Page 44 of Lassoed Love

“What’s up, dear?” she asks.

“Uh…” I run my hand down the back of my hair. “What do you know about Dad and Callum Thompson?” I inquire, attempting to sound nonchalant. Her eyes widen with curiosity, and there’s something else I can’t quite pinpoint. She pats the spot beside her, gesturing for me to sit.

“What do you want to know? Why the sudden interest?” she asks, her tone genuinely curious.

I sit beside her, pondering her question. The truth is, ever since I ran into Isla, something about her has piqued my curiosity. I want to understand her better, to unravel the mysteries that surround her and her family. But I keep this to myself, merely saying, “Just curious,I guess. It sounds like there’s a long-standing issue there.”

“Ah, your father and his damn stubbornness,” she sighs, shaking her head. “It stems from a job Callum was supposed to complete years ago. Your father had hired him for some farm work, but Isla’s father didn’t finish the job.”

“There was some issue with the materials. Your father had to cover the cost of materials, and he’s…” she sighs, “he’s just never forgiven Callum for it, I guess.”

I frown. “But why?”

“It’s just how he is, dear,” she says, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Your father can be... difficult when things don’t go his way, you know this.” I snort at this. He’s the most stubborn bloke I know, apart from Bradley.

“Most of the time, his actions come with reason. I may not always agree with ‘em, but he’s your father, and myhusband. He loves you, Brad, and Liv more than anything.”

I just nod. She then looks at me with a mischievous glint in her eyes, and I raise an eyebrow, silently questioning her unspoken thoughts. With a smirk, she shakes her head, indicating it’s nothing.

I roll my eyes at her playful demeanour and lean in to give her a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Thanks, Mum,” I mutter before heading upstairs to my room, my mind still buzzing with thoughts about Isla and her father.

19

Lounging on my couch, I cradle a glass of Coke Zero with more ice than soda—my preferred ratio. A packet of Smith’s chips sits nonchalantly on the coffee table. In my favourite PJs, bra finally off, my girls are free, and the relief is downright glorious. Whoever wished for big tits must be pulling my leg. It’s a real mission carting these girls around every day, not to mention the endless back pains. The joys of being a woman.

In the background, the TV plays an episode of ‘New Girl’, but my mind refuses to tune in. The events of last night, especially the encounter with David, are on constant replay, an unwelcome loop. The urge to message David gnaws at me, a sense of guilt for the abrupt exit lingering. Despite the lack of a spark, he deserves a smoother ending. I type out,

Taking a deep breath, I decide to call Imogen. It’s been too long since our last conversation, and there's a pressing need to sort things out. As the phonerings, I watch the screen intently until she finally answers.

“Bout time you rang,” she says, injecting a teasing tone. A ragged breath escapes me.

“Ugh, Midge, I'm so sorry. I should've called sooner. I just didn't know when the right time would be.”

“It’s okay. I'm glad you called. What are you up to right now?”

A chuckle escapes me. “Nothing much. Just on the couch watching ‘New Girl’.”

Imogen laughs softly. “Got any wine?”

“Uh, yeah, I do. Bought a bottle recently.”

“Beauty! I can be there in ten.”

I release a sigh of relief. “That sounds perfect. I’ll have two glasses ready.” The phone call ends, and I eagerly prepare for Imogen's arrival.

Imogen and I are settled on the couch, each cradling a wine glass, the TV's muted chatter in the background. We navigate the initial small talk dance, dipping into the ebb and flow of recent events.

“So, how’s the salon treating you?” I inquire, genuinely interested in Imogen's life as a hairdresser at one of our local salons.

She smirks, setting her glass down. “Oh, you won't believe the drama this week. Pam tried to colour her hair at home, but endedup with neon pink instead of blonde. I had to fix that disaster.”

I burst into laughter, picturing Pam with her accidental punk rock look. “Poor Pam. How's Claire adjusting to her new role?”

Imogen leans back, sipping her wine. “Loving it, apparently. She gets to boss all the men around now—she’d be having a field day.” Imogen laughs. “Always knew she’d make it big.”

“I second that! That’s great for her,” I say, intentionally leaving out the details of my last night. There’ll be time for that later.

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