Page 13 of Lassoed Love

I’ve locked up the entrance, the clinic now silent, and I’m walking to my car. My trusty Volkswagen, parked like it’s on standby for an escape mission. Unlocking the car, I pull out my phone from my back pocket—4:01 pm. Right around Dad’s tea time.

Here comes the internal debate.Should I grace Dad with a surprise visit?I briefly consider it, imagining his reaction. A hesitant smirk plays on my lips as I wonder if he’d appreciate the spontaneity or if I’m about to unleash chaos. To be polite—or just cautious—I decide to give him a heads up. Dialling the home phone, I listen to the ring tone that seems to stretch for ages.Is he ignoring me? Maybe he’s finally learned how to socialise and is out with the townsfolk.

Multiple attempts later, only the relentless ringing tone answers me.

With a muttered, “Fuck it,” I slide into the driver’s seat. The decision's made—I’m heading to Dad’s place, surprise or not. Let the unpredictable evening commence.

Ipull up to Dad's place, the engine grumbling to a halt. Despite my confident decision to drop by unannounced, nerves decide to makea fashionable entrance.

It’s been a while since I stepped foot in this house, the last time being Mum’s funeral. A wave of reluctance washes over me, but I squash it down. I'm here for Dad, and maybe, just maybe, I can make this an uneventful visit.

Turning off the ignition, I open the car door, my worn boots meeting the familiar gravel driveway. The air is filled with the scent of fresh-cut timber, and I glance around, recognizing the familiar surroundings. As I step out, closing the car door with more force than necessary, I catch movement from the corner of my eye.

Dad emerges from around the side of the house, a stack of recently cut timber in his arms. His brows furrow in confusion as he spots me. I stand there, rooted in place, caught in the act of spontaneity. He looks at me, timber still in hand, like I'm some sort of mythical creature that's appeared out of thin air. The atmosphere hangs, my intentions suddenly feeling like they need a lot more explanation than I initially thought.

He stops mid-walk and drops the pieces of timber to the ground with a muffled thud. Turning back to look at me, the air thickens with tension and apprehension.

“Bout time you came by,” he says, and without waiting for a response, he strides ahead, climbing the steps of the front porch and disappearing inside. The door hangs open, a clear invitation to follow.

I release the breath I hadn’t realised I was holding and reluctantly trail behind him. Closing the screen door with a soft creak, I'm hit with a wave of nostalgia. The familiar musty scent of pine, the lingering aroma of tobacco, and oddly enough, a hint of cinnamon fill the air. Glancing to my left into the lounge room, I spot a lit candle on the mantelpiece with a sticker that reads ‘cinnamon spice’.Huh—that explains that. As I walk further into the house, I notice my dad bustling around the kitchen, turning on the kettle with a clatter.

Breaking the silence, he offers, “Tea? Coffee? I ain’t got much—none of those stupid flavours, but I got chamomile?” he mutters.

“Chamomile is fine, thanks,” I reply, grateful for the neutral option.

Feeling the weight of awkwardness settle, I shift on the spot, absentmindedly pulling at a frayed strand of yarn on my long cardigan. Dad must sense my apprehension and gruffly tells me to sit, gesturing to the kitchen stools.

I lower myself onto one of them, the creaking echoing through the room. The atmosphere is laden with years of unspoken words and unresolved tension. Dad places a steaming mug of chamomile in front of me and stands across the bench top, nursing his own cup, gaze avoiding mine.

As we sit in the kitchen, Dad’s eyes drift to my uniform, and I realise I’m still dressed in my scrubs. He clears his throat, a gruff noise that preludes his clipped words. “Well, that explains why you came back here.”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “Yeah, it wasn’t planned. Theclinic in town was shutting down. Imogen mentioned it to me, and I thought it was time for a change, so I bought it.”

“You make a lot of money or somethin’?” Dad questions, raising an eyebrow.

“Not really, but I saved a huge load over the years,” I counter back.

Dad nods slowly. “Still kept in touch, I see,” he says, and I catch the undercurrent of his words, hinting at the mention of Imogen’s name, the fact that I hadn’t made much effort to stay connected.

The room falls into a tense silence again, and I sip my tea, the warmth providing a slight comfort in the bitterness of our reunion.

I really had genuinely attempted to reach out to him during my time away, but the calls had gone unanswered. Whether deliberateoraccidental, it’s still unclear.Knowing Dad, it was probably deliberate.

I remain silent, uncertainty swirling in my mind about how Dad will react to what I say next.

“How have things been?”

“Well, you know, the same old things.”No,I don’t know. “Things have been a bit fuzzy over the last few months, though. Nothins’ changed much…” he trails off, rambling.What does he mean by that?

“How’s things around the house going? Still got any of the livestock?” I question, but Dad just stares at his mug of tea.Oo-kay…

My eyes shift to the antique crystal vase, its delicate charm heightened by the blooming everlasting daisies on the kitchen bench.

In an attempt to break the silent tension, I change the subject. “These are pretty. When did you pick them?” I say quietly. My dad looks at me for a second, brows furrowed, confusion written on hisface. Then he glances towards the vase, and I notice his expression change, almost instantly, from confusion to a look of... endearment?

“Oh, just this mornin’. Roses aren’t blooming yet, so I picked ‘em out just for your mother. I saw ‘em this morning, and they reminded me of her, ya know—because of her everlasting love.” I turn to look at the bunch of flowers, tears creeping up, taken aback by his admission.

As I turn to look back at my father, he continues quickly, “She'll be home soon actually…” He glances at the clock on the wall above the vase, “She’ll be real surprised.” Wait…What the fuck? Surely he’s not referring to Mum as in….

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