“The pub where my dad spends most of his waking hours.”
“They have a camping ground nearby,” he says.
“Maybe,” I shrug. “I guess we can hire a donga if you’re keen.”
“What the heck is a donga?” he asks with mild suspicion. “Do I want to know?”
“A metal box with a bed in it. No bathroom. And this isn't the kind of town that holds pride parades. We’d cop less judgement and gossip if we rented two and slept separately.”
The reality of that sits between us for a moment.
“We could always pitch a tent,” he suggests. “In a field somewhere.”
“You own a tent?”
He opens his mouth to speak, then pauses.
I take that as a no, but it’s sweet of him to make an effort.
“The thing about tiny isolated communities is, most of these people have lived there their entire lives. They don’t like… different.”
“You think they’ll judge you?”
“Many of them already do. Everyone knows everyone else’s business. We’ll stand out like sore thumbs.”
“You can't scare me, you know.” He cups a hand beneath my face. “There's nothing that could scare me more than Vonnie James.”
“I reckon I could scare you,” I laugh.
“Try me.”
“You want a list of every reason a city boy would squirm in a town that small?”
“I dare you.”
“Fine. Brace yourself,” I smirk.
“I’ll hold up a finger every time I get nervous,” Amos decides.
He starts with a closed fist.
I'm not gonna sugar coat this. He deserves to know.
???
“Driving that far West? There are warning signs on the highway telling people not to go any further unless they have sufficient food, water, spare tyres and gas. The road in and out has cattle bars and is only wide enough for one vehicle at a time.”
Amos tilts his head slightly. But his hand doesn’t budge.
“Actually, baby… is it okay if we take your ute?”
“Yeah, why?”
“My car screams ‘city wanker’ even more than our clothes and shoes do.”
“Okay.”
I twist a curl around my finger.
