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“Night, Jet.”
“Night, Ari.”
7
Ari
Spicy question: What’s the wildest thing you’ve ever done?
Bessie was a glorified paperweight and luggage locker.
I kicked the dust on the side of the road. No one was coming from the north or the south. Not even a grey nomad caravan was in sight. Or a road train. Or even a farmer in a ute.
Thirty minutes’ drive south was the highway. Too far to walk.
I was stranded.
And thinking about the texts Jet and I had exchanged over the last week and how one photo of my ankle had escalated our online conversation quickly. As I drove between lava caves, dinosaur museums and homestead tours, the rainforest giving way to red dust and rocky gorges, we’d kept flirting; our messages now seemed charged. Electric.
Even since our call when he wanted permission to think about me. That he’d denied himself thoughts about me when he was alone.
Until I’d said he could.
And I’d not calmed down since.
Until now, with Bessie cooling my libido after coming to a stop following a loud clunking sound.
Last night, Jet’s shift had gone two hours over, thanks to a blocked toilet that needed attention, late-night beer deliveries and an overnight guest requiring an ambulance. He’d texted an apology for being so late getting home. I’d texted back this morning but hadn’t heard from him when I’d left the campground to head to Mount Isa for the rodeo.
My first rodeo and yet, I wasn’t feeling interested in finding a cowboy or watching the action. I was more interested in talking to a shearer who’d just started farming.
But right now, I was between Julia Creek and Somewhere Else, down a side road to a pretty gorge where I’d had a swim and took photos, and now had one bar of reception on my phone and less than ten percent battery, waiting for roadside assistance.
And feeling frustrated in more ways than one.
The operator had warned me it could be at least a three-hour wait when I’d lost signal and the call disconnected.
In three hours, I could daydream about sexy cowboys and bull riders. But I kept thinking about a shearer-now-turned-farmer who liked baths.
Ugh, Jet and I were just friends.
Friends who constantly flirted and who had a thing one night. Who knows how our phone call last night would have gone if he hadn’t been held up with pub emergencies?
I sighed, knowing what I wished had happened last night.
I patted Bessie’s side mirror. Three long hours. Poo Bessie.
I checked my phone. I had one bar of mobile reception again.
Mum: when are you planning on coming home? I’ve still got your position open at the salon.
Mum: let me know
Mum: and send me a postcard. I’m your mother, Ari. I know you send postcards to that lovely Jet fellow. I’ve seen them at the pub. I deserve at least one!
I kicked at a rock and sent it flying. Meddling matchmaking Mother Dearest who also wanted to be my boss.
My phone beeped with three more incoming messages.
