Page 46 of Coming Up Roses
I speed home, bypassing the main house and heading straight for my place. Once upon a time the long, low building was the shearer’s quarters. But back around the time my dad was working on the farm, they were converted into two tiny one-bedroom flats. Each has a simple bathroom andminuscule kitchen, a basic bedroom and enough space in the main room for a couch and TV.
It’s nothing fancy, but it’s enough for me. I don’t need any more space and it seems stupid for me to rent something in town when I can live here, with the accommodation included as part of my salary. So, I’m notalwaysreckless and irresponsible.
I wheel my bike into the small lean-to shed beside my flat and prop it on its stand. Then I kick my boots off and head inside.
It’s remarkably quiet in here. Almost lonely.
I sigh and flop onto the couch. I need to make something to eat. I’m not in the mood for people, so I’m avoiding going down to the main house for Violet and Olivia’s leftovers. I know I’m always welcome, and there’s always food for me, but I don’t want to talk to Olivia. I don’t want to have to choose whether I say something about Abi’s situation down at the function centre.
So it’s easier for me to avoid them all.
I lie back on the couch and stare at the ceiling.
My parents lived here when they first got married, before Hunter and I came along. By the time we arrived, they were living in their own home in town and Dad drove out to the farm every day to work. Hunter and I still own the house, but use it as a rental. Neither of us wanted to sell it, but neither of us wanted to live in it after I turned eighteen either. Hunter moved into a dingy apartment above the mechanic’s workshop where he works. I moved here to this slightly less dingy flat.
My eyes trace over the floral design my mum painted around the edges of the ceiling, something Henry refused to letbe painted over, even after they moved out. It’s something I’m grateful for now—a tiny, whimsical piece of my mother.
“What am I supposed to do now, Mum?” I mumble.
I know she’s not here anymore, but I can still hear her voice, feel her warm hand smooth the hair back from my forehead. I imagine her hand would feel a lot smaller against my face now that it did when I was fourteen.
Words echo through my mind, in her voice. “You already know what to do, Flynny,” she says.
I sigh and push myself to my feet.
The voice that sounds like my mum is right. I know exactly what to do, so I open my fridge and hope I have something I can turn into a meal.
24
ABI
Guilt lingersafter Flynn leaves for the night.
I organise place settings and clean up the mess from the roses as I stew on how we left things.
I didn’t miss the way he called me Abigail right before he left either, after I’ve gotten used to him calling me Abi, and he spent the afternoon calling me Rosie.
I hurt him when I dismissed his help like that, when I snapped at him about knowing what I need to do.
I do, but he wasn’t coming from a place of nastiness or controlling. He was trying to help me, look out for me.
I’m reminded again that I’m not used to being part of a team. I’m used to being alone, to having only myself to rely on.
And while Flynn might come across as unreliable, I don’t think that’s really the case. I think if I truly needed him, he’d be there for me in a flash.
I sigh and drag another table into position, wincing as the steel legs scrape across thecobbled floor.
Then suddenly the sound stops and the other end of the table is lifted.
“Where’s it going?” Flynn asks.
“Wh-what are you doing here?” I ask.
“I wasn’t leaving you here to do it all on your own, Rosie. We’re a team, remember?”
I sigh, not in annoyance with him, but in relief that he’s here. He came back to help me.
“Over here,” I say, taking a few more steps, then eyeing up the other tables scattered around the room. “Yep, here,” I say, depositing my end back on the ground.
