Page 3 of Lassoed Love

Claire joins in, “Seriously, Isla, you’ve been living like a recluse since you got back. This is your moment. Own it!”

I sigh, glancing at myself in the small mirror above the vanity.

The tight black halter neck dress clings to me like a second skin, accentuating every dip, bulge, and curve, and the strappy sandals feel alien on my feet. Living out of a suitcase for the past month hasn't exactly done wonders for my wardrobe, but tonight is about breaking free from the routines that have wrapped themselves around me.

“Ugh. Isn’t there anything else I can wear?” I exclaim, tugging the dress down as far as it will go. “Why can’t I just wear jeans and a top?”

“Are you serious right now? Absolutely not, no. We’re going to a bar, Isla, not a hoedown throwdown in a barn,” Imogen quips.

“Trust us, you look stunning. I would kill to have your curves, girl,” Claire chimes in.

As my friends try to boost my confidence, a swirl of self-doubt weaves its way through my mind. Wearing tight clothing has alwaysbeen a source of insecurity for me. My curves—bulges, lumps, and dips—have never aligned. The pressure to have a flat stomach and narrow hips is an ever-present weight, and my ample breasts have often been a point of comparison.And not in a good way.

I’d spent so many hours, minutes, and days wishing I had thinner hips, smaller boobs, and a skinny waist. Imogen, a part-time hairdresser, had offered to do my hair, and had persuaded me to let her do my makeup. I guess I’m still learning to embrace the body that I was given.

I push these thoughts aside, because after everything my friends have done for me this past month, the least I could do was go out with them for one night.I’d kept them waiting long enough.

“Fine, but if I flash someone accidentally, I’m blaming you,” I relent, a small smile escaping my lips.

Imogen chuckles, “Trust me, babe, in that dress, you’ll be turning heads for all the right reasons.”

“Now, let's go!”

“Just one drink,” I remind them.

“You say that now, but wait until you're two shots deep and dancing on the bar,” Claire teases.

“Isla on the bar? Now, that's a sight I'd pay big bucks to see,” Imogen quips, her infectious laughter filling the room, eyes sparkling with mischief.

We’d decided earlier on the Loose Lasso, a rustic pub just on the outskirts of town.When I say ‘we’, I mean Claire and Imogen.With one last glance in the mirror, admiring how well Imogen had paintedmy face—it almost looks like I am wearing nothing, if not for the faint liner on my eyes and red lips—we head out the door.

We catch a cab into town and it takes us about twenty minutes to get there from my place. As we pull up to the curb, Claire pulls out her wallet at the same time I do. She notices and quickly places her hand on mind to push it away.

“I’ve got this one, babe,” she says and takes out a twenty-dollar note to pay the driver.

The three of us hop out and thank the driver. As we step into the night, the warm breeze carries the scent of eucalyptus and earth. Wattle Creek, bathed in the soft glow of streetlights, feels both familiar, yet different.

Now, standing on the footpath outside the Loose Lasso, I look up to the vibrant sign above us; the light casting a warm flickering glow in the night, and just below it, a weathered lasso hangs proudly, its origins probably shrouded in the enigma of decades gone by. From what Imogen and Claire have told me, it has become quite the popular hangout recently for both the young and elderly locals. If not for the resilient support of these local patrons, this timeworn structure probably would have been shut down by now.

The pub comes alive as we enter through the doors, the low hum of conversations blending with the rhythmic beat of country music playing in the background. The wooden floor of The Loose Lasso embraces our footsteps as we navigate through the lively crowd. The warm, amber glow of the bar casts a welcoming hue on its patrons–a diverse mix of farmers, town locals, and the occasional traveller passingthrough.

Imogen, always the social butterfly, leads the way, her infectious energy drawing smiles from familiar faces. Claire, the orchestrator of my newfound appearance, walks beside me, her chestnut curls bouncing with every step. The air buzzes with excitement, and I can’t help but be swept up in the infectious atmosphere. Imogen guides us towards the bar, signalling the waiter for a round of drinks as we pass by.

Her blue eyes sparkle playfully as she searches the guy’s shirt for—a name tag? He must’ve sensed her intention because he introduces himself right away. “The name’s Garrett. What can I get for you, pretty lady?

“Oh, quite the charmer, aren’t ya?” She giggles, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

"Three shots of your finest whiskey please, Garrett,” she practically purrs, earning a chuckle from the bartender.

Garrett brings out three shot glasses and pours the amber-coloured liquid into each glass, filling them to the brim. Imogen grabs them and hands them out. The sharp scent of whiskey fills the air as we raise our glasses, toasting to the night.

“To new beginnings," Imogen declares.

“And may I never have to deal with another angry cat again."

Claire playfully nudges me. "Oh, come on! Remember Mr. Whiskers? He practically declared war on you. But let’s be real, you’re a vet. There’ll be plenty more"

“I think he’s still plotting his revenge,” Imogen adds, and I chuckle,clinking our glasses together, and we down the liquid in unison. The warmth spreads from my throat to my chest, leaving behind a fiery trail.

---