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But I’d wanted to. It had felt so strong. So strong that the memory of it was ruining another of my birthdays.
“She’s the enemy,” I blurted.
Pete frowned. “Really? Your enemy?”
“That’s right. My … number one enemy.”
The shearing shed was doubled in my vision. I shook my head, and the image realigned to one. I poured another Scotch.
“Yeah, you’re really selling it to me, mate. How long exactly have you two been enemies?”
“Four long years.”
Pete nodded slowly. “I think I’m beginning to see a lot more than I bargained for.”
I ignored Pete, slowly drinking the whisky this time, and an idea bloomed. “Keep your friends close but your enemies even closer.”
“Huh?” Pete briefly looked my way before turning his attention back to the party, where three of the toga girls had popped outside. One was readjusting her toga and Pete’s eyes were about to fall out of his head.
“I’ll show her,” I declared suddenly. “I’m going to be the nicest guy she’s ever met.”
“How is that revenge exactly?” Pete asked, tearing his gaze from the toga trio taking selfies under the fairy lights. “And why do you need any revenge?”
I swallowed more whisky. The reason behind this inspiration was hazy and whisky-flavoured, but I charged ahead.
“I’m going to mess with her mind.” I nodded, drinking more of the harsh liquor. “I don’t even like her and … she doesn’t like me. She hates me.”
How Rosie had stepped away from me in the kitchen, horrified and revolted when she realised she’d been touching me.
“I’m going to treat her like we’re besties.” Whisky slopped down my hand, and I licked it off. “Rosie won’t see my Mr Nice Guy act coming—” I made a sweeping wave, and the paddock spun a little.
“Great plan, pal. Be nice to the girl you hate.” Pete slow-clapped, and I managed a bow. “But how are you going to handle Ainslee?”
I groaned, emptied the cup and then poured more, hoping divine inspiration would be found at the bottom of a cheap whisky bottle.
4
TOM—FOUR YEARS AGO
Ballydoon Community Group:
Bruce Turner posted 2.13 p.m.:
Annual Rugby League Awards are being hosted at the Stanmore Club this weekend. Good to see some Wombat players nominated. Good luck to all. Training is on Tuesday as usual.
Rosie had arrived late for my birthday dinner at home: lamb stew and birthday cake, and later, marshmallows around the fire. She had a bag of chestnuts that her mother had just said ‘was a late season this year for chestnuts but still good’.
I didn’t pay any attention to Mama Z because I couldn’t stop staring at Rosie in a forest green dress with a spray of yellow flowers caught in her curls.
I’d seen Rosie almost every week of my eighteen years on earth. But tonight, it felt like I’d seen her for the very first time. Not as my neighbour or my sister’s best friend who was over again to gossip and take over the TV so I couldn’t play on the Nintendo.
As a woman. A beautiful woman.
“Hi Tom. Happy birthday!”
Rosie skipped towards me down the hall, and I was at a loss for words. Her dress was woollen and hugged curves I’d never noticed until now.
This green on Rosie made her skin glow. Everything about her glowed.
