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Because while our lawyers indicated there wasn't much anyone could do to salvage our situation, what if Col's seeing it from a different perspective? It's highly unlikely. I've taken a good hard look and numbers don't lie. We're in the hole four point two million dollars. How the fuck am I meant to rustle up that sort of cash in the next few months?
"This is useless." I push my plate away, no longer hungry. "The whole bloody thing."
"Mate, you gotta stop this," Fitz says, and Muir nods his head in agreement.
"Stop what?" I ask.
"Stop being such a fucking drama queen."
"Oh, I'm sorry if my reaction to my family losing our farm, our livelihood, our home, isn't to your liking. I feel like shit, mate. Worse than shit. What do you want me to be like?"
"I never said you're not allowed to feel bad. Butdo somethingwith that feeling, don't wallow in it. Because what the fuck will that get you? A whole lot of nothing. You are a lot of things, Wilby Linfox, but you are not a victim."
His words stir something in my chest. I sit up taller. "Yeah. You're right. I'm not."
I've never been a victim before. Not growing up without a father. Not watching my sister spiral out of control. Not even witnessing Mum get ripped away from us. Why the fuck am I starting now?
"All right." I push to my feet. "Victim Wilby is done. Gone. Sayonara. I need to formulate a plan. Starting right now."
I start pacing.
But, fuck, nothing comes to me. I'm drawing a blank. Hardly surprising. It's not like I haven't spent every waking moment thinking about a way out of this mess. I've thought about it so hard it's made my brain hurt. I can't expect to come up with a miracle solution just because I want to.
I walk back over to the table and slump into my seat. "Anyone got any ideas?"
They fall silent, each and every one of them giving it some serious thought, which I really appreciate. It's times like these I realise how lucky I am to have these guys in my life. Even if theydon't come up with anything, just having mates to get stuff off your chest with is fucking priceless.
"What about that mega-rich dude you became friends with in Sydney when you were down there for uni?" Muir suggests.
I shake my head. "I am not asking Dunlop Palmer for money. I have my pride, and I refuse to do that."
"Fine. Don't ask him for money, then," Muir says. "But he works in property development, doesn't he?"
"Yeah."
"Maybe he can have a look over your situation. See it from a different angle. Find a loophole or something."
"That's…not the worst idea you've ever had."
He smiles proudly. "Why, thank you."
Never one to be outdone, Fitz comes up with his own idea. "What about your other friend? The kitesurfing dude."
"Who? Travis King?"
"Yeah. Him."
"How can he help me?"
Fitz shrugs. "Dunno. But whenever you talk about him, you always say how he's one of the toughest people you know. How he got through a lot of intense family drama."
"That's true."
I tap my chin. It's not a cure-all solution—which I honestly wasn't expecting, anyway—but the guys have given me a couple of solid ideas.
Which just leaves one thing.
"Linuuus," I say, plastering on a massive smile. "Have I told you how amazing your arse is looking today?"
