Chapter 4 #2
We were great friends up until about year eight, when I looked across at him one ordinary Saturday morning as we were watching
the television at his place, and my heart started to race and I thought I was going to throw up. It took me an embarrassingly
long time to realize that I was not, in fact, suffering from some sudden-onset allergy to Jack’s presence, but that I was
instead suffering from something much worse—my very first crush. It was a wild, unpredictable thing, leaving me just about
struck mute at times which made no sense at all because Jack and I had been friends since preschool.
I hated that crush. I hated how out of control it made me feel, how foolish I was certain it made me look.
I convinced myself that I could outrun the infatuation—all I had to do was refuse to acknowledge it even to myself.
There was no avoiding Jack—not altogether.
Our senior cohort at Forbes High School was a grand total of fourteen kids, so there was no hiding from him there, and even after Mum married Alan and we moved out of Wurimbirra, my new house was only closer to Jack’s because Alan’s farm adjoins Jack’s on the other edge.
Even so, I managed to put some distance between us during high school and in time, things did get easier to manage. I’ve bumped
into him over the years, and I loosely know the trajectory of his life. Graduated from his veterinary science degree with
honors, went on to some kind of specialist postgrad study—maybe it was something to do with cows?—married another vet, moved
somewhere remote. His parents still run their farm as far as I know. That’s probably why he’s in town.
Jack is closer now and his eyes widen as he finally recognizes me.
“Fiona Winslow? What the—”
“Hi,” I say, giving an awkward little wave. I pull my hand down and jam it into my pocket.
“I saw the moving truck as I was driving past and wanted to check in on the place—I thought Jon might have sold it at last!”
“He did,” I say wryly, and then I shrug. “To me.”
“Well, isn’t this something?” he says, laughing softly. He’s close enough now that he opens his arms and we briefly hug. I
have never understood how Jack can smell so good, especially in his line of work. Shouldn’t he smell like cows or sweat or
dog food or something? He never seems to and it’s quite unfair. I take a surreptitious sniff of his neck and feel a flush
on my cheeks.
“Are you home visiting your folks?” I ask him as we part.
“It’s a little more permanent than that. Dad’s not well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, then I cringe. “Not sorry that you’re home, just that your dad is sick.”
It’s always been like this with Jack since that stupid crush. I am an intelligent, reasonable woman. I can converse with just
about anyone. The second I open my mouth around this man, all of that disappears. There’s something about his presence that
short-circuits my brain, even now.
“I knew what you meant,” he says, then he looks up at the house behind me and a soft smile covers his face. “Look at us, neighbors
again after all these years. We’ll have to catch up properly. Maybe you and Lucas could come over for dinner sometime.”
“Oh . . .” This time my cringe is more of a full-body contraction. “Ah, no. It’s just me now. We . . . ah . . . yeah. We’re
divorcing.”
I have told some people. Just not many, and fewer in person. It’s still so raw and I am so embarrassed at how it all unfolded—how didn’t I see what was happening between them? Keira was my best friend. I had often
thought of her as a platonic soulmate—she was the yin to my yang, at work and at home. And Lucas and I had been together for
almost twenty-five years. How could they do this to me?
“Shit. Sorry, Fi,” Jack says softly. “Divorce is rough. I know from experience.”
“You and Winnie—”
I hadn’t heard this news. Then again, I haven’t exactly been visiting Forbes much so I’m probably behind on lots of gossip.
“Winnie stayed up in the Pilbara when I moved home two years ago. It was rough, but it was also time for us to go our separate
ways, you know? Is this recent for you?”
“Very,” I say, but the word comes out rough, and to my horror, I could almost cry. Why now? I will not go to water in front of this man; I simply won’t. I force the tears down through sheer force of will and even
manage something like a smile. “But I’m fine. Honestly.”
“And you’re going to be here all alone?” he says, eyebrows high. I frown at his tone, and he hastily adds, “It makes sense, of course, being a brilliant
architect as you are and this house being in need of some specialist love. I just meant— Here.” He reaches into his pocket
and withdraws his phone, then hands it to me. “Call yourself so we can save one another’s numbers. I know you’re plenty capable,
but I’m right next door if you need help reaching a high shelf or something.”
“That’s kind of you,” I say as I type my number in, let it ring, then hang up. “But I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
“So, still not the type to ask for help, huh?” Jack saves my number then gives me a breathtaking smile. “It’s great to see
you, Fi. And if you need anything—help around the house, or just to talk—please do reach out. I get how tough it is, I really do.”
Jack has always been like this—he’s just so easy to like. No wonder he’s been addling my brain since my first flush of puberty
hormones hit. It didn’t help that when his first flush of puberty hormones hit, that scrawny kid with deep brown eyes too big for his face and frizzy, dirty-blond hair
skipped the awkward in-between phases and seemed to become a man overnight.
We were both born in 1960 so I know he’ll be turning fifty in a few months. His hair has faded over the years and there’s
some grey in it, and it’s scattered through the neat beard he wears too. Just like his smooth adolescent transition, he’s
only become more dignified as he enters middle age. I reach up and self-consciously touch my own hair and wish I were wearing
something more glamorous than exceedingly dusty active wear.
“Thanks, Jack,” I say. “Tell your parents I said hi.”
“Shall do.” He pulls me in for another hug, this time a little tighter. The temptation to completely melt into him has me
flushing again, and I’m more than a little relieved when he releases me, waves goodbye and turns back to his car.
It’s an unexpected complication that Jack is home, but it won’t be too difficult to avoid him. I’m here to lick my wounds
and to heal in private. The very last thing I need is to find myself bumping into someone who has been scrambling my brain
for almost forty years.
The house seems so still after Jack and the movers leave at the same time. It suddenly feels so real—that I’m here, alone,
and that this is my home again, and I have to sort all of this dusty chaos into order somehow. The immensity of the challenge
is overwhelming. Thinking about it is like flicking an elastic band on my wrist—a flash of discomfort to distract myself from
thinking about the truly painful things in my life.
Now that my belongings have arrived, I find the box of linen to make up my bed so it’s ready for tonight. I set up an electric
oil heater in my room and turn it on high. There’s not much I can do about the chill in the air throughout the rest of the
house until the firewood arrives, so I pull on an extra sweater. At least the room will be toasty by the time I go to bed.
On my way back downstairs I stop to wind the grandfather clock, smiling to myself as the second hand immediately begins to tick.
The hourly chimes were part of the soundtrack to my childhood—maybe I’ll notice them when I’m trying to sleep tonight, but they’ll quickly fade into the background just as they did when I was a kid.
I head back to the kitchen and pause long enough to raid the groceries I picked up this morning, which I’ve stashed in the old ice chest to keep them safe from potential rodents.
I succumb to the temptation of potato chips, but promise myself this will be the very last time I eat like a teenager.
I have a fridge now, so tomorrow I’ll stock it with lean protein. Green things. Grown-up
food.
I look around the long kitchen, cast in shades of yellow from the new bulbs in the dusty pendant lights, and a smile breaks
over my face, despite the mess. I’ll replace the glass in those long windows—maybe the same style, if I can get them double
glazed. I’ll redesign the cabinets. Maybe add an era-appropriate rug under the farmhouse table, and some stronger lighting,
and a fresh paint job.
In time, it’s going to be amazing. For now, I need to tackle the mess in that disaster of a pantry, so I roll up my sleeves
and get to work.