FORTY-TWO
Time stops.
He’s in a white button-down shirt rolled up at the forearms, his skin tanned from the sun and the land and all the kilometres I didn’t get to travel with him. His hair is shorter than the last time I saw him. Neater. But his smile – his smile is the same.
My breath catches as if I’ve tripped and fallen straight into a memory.
He’s looking at me with an expression somewhere between a question and a prayer. Like he’s not sure I’ll keep walking towards him. Like he’s afraid this isn’t real.
For one terrifying, aching second, neither am I.
I blink.
He’s still standing there.
Real.
Alive.
Here.
Luke.
And the only thing louder than the thud of my heartbeat is the quietest thought rising through my chest like a flare: He sees me.
‘Jamie?’
I open my mouth and forget how words work. ‘Hi,’ I manage, though it comes out all wrong – too soft, too hesitant – as if my vocal cords don’t know how we speak to people we used to love.
Still love?
His smile is lopsided and quiet and exactly the kind that ruins you. Not dazzling, not showy. Just … knowing. Tentative. As if he’s not sure if he’s allowed to feel it. But his eyes – his eyes say everything.
They say, I missed you. I hoped you’d come. I haven’t stopped wondering what you’d look like walking back towards me.
The patio is dim and golden, all fairy lights and the low murmur of tipsy chats and date-night firsts. But the only thing I hear is the drumbeat of my pulse in my ears.
He gestures to the empty seat at his table. ‘You look like you could use a drink.’
I let out a laugh – nervous, surprised, shaky. ‘Only if it’s strong.’
He smiles like he wants to reach across the table but doesn’t. ‘What’s your poison?’
‘Lychee martini of course.’
Jodie takes our order while he pulls out the chair for me. We sit.
And, somehow, I’m sitting across from the person I thought I’d never see again. Like a deleted scene from a life I was supposed to have.
Luke leans back, draping an arm casually over the back of his chair as if he didn’t shatter the air between us by existing. ‘So,’ he says, cocking his head. ‘What do you do for a living, Miss Hayes?’
I arch a brow. ‘Oh, we’re doing this?’
He gives a slow, knowing nod. ‘We’re doing this.’
‘I write ad copy about toothpaste.’
He whistles, low. ‘Sounds riveting.’
‘It is,’ I say dryly. ‘You’d be amazed how many ways there are to describe fluoride without using the word slimy.’
‘Sexy.’
‘I try,’ I deadpan. ‘It’s all very highbrow.’
Luke grins, slow and easy. ‘And here I thought you’d be running a publishing house by now. Or starting a podcast.’
I snort. ‘The night’s still young.’ I take a sip of the martini that Jodie places on the table, trying not to focus on how much my hand is still shaking.
He tilts his head. ‘Still in Clovelly?’
I nod. ‘Still pretending I enjoy city noise and rooftop bars. You?’
‘Still arguing with cattle and occasionally falling off horses.’
I smile into my drink. ‘Been thrown lately?’
‘Only once,’ he says, like it’s a confession. ‘Skip hates me.’
‘I’ve been riding,’ I say, nudging the conversation forward. ‘Moore Park. It’s … not the same.’
‘I can imagine,’ he teases.
‘Less manure. More mums with Bugaboo prams.’
He chuckles. ‘Sounds like hell.’
‘You’d last five minutes. Maybe three,’ I add with a smirk.
He grins, eyes gleaming. ‘You know exactly how long I last.’
My breath catches.
I laugh it off, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, hoping to recover my balance.
He’s still watching me – not like I’m a memory, or a maybe. But like I’m real. Here. Right now. Like he’s seeing me for the first time and recognising something that never changed.
And that’s the problem, isn’t it?
I never stopped wanting to be seen by him.
I break first. Of course I do.
‘So …’ I say, my voice quieter than I want it to be, though knowing the words might bruise if I say them too loud. ‘What are you doing here?’
Luke leans back in his chair as if we’re old friends and not two people tiptoeing over the wreckage of almost-love. He’s casual in that way that never feels truly casual – it takes effort to look that at ease.
‘Abbey and Ella,’ he says, lips tugging up at the corners, ‘are very persuasive.’
I let out a short laugh. ‘They’re relentless, I’ll give ’em that.’
‘They are,’ he says with a grin.
There’s a quiet pause while we dance around the elephant on the table between us.
He looks at me then – really looks at me. A gaze that feels like a spotlight, but not the bad kind. The kind that makes you sit up straighter, makes you want to be worthy of it.
‘You look incredible,’ he says.
And my heart? My achy breaky heart? It ricochets against my ribs.
I duck my head, pretending to smooth my dress, even though there are no wrinkles and no composure to recover. ‘Thanks,’ I say, but it sounds like I’m trying not to fall off a cliff.
