Page 33 of Lassoed Love

“I don’t know, Claire,” I respond hesitantly. “Maybe it was all just a spur of the moment. Maybe he kissed me because he felt bad…” I trail off. “I don’t know.” I try to reassure myself as much as I reassure Claire.

She doesn’t seem convinced, however, and retorts, “Not with the way he acted last night. He wouldn’t have kissed you for no bloody reason. Just… never say never, okay?” Her words linger in the air, planting a seed of doubt in my mind as I ponder the possibilities of what could be brewing with Xavier. Echoing previous thoughts from earlier and last night.

In the quiet moments that follow, Claire’s expression takes on a thoughtful cast. “You know, Isla,” she continues, “being back home in Wattle Creek suits you. There’s something about this place that brings out the best in you. I feel like big things are coming your way.” She laughs. “Look at me being all spiritual and shit.” I join in on her laughter.

“I guess so,” I admit. “I’m just so worried about Dad. I think he needs to see someone, maybe a doctor.”I don’t know.“I’ve just—I’ve been gone for so long Claire, I am so afraid I’ve missed out on so many things—important things.”

Claire’s eyes soften with understanding, and she places a reassuringhand on my shoulder. “Isla, you’ve always been there for your family, despite everything that’s happened with your mumandyour dad. No matter what happens, at the end of the day, he’s your dad. You’ll always need each other. If something's not right with him, we’ll figure it out together. You don’t have to face it alone.”

I nod, appreciating the support and comfort in her words. “Thanks, Claire bear. It means a lot.”I really need to talk to Imogen.

“Always, babe,” she affirms, “that’s what best friends are for. We’ll navigate these waters together, just like finding you a real man. And remember, your purpose is now here, in Wattle Creek, surrounded by people who care about you.”

After Claire left, my place felt like a battleground of emotions, and naturally, my anxiety kicked in. Cleaning, the universal remedy for my chaos, became my go-to. I mean, who doesn’t organise when life gets messy, right? I’m that girl who tidies up when the world feels like it’s playing Twister with my sanity.

Our laughs hung in the air, bumping into the heavy stuff—Claire’s wisdom bombs about Justin, the whole self-worth revelation, and this whole shemozzle with dad. My apartment had soaked it all in, a witness to the aftermath of girl talk therapy.

But Claire’s chat got me thinking, especially about Dad, and once again, the home phone kept ghosting my calls.Hmm. I made amental note to dig into that when I got there.

So here I am now, sitting in my car, out the front of the house. His car, a 1990 Toyota Hilux, is parked out front, so I know he must be home.Home.A mix of known and unknown.

As I hop out of the car, déjà vu hits me hard. It’s like a weird sense of familiarity and uncertainty all rolled into one. The echoes of our last encounter, which hadn’t gone well, whisper in the air as I approach the front porch. I shake off the uneasy feeling and walk up to the weathered screen door, giving it a knock.

“Hello? Dad?” The words hang in the air, but the only response is silence, except for the faint sound of the telly playing from inside.

It’s weird, you know? Like, I half expect Dad to stroll in from the living room, grumbling about the volume being too low or too high—like he’d always used to do. Instead, the quiet just lingers. The screen door creaks as I push it open, and the living room unfolds before me. The glow of the television casts a muted light on the worn furniture—a game of test cricket playing.

Something feels off, like the air itself is holding its breath. “Dad?” I call out again, louder this time, my voice carrying a mix of concern.

I take a step further into the house, the floor creaking beneath me. It’sstrange—the echoes of my footsteps, the hushed television, and the uneasy stillness. My eyes scan the room, searching for any sign of him.Where the fuck is he?

“Out here,” his deep voice calls from the back. A sense of relief washes over me. I walk towards the back door—the back screen door is directly adjacent to the front door, a long hallway connectingthe two together. If you were standing from the front door, you’d be able to see straight out to the back. A memory flashes in my mind of a time when I used to run up and down this hallway, coming to and from the back of the house to the front. My dad was usually on my heels, chasing me with either a playful grin or a stern one. The recollection warms my heart, a moment of innocence amid the complexities of the present. I make my way down the familiar hallway. I open the back door, and there he is, just out in the yard, working on the Strukta Fencing that surrounds the house. Some pieces of timber planks look to have been disjointed, broken off—some fallen to the ground, some hanging downwards.

“What’re ya doing here?” he grumbles, but loud enough for me to hear him. Back to his usual self, I see—I think.

I walk out towards him, mentally patting myself on the back for putting on my favourite pair of Ariat Krista western boots, because the grass is quite long, probably in need of a mow right about now, and you just never know what’s hiding out in the grass. If I’m not in my steel cap working boots, I’m in these. They just go with soo many outfits, they’re cute and practical—plus they weren’t fucking cheap, so I have to get my money’s worth, right?—and the girls always compliment them, so…

It’s a bloody scorcher out again—the downside to living out here in the bush, apart from literally every deadly, poisonous animal or creature that can be found here, is the heat. It’s about 2:30ish pm in the afternoon, and I’m pretty sure the temp is way past the thirties.

I walk towards him, feeling the heat intensify with each step. He’ssweating, a testament to how long he’s been working out here in the scorching sun. As I get closer, I can see the familiar lines etched on his face, the wear and tear of a life lived in the unforgiving elements.

“You got any water?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light despite the concern. Dad replies in his usual gruff tone, “Back fridge,” nodding up behind me. I turn around, spotting the old fridge tucked away near the back door. Walking back up, I open it, grateful for the cool rush of air that escapes. Grabbing cold water bottles for Dad and me, I close the fridge and make my way back to Dad.

The plastic crinkles as I twist open the cap, taking a refreshing sip. The sun beats down, casting long shadows across the yard. I glance at Dad, his focus on fixing the fencing, hands weathered and skilled from years of manual labour.

“Need a hand with that?” I offer, taking another sip of water. Dad grunts, a sign that he appreciates the offer but isn't about to admit it. I take that as a cue to grab a spare pair of work gloves from the shed.

As I return, I join him in working on the fence. The rhythmic sound of hammering and the occasional creak of the wood become a backdrop to the shared silence between us. The heat lingers, but there's a sense of familiarity in the routine, a connection mended by actions rather than words.

I decide to break the silence, my words clipped and hesitant. “Home phone not working or something? I’ve tried calling a few times… You never answer.”

He doesn't look up from his work, but his expression tightens. “Don’t need it ringin’ all the time,” he mutters.

“But what if it’s important? What if I need to reach you?” I press, frustration creeping into my voice.

He finally looks at me, a mixture of irritation and something else in his gaze. “I’m here, ain’t I? If there’s somethin’ important, you come here.”

I bite my lip, realising the futility of arguing. Dad mumbles something about people calling all the time, wasting his time.

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