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“Okay.”
I’m dressed, teeth brushed, and half-presentable when I climb into my brother’s inappropriate-for-the-farm car. It has more dings in it than our tin roof after the 2011 hailstorm.
It’s a dry heat out here, one I haven’t missed. I brush my hair back and flip the visor up, unable to stand the sight of my black and purple eyes staring back at me.
“Your friends know you’re back?” he questions, adjusting the radio, which is hardly audible over the clunking car.
“What friends?”
He makes a sound in his throat. They’re not the only ones I never spoke to after I left.
“Your hair is long,” observes Sam, side-eyeing me.
“So is yours.”
He remembers me as a bubbly, talkative girl with an uneven haircut and crooked teeth. I whitened and straightened my teeth the moment I hit the city. My hair is now to my ribs and a platinum blonde, not the yellow straw-like hair I had previously. I swapped the curves for a diet of protein shakes, dropping the weight faster than I dropped my friends.
Eyelash extensions, lip fillers, and a bottle of fake tan have transformed me into someone unrecognisable.
Now I’m washed out, thin, and beat up. Damaged goods.
The car clatters and clangs across the gravel road, making me feel nauseous again. He winds up a hill, stopping at the old water tanks. We wordlessly exit the car and climb the tanks. The steel ladder is savagely hot as I mount it.
We dangle our legs off the side like we did as kids. Sam’s skin has darkened from too many hours in the sun. Red dirt clings to him and kneads through his hair. He must have been out on the farm this morning. His thumb runs up the side of his hand, a nervous habit he’s had for years.
“You just left,” he says. His voice is a lot deeper now. “No goodbye. No explanation.”
“No explanation was needed.”
“And the goodbye?”
I stare out at the brown grass and endless paddocks. Sweat drips down the back of my neck. Dust settles in my eyelashes.
I fucking hate it here.
“I get why you left,” he says after a few moments.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s a little late for that.”
I stare down at my bare thighs. Black, blue, purple. Some fading to yellow. Bruises. All over me.
“How long was it happening?” Sam asks with a lethargic gesture to my legs. I blink at him for a few moments, unable to comprehend how grown up he is. He looks a lot more like our father now. Dirt is caked under his nails, and it appears he hasn’t shaved for quite a few days. The rugged look suits him.
“Long enough.”
“A while, then?”
I don’t answer.
“Christ,” he curses, shaking his head. “You could have told someone.”
“I could have done a lot of things differently.”
“I don’t even know you.” He sounds angry this time, frustration and betrayal leaking into his voice. His hands bunch into fists, his knuckles growing white. “We were best friends. And now I don’t know a damn thing about you.”
I turn to face him with a sad smile. “I don’t even know myself.”