His gaze drifts down, a smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth. ‘Didn’t peg you for a heels-on-a-Friday-night kind of woman.’
I lift a brow. ‘You bagged me out for wearing heels to a working farm, remember?’
‘Ah, yes,’ he says, eyes warm. ‘How could I forget?’ His gaze lingers, head tilting slightly. ‘You fell at my feet.’
I try to laugh. ‘You knocked me over.’
‘Lies.’
I shake my head, but I’m smiling. It’s stupid. It’s familiar. And it’s suddenly too easy to forget that there was ever a version of us that didn’t laugh like this.
It’s just a compliment. Just a look.
But something inside me shifts – soft and cautious – and maybe I could let this happen.
Maybe I want to.
I set my glass down too carefully, fingers wrapped tight around the stem. ‘I owe you an apology.’
Luke’s eyebrows lift slightly.
I exhale through my nose. ‘For a lot of things. But mostly … for not saying goodbye. For not saying anything at all.’
He nods once. As if he’s already had this conversation in his head. ‘Abbey said you saw me. In Darwin.’
I wince. ‘Abbey talks too much.’
He tilts his head, unreadable. ‘So, why didn’t you speak to me? You flew all the way there.’
‘I know.’
‘Then why?’
‘Because …’ I trail off, staring into my drink and praying it might offer a better answer than the truth. ‘I saw you. With Lauren.’
His face shifts. Not anger. Just a quiet, Oh.
‘She’s a friend,’ he says. ‘Practically family. We grew up together. It’s never been that way, not since we were teenagers.’
I nod too fast. Too many times. ‘Right. Of course. That’s – you looked so happy,’ I say, and it comes out too small.
He meets my eyes, and for once, he doesn’t smile. ‘I was trying to be.’
I look down at my hands in my lap, knuckles pale. ‘Well. That’s embarrassing.’
The ache hits me then – sharp and sudden. It shouldn’t still hurt. It shouldn’t still matter. But it does.
And the worst part? He’s still looking at me as if it doesn’t ruin anything. He sees all of it – my jealousy, my fear, my pride – and he stays anyway.
His cheerful smile from earlier has faded, replaced by something quieter. Something that feels like it’s been sitting at the bottom of his chest waiting to be said.
‘I didn’t mean it,’ Luke says.
I blink. ‘What?’
His eyes lock on mine, and there’s no hesitation now.
Only him, honest and wide open. ‘When I told you not to come back. I didn’t mean it.
Not even a little.’ He swallows. ‘The second I said it, I wanted to take it back. But then …’ He pauses, dragging a hand through his hair.
‘I was pissed. You left. No call. No explanation. Nothing.’ He exhales sharply through his nose.
‘And yeah, maybe that’s a pattern in my life.
People leave me. They always do. But you …
’ He shakes his head. ‘I didn’t expect it from you. ’
That one lands. Right in the centre of my chest.
Luke looks down at his hands for a moment, jaw tense, then adds, ‘But after the dust settled, I realised I needed space to decide what I wanted. Not what the farm needs, or what my parents would’ve expected.
’ He looks back up at me. ‘Just … what I want. For once. And it turns out,’ he says, voice lower now, ‘what I want isn’t the life I thought I had to settle for.
But I had to get there on my own. Without the noise. Without the heat of the moment.’
I bite my bottom lip, tasting regret and cheap lip gloss. ‘I had some shit to figure out as well.’
He tilts his head, waiting. ‘Such as?’
I pause. Not because I don’t know the answer, but because it still scares me to say it out loud.
‘Me,’ I say quietly. I don’t let myself hesitate this time, ploughing ahead.
‘I spent my entire twenties terrified of turning into my mum,’ I explain, hands twisted in my lap.
‘Every decision I made – my job, the way I dated, the way I didn’t date – it was all designed to keep me safe from becoming her.
To protect myself from the drama. The instability. The emotional firestorms.’
I glance up at him. He doesn’t say anything. He just listens. Like this version of me – the messy, raw one – is someone he’s been waiting to meet.
‘So, I built this life. On paper, it was fine. A job that paid well. Friends. Cute apartment. But it was all …’ I pause. ‘Surface level. I kept things at arm’s length. I convinced myself that love – real, inconvenient, vulnerable love – was a weakness. Something that ruined people.’
He’s still watching me. Like the words matter. Like I matter.
‘And then I met you,’ I continue. ‘And it was … I don’t know.
It was as if someone walked into my life and turned all the lights on.
And it scared the shit out of me. Because you saw everything.
The good, the bad, the bits I’d tried to hide even from myself.
’ I exhale. ‘So, I panicked. I pushed you away. I ran. I told myself I was protecting my peace or some self-help crap like that. But really, I was being a coward.’
