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I don't know where it's come from but it's been around for donkey's years and now it's morphed into basically this: the more people who sing at the monthly karaoke, the more likely it is to rain.
We've obviously been doing it wrong, because despite pretty much everyone in town showing up to the Scuttlebutt Hotel for a singalong every month, we're still dry as a fucking bone.
"It's not going to start raining just because I sing. My vocal abilities may be out of this world, but even I can't summon the rain gods to have mercy on us."
Linus smirks. "Try telling that to Mrs. Mangle."
"Why? What's she going to do to me?"
Mrs. Mangle runs the bakery. She may also be a witch. If you believe in those sorts of things.
"Let's just say, you might want to grab your lunch elsewhere. I wouldn't trust her not to mess with your meat pie."
"But I love her meat pies."
Understatement. I'd donate a kidney to scientific research for a never-ending daily supply of her meat pies.
"And she loves rain, and she's convinced that you not turning up last month is the reason the southerly system missed us and drenched the tropics instead."
"Fine. I'll go."
Can't have anything coming between me and a meat pie. Not even still being hung up on an uptight, cranky, and super cute New Yorker who's taking up way too much space in my brain and refuses to leave. Do Yanks have squatting rights in Aussie heads? Surely that's an international relations no-no.
Stop thinking about him, Wilby. There's no point.
I sigh despondently.
My brain is right. I need to get over my feelings and deal with the cold hard reality facing me.
I am never going to see Col again.
7
Col
Iknewthe name Scuttlebutt rang a bell. Wilby thought I was kidding when I'd said that, but I was sure I'd picked it up, read it, heard it,somewhere. I just didn't know where.
Now I do.
From my itinerary.
It's the last stop on my Australian journey. Scuttlebutt is a speck of a country town, nestled on the edge of forever. I've just checked in to a cute, slightly dusty, colonial-style room at the Scuttlebutt Hotel. It's on the first floor of a public house, or as Aussies call it, a pub, which is basically a bar that serves food, sometimes with lodgings above it.
I'm wiped out, but Ihaveto call Brant. He'll be freaking out. Reception and time zones have proven to be a challenge during my six weeks in Australia.
Because the majority of my work is with farmers who live in the middle of nowhere, I've been out of range for most of my trip, and on the few occasions I've had Wi-Fi, the time zones haven't lined up. We've texted but haven't actually had a face-to-face chat this entire time. It'll still be early in the States, but he said to call as soon as I was able to, no matter what time it was for him.
I check the air con to make sure it's at the right temperature—learned that valuable lesson on my first night—before grabbing my phone, tapping Brant's name to start a video call, and flopping down onto the bed.
It only rings once.
"Thank fuck you're alive," he mumbles groggily as he sits up. The camera goes wonky as he props himself against the headboard. He must've been sleeping.
"Of course I'm alive." I smile, happy to see my bestie and just…happy in general. "And I think I'm in love."
"Who is he? Or she? Or they?" He lets out a yawn, then, "Wait… Or is it Shirtless Guy?"
"What? No. I'm not in love with a person, but with this country. Australia is so beautiful, Brant. Like, you think you know what to expect, but then you get here, and it's so much bigger, so much more breathtaking than you could have ever imagined. The landscapes are stunning. The colors are so vivid. And the sky. The sky is so big and open. Not to mention the animals. I've seen koalas, kangaroos, wallabies, even a crocodile."
