, heartbeat steady. I breathe him in – eucalyptus soap, cotton, rain. And him. That impossible Luke scent that lives in the hollow of his neck and the memory of my hands.
His fingers tighten slightly on my waist when the chorus hits, the lyrics saying what we won’t. I tilt my head back. Our eyes meet.
And then his words come back to me.
You’re just showing up with good intentions and links and pretending this is a puzzle you can fix in a week.
He didn’t mean it kindly.
Maybe he’s right.
Maybe this is a dream – one I’ve been trying too hard to sell myself on.
A neatly packaged fantasy, strung together with borrowed shirts and borrowed feelings.
When I step back and look at the whole thing clearly, honestly, I see it for what it is: I’ve merely shifted shape again.
Tried to fold myself into someone else’s life as if I belong here.
But I don’t. Not really. My real life is waiting back in Sydney – tight deadlines, midweek takeaway, my cushy job and my shoebox apartment. My real life doesn’t smell of horses or sound like birds. It’s fluorescent-lit and familiar. It doesn’t scare me the way this does.
Because this isn’t Farmer Wants a Wife. This is real life. And in real life, the sun sets, the men leave, and I carry on alone. That’s the rhythm I know. The one I can count on.
Then – buzz.
My phone lights up in the kitchen where I left it on the counter.
I break away and reach for it.
Issy:
Where are you?
Another message from her pings through before I can answer the first.
Mum just rocked up at mine blind drunk. Again. I can’t deal with this right now. Can you come over?
I stare at the screen, my heart sinking.
Of course this is when she needs me. Of course Mum’s timing is impeccable in that messy, catastrophic way only she’s ever mastered.
‘Everything okay?’
‘Yep,’ I say smoothly and set the phone down, smiling as if reality didn’t just puncture this blissful dream.
I walk back and fall into the comforting sway of his arms, holding on a little tighter for a second too long – to memorise this before I let it go. Because people need me in Sydney. People depend on me.
His hand brushes a damp strand of hair behind my ear. He lets his thumb rest on my cheek like it forgot how to leave. It’s perfect. It’s unbearable.
In the back of my mind, a tiny voice cuts through everything else: This won’t last.
Which is why I don’t say anything.
Not, Don’t go. Not, Stay. Not, I feel as if I’m coming undone in your arms and it terrifies me.
I keep swaying.
Because some things only live in the moment.
And this?
This feels like one of those things.
Morning slips in – soft and tentative, the light filtering through gauzy curtains like it does in sad indie movies where people whisper apologies in doorways and make bad decisions while wearing over-sized sweaters.
The storm’s gone and everything smells rinsed – wet paperbarks, damp earth, the faint citrus scent of Luke’s soap. I’m standing barefoot in the kitchen, yawning, hair tangled.
The coffee machine rumbles. I pour coffee into two mismatched mugs and sit at the old wooden table, waiting for him. My stomach is doing that low whir it does when I know something’s coming and wish it wasn’t.
Outside, the world stretches wide and golden. A cockatoo screeches in a nearby tree, the kelpies bark in their shelter, and the front steps creak in the warming air. The house feels too still in comparison. Too quiet. The air is holding its breath with me.
The screen door cracks open.
And there he is.
Luke’s hair is lightly tousled, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, jeans soft and worn and clinging in a way that feels unfairly attractive this early in the day.
There’s something about the way he moves that makes my breath hitch – not in a swoony, romantic way, but in a ‘this will hurt me’ kind of way.
‘Do you ever sleep past dawn?’ I ask, trying to sound normal.
‘Rarely,’ he says with a gentle smile, sliding into the seat across from me.
I push the second mug towards him and he takes it. We sit in the sort of silence that would be awkward with anyone else – but with him, just feels …
His knee bumps mine under the table. I don’t pull away.
And that’s the problem.
We sip our coffee. No rush. No real conversation. You only get this type of morning with someone who’s already seen you completely naked and snoring.
There’s toast between us. Some butter. A jar of honey that probably predates Tamagotchis.
Just as I start to think I might be imagining the knot in my chest, Luke says it.
‘So … last night. You mentioned you’re on the pill now.’
I freeze for half a second. Then nod, casually, as if I’m not instantly on alert. ‘Yeah.’
He doesn’t press. Just sips his coffee and waits.
‘I started after … everything.’ My voice is even, but barely. ‘Felt like the smart thing to do, considering I don’t want kids.’
There it is. Finally.
‘Ever,’ I add.
His face doesn’t change. If anything, he stills, like he doesn’t want to spook me.
‘Is that a just-for-now thing, or a forever thing?’ he asks, voice soft, careful.
My chest tightens. ‘I don’t want kids,’ I say again. ‘Ever.’
He nods once, slowly. ‘Okay.’
I narrow my eyes. ‘That’s it?’
‘What else am I supposed to say?’
I laugh. ‘I don’t know. Try to convince me otherwise? Get disappointed? Storm out dramatically?’
He leans forward, elbows on the table. ‘It’s not a dealbreaker.’ ‘You say that now.’
‘I mean it.’
‘You’ll change your mind.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘You’re an only child.’
‘And?’
‘Don’t you want to pass on your name?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And what about this place? You’ll have no one to give it to.’
‘I’d be doing them a favour.’
I stare at him for a beat too long. ‘So, you’d be fine if I booked a hysterectomy tomorrow?’
He blinks. ‘What?’
‘I’m serious.’
Luke frowns, trying to find the trap in the question. ‘Where’s this coming from?’
‘Well, we’ll need to have this conversation at some point.’
‘Sure,’ he says, still attempting to keep his voice even. ‘But I figured it was more of a way-down-the-track conversation.’
‘No.’ I sit up straighter. My palms are starting to sweat. ‘This is a conversation to have now. Before the stakes get higher. Before someone ends up heartbroken.’
‘You mean, before you run away?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Luke sighs, frustrated. ‘Can’t we talk about this later?’
‘No.’ I keep pushing. ‘The thought must’ve crossed your mind when you found out I was pregnant.’
His jaw tightens. That’s the hit. ‘Yeah. Of course it did. But I didn’t have the chance then to think it through, considering you never told me in the first place.’
I flinch.
There it is again.
The spiral. It creeps in slowly; I feel it in the tightness of my throat, in the way my body tenses waiting for impact.
I try to stop it.
I can’t.
Luke just looks at me.
I should stop there. I know I should.
I don’t.
I double down, voice too casual to be innocent. ‘So? Would you be fine with that? Me getting a hysterectomy?’
His brows draw together, slow. ‘I mean … it’s your body. I wouldn’t stop you. I’d want to talk about it, sure, but it’s not—’
‘Not what?’ I interrupt. ‘Not something you’d resent me for later?’
He’s quiet, eyes searching mine, trying to read what page I’ve flipped to in the script.
That’s the thing about good people; they always try to understand. But I don’t want understanding. I want proof.
I want him to flinch. To panic. To break.
Because if he breaks, it means I was right. It means this was always going to fall apart, and I’ll be able to say, See? Told you so.