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Me: I’d like you to show me more of that
My phone continued to ping with messages from Ainslee with thoughts of missing me and if I was up for some sexting.
Sex.
I stumbled into the driver’s door and laughed. Of course, sex. I hadn’t had sex in months.
My reaction to Rosie and her news was due to my lack of sex.
I’d been so caught up with my studies online and managing the sheep station I had gone months without it.
Cockblocked by a flock.Motherflockers!
Seeing Ainslee before I moved back home was the perfect plan. And if Ainslee wasn’t up for some fun, I’d find someone who was.
I slipped into the driver’s seat.
“You alright?” Grandad Cec asked. “You’ve got a funny look on your face.”
This wasn’t heartache, or—I almost laughed out loud—love. Just a dry spell with the ladies. Why hadn’t I realised that sooner?
“I’m absolutely fine, Grandad.” I turned the key in the ignition and revved the ute’s engine. “Let’s get home.”
Hours later, after everyone had gone to bed, I was still wide awake in the shearers’ quarters, staring at the painted wooden ceiling beams.
Stacey had placed painting trestles against one wall in my room. Paint fumes were strong from the other rooms in the quarters. With the cold night, the timber creaked and groaned with the temperature drop. Stacey planned to give the five bunkrooms of the old building a facelift before the muster and wool clip in July. I’d been kicked out of my old room in the homestead too, thanks to Stacey’s renovation schedule. Escaping back to uni for the last two weeks of uni classes and then exams would mean I’d be free of paint fumes and drop sheets.
Something stirred in the chimney. That would have to be cleaned before winter, too.
Being in this place made me feel closer to my late father. I’d loved following him at wool clip time, talking to the contract shearers who stayed with us, listening to and watching all the action.
If only he’d still been alive when everything had changed with Rosie.
I threw off the covers, listless. Ignoring the chill of the night, I powered up my laptop and hovered the cursor over a particular folder on the desktop. A folder I hadn’t looked at for over six months.
Unsent Letters to Rosie.
I clicked and one document appeared. The cursor blinked, waiting.
I opened the doc and finally slumped into my study chair, taking a deep breath, and began typing the same way I always had in this doc:Dear Rosie
I closed my eyes briefly, remembering how her eyes were when she’d answered my question. There was no happiness in the depths of her brown eyes. I shook my head and typed.
You said you were getting married today.
Told Mum when I got home from the funeral. Even though she’s sick, she was so excited for you.
Ryan was appalled to have another formal event after Amanda and Stuart’s wedding because it means wearing a suit.
I can’t go, Rosie. There’s just no way I can go and see you marry the man.
It’s been four years since we spent that week together. Four years. And I’m going to be totally selfish because I can’t watch you commit to another man. I don’t know why I can’t get over it.
A dull ache persisted in my chest; I kept typing.
Gonna be a selfish prick and not turn up to your wedding, assuming I’m invited. Can’t see Mama Z not inviting all the Turners. I won’t be able to tell Mum why, or Ryan or my sisters either. I don’t know what I’ll say.
It was good seeing you today, even if it was at a funeral. Moving ahead, we need to talk to each other as neighbours. As business associates. When you take over the vineyard, we need a way to speak to each other professionally.
