Page 11 of Under Southern Stars
The timer for the pasta chooses that moment to go off, saving me from having to respond. As I drain the noodles and combine everything in the pan, I find myself thinking about Madison’s observations.
Have I been carrying everything heavy? Is it really that noticeable when I…am not?
And if so, what exactly has changed?
“Dinner’s ready,” I call, plating the pasta with the slightly-burned-but-still-edible sauce.
Madison clears her homework from the counter, making space for our plates. As we settle in to eat, she looks at me with that same thoughtful expression.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Whatever’s making you hum? I hope it sticks around.”
I smile, twirling pasta around my fork. “Me too, baby. Me too.”
As we eat, the conversation drifts to safer topics—Madison’s upcoming chemistry test, weekend plans, whether we should finally replace the broken garbage disposal. Normal, domestic, comfortable topics that fill the kitchen with the kind of easy contentment I’d forgotten is possible.
But underneath it all, Madison’s words echo:You deserve to be happy.
Maybe she’s right.
Maybe I do.
CHAPTER SIX
JACK
“No, Mum, I’m not ‘playing paramedic.’” I wedge the phone between my shoulder and ear while measuring coffee grounds. “Iama paramedic. Have been for three years now.”
“Such a waste, Jackson. Nearly thirty-three years old and still running around in an ambulance.” Her voice carries that particular mix of disappointment and affection that only mothers can manage. “You could be running the Wanaka vineyard by now. Your father’s been managing both properties, and the new Pinot harvest—”
“Dad’s doing fine without me.” I dump the grounds into my ancient coffee maker. “How’s the weather in Otago?”
“Don’t change the subject. If you must insist on this healthcare…phase…you could at least work for Te Whatu Ora back home. They’re always looking for flight medics at Milford Sound for all the tourists. Then you’d still be doing your ‘real work’ but be where youbelong.”
“Mum—”
“Your sister Lily’s getting married soon. To Oliver Ashford. You remember him? The cardiac surgeon from Dunedin Hospital? Lovely boy. Perhaps you could—”
“Perhaps I could what? Bring a date?” I think of sharp blue eyes and a voice like good whiskey. “Working on it.”
“Oh?” Her tone perks up immediately. “Who is she? What does she do?”
“She’s in healthcare.” True enough. “Listen, Mum, I’ve got shift in an hour. Give Dad my best, yeah?”
“The charity auction is next month. In Queenstown. You could at least—”
“Love you too.Chur.”
I end the call before she can mention the family’s private jet or the new villa overlooking Lake Wakatipu. Three years, and she still thinks this is some kind of rebellion phase. Maybe it started that way—the black sheep of the McKenzie family choosing sirens over vineyards and sheep stations.
But somewhere between my first life saved and watching real people do real work for real reasons, it became who I am.
The coffee tastes like burnt rubber, but it’s mine. No imported beans, no family crest on the mug. Just me and my modest apartment and the job I actually love.
My phone buzzes.