I look at him now. Let him see the wreckage and the rebuild. ‘I was forced to look in the mirror one day, and I realised I was her. My mum. Not in the obvious ways. But in the lying. The pretending. The fear.’ I smile, soft and a little sad. ‘Just with better skincare and less wine.’
His mouth twitches, but he doesn’t laugh. His eyes are too full.
‘I needed to know who I was without someone else telling me who to be,’ I finish. ‘I had to figure out if there was a version of me that I liked.’
There’s a long, weighted pause.
Luke leans forward slightly, elbows resting on the table between us. ‘So,’ he says, voice warm and careful, ‘who is Jamie?’
I stare at him, surprised by the question. Then I think about it.
‘She hates running,’ I start, the corners of my mouth lifting.
‘Loves horses. Has a weird second toe that’s longer than the big one.
I don’t have the patience for pottery. Never ask me to go surfing and I have zero interest in cooking dinner every night for the rest of my life – it feels like a trap. ’
Luke grins. ‘Still hate manual cars?’
‘Violently,’ I say. ‘Almost irrationally.’
‘Anything else?’
‘I’m terrified of true crime docos. But if there’s a British narrator it’s somehow more tolerable.’
He lets out a low laugh and I breathe, lighter than I’ve felt in months.
‘Okay, your turn. Who’s Luke?’
He leans back, grinning like he’s thought about this. ‘Farm boy. Loves kelpies. Misses his mum’s cooking. Can fix a fence in under five minutes but still can’t fold a fitted sheet.’
I snort. ‘So, you’re perfect, is what you’re saying.’
‘Skip would argue otherwise,’ he deadpans.
And then we’re laughing. Not the careful, guarded kind. The deep, full body, I-really-missed-you kind. The kind that tastes like forgiveness and relief.
I swirl the last inch of my drink, letting the fruit settle at the base of the glass.
We linger at the edge of the moment, our drinks nearly finished, the sky above Brookie’s fading from lavender to navy. The fairy lights twinkle overhead as I catch Jodie wink at me from the bar.
I twist the edge of my napkin between my fingers. ‘How’s the farm?’
Luke smiles into his glass. ‘Good. Ella and Darcy are holding down the fort while I’m here. Got the rain we needed, finally. Cutlet’s joined the herd.’
I grin. ‘Seriously? Our little milk thief ’s all grown up?’
‘She’s already bullying the other calves.’
‘Icon,’ I murmur.
Luke shifts in his chair.
I clear my throat, looking down at the condensation ring my martini left on the table. ‘How long are you here?’
‘Two more days,’ he says, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets. ‘The second round of mustering is about to kick off.’
I nod as Luke shifts his weight and adds, ‘I spoke to Dylan.’
That gets my attention. ‘What about?’
He shrugs. ‘He mentioned that startup he’s part of. The hemp one. I’ve been looking into it. Might trial a section of the property. Just to see.’
Something flickers in my chest – surprise, then something closer to pride. ‘Really?’
He nods. ‘What he explained actually made a lot of sense. Smart set-up. Low water. Decent returns. And … it wouldn’t hurt to diversify.’
I smile before I can stop myself.
Luke notices. ‘He seems like a nice guy.’
‘He is,’ I say, gently. ‘I’m happy for you.’
His eyes stay on me for a moment longer than necessary. Then, ‘Want to come with me?’
It lands gently, like an afterthought. But I feel it in my throat.
I freeze.
‘Luke …’
His gaze doesn’t waver.
‘I need to say this now,’ I tell him, hesitantly. ‘I don’t want kids.
Not ever. So, if that’s something you want, if that’s something you’re holding out for … Tell me. I can take it.’
He tilts his head. ‘It’s not.’
‘Not?’
He shakes his head and shrugs. ‘Ella and Darcy are building their own football team. We’ll give the farm to one of their kids. Problem solved.’
I blink. ‘We?’
He grins. ‘Yeah, we. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the day you fell at my feet.’
‘I didn’t fall,’ I repeat, sitting up straighter. ‘You pushed me.’
‘You looked like a baby deer on ice.’
‘You looked like a walking sex pest.’
He chuckles, and the sound is low and delicious. ‘God, I missed your mouth.’
And then, my eyes betray me. One tear, then another.
‘Are you crying?’ he asks, smiling like it’s his new favourite thing.
‘No,’ I lie, wiping my cheek. ‘Someone’s cutting onions.’
‘We can take it day by day,’ he adds, leaning in. ‘See where it takes us.’
I reach for his outstretched hand as he whispers, ‘Wanna get out of here?’
I nod and smile. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’
We stand. My red dress catches in the breeze, his hand brushes against mine, and something shifts – quiet and seismic all at once.
This time, I don’t flinch.
This time, I let it happen.