Guess what Mum packed for me?
HILARIOUS if not a little bit scary.
SENT!
It was only just nearing 1 a.m., so I knew he would still most likely be at the Onslow playing pool. I mentally allowed what I thought would be enough time for him to take his shot, have some trash talk with the boys, and return to the bar for a sip of beer and the usual check of his phone. I smiled; he was nothing if very predictable. But when the few minutes I had allotted passed with no reply, I found myself thinking maybe his phone had gone flat. Maybe he had lost it. Or gone to bed early; but no matter how many scenarios I ran through my head none of them seemed realistic. If Adam’s phone had been flat he would find a way to charge it. Adam only ever lost his keys, never his phone, and as far as going to bed early, it was Friday night in Onslow, that would never happen.
Minutes dragged to the point where the likelihood of him replying was not very high. Had I pushed him too far? Had he lost interest in playing the game? I could feel my stomach drop with all the swirling scenarios in my head. Now that the shoe was on the other foot, the silent treatment wasn’t so much fun. It made me feel like such a bitch, having ignored all his messages. I opted for drastic measures; I had to make contact if I had any chance of going to sleep.
I dialled Adam’s number.
Nothing.
No answer.
This seemed wrong, very wrong, and I suddenly wished I were back in Onslow. Anything was only a short walk away from finding out the answer, or asking someone you knew a question to find it out. That was one of the blessings and curses of living in a small town and knowing everyone’s business. It was the one thing I thought I wouldn’t miss, but now, sitting in my city flat, alone in the early hours of Saturday, I had never felt more alone. I would instinctively message Tess but she would be with Toby and I didn’t want to seem like I was stalking Adam, which is totally what I would be doing.
Calm down, Ellie, you’re being ridiculous.
I decided instead to put my phone on silent and set it aside. Pulling back the covers and settling into my bed, it didn’t take long for sleep to claim me. There was a welcome refuge in knowing that everything appeared different in the light of day.
But nothing was clearer, just the same. There were no messages or texts from Adam. My message had been cryptic on purpose to coax a response from Adam and his ever-inquisitive personality, but there was nothing. Heat crept up my neck as I stared down at my blank screen, feeling like an idiot. I wished I hadn’t texted him back and worse, now he would have a bloody missed call from me. Surely he knows me well enough to know I had offered him an olive branch. He wouldn’t ignore that to be cruel to me. Would he?
Screw you, Adam Henderson. I refuse to play these games.
Instead, I leapt out of bed with a surprisingly not completely horrific hangover and selected my outfit for the day. It was Saturday after all and what better way to enjoy it than to go for a Saturday stroll down to the main strip where cafés were dotted along the way, where hip city folk enjoyed brunch and sunshine. Enough was enough; I was going to immerse myself into this new world, blend in with the locals, and enjoy the aspects of my new life.
As I walked down my street, ensuring not to snare my thongs on the uneven footpath lifted by the root system of hundred-year-old elm trees, the sun broke its way through sections of the canopy. I felt happy and content. And it wasn’t just because I had—rather violently—chucked every single diary back in the box after I had showered. I had taped the box up and shoved it into the deep recess of my cupboard, out of my sight, soon to be forgotten. That was my old life. This was my new. I wouldn’t allow myself to recognise the emotion of being hurt by something as simple as an ignored text message. No way, no how. This was the new me, I was embracing my new life now. No more lonely weekends poring over old diary entries and drinking wine like a loser. I was in the prime of my life, for God’s sake; I couldn’t turn into a spinster cat lady, not yet. No, I would adopt an alter ego and become the independent person I had always wanted to be: then and only then would I return to Onslow and show them all.
Four
Tall, blond and abs you could grate cheese on.
Or so I imagined. I would hopefully find out as a fact, later on; I mean, the night was still young.
I resisted the urge to pinch my leg under the table.
No, this was real, this was very real. I was sitting across from THE Rory Franklin.
The very one and only Best and Fairest, Brownlow-winning, Aussie Rules full forward, Rory Franklin. God bless Sheila, my new BFF and dental receptionist, for setting me up on a blind date; well, blind for him, not so much for me. I had all but smashed the windows of the hospitality area of our office with my elated squeals. There was not a woman in the southern hemisphere that didn’t know Rory ‘Cleo Bachelor’ Franklin.
It had been eight weeks, and I was so bloody proud of myself. Adam had texted, but our exchanges were nothing out of the ordinary—back-and-forth banter like once before. I tried to control my heart spiking every time my phone chimed, but as the distance of another weekend rolled past it felt like I could breathe again. It was becoming easier. The draw of wanting to go home to Onslow was beginning to fade, and once I learned that the key to it all was keeping busy, I merged into an altogether new groove, one that didn’t involve Adam Henderson.
And here I was, on my first date that didn’t involve a pot and parmi at the Onslow Hotel. This was an honest-to-God date, with a hotter-than-hell footy legend.
Just be cool, Ellie. Be. Cool.
Rory’s baby blues glanced up from his menu with a melty grin. “They do a sensational duck dish here.” His voice was deep and rich—croony—and jolted the butterflies in my stomach into action by the simplest of words.
“Ooh, where’s that?” My eyes searched through my menu.
“Oh, just … there.” Rory reached across the table and pointed to the elegant italic script; he had nice hands: large, tanned with immaculately trimmed nails that seemed a bit too well kept for a bloke.
He wasn’t your average meathead footy player. He was reserved for the elite players, the ones that hit a select pay bracket and stood out from the rest. He had heavily endorsed sponsorships outside his footy sponsors and would also pitch in for commentary gigs because he was built for TV.
He had picked me up at my flat, parking across the narrow suburban street, emerging from the red, sleek sports car with his black square-cut Italian leather shoes. He looked like a walking catalogue for Armani, and I’d been forced to quickly pick up my jaw from the pavement.
Since the zippy commute, friendly, light-hearted chitchat, flirty jokes and heated glances for the first forty-five minutes, I had been immensely proud of my composure. And the stares and whispers from those surrounding us weren’t lost on me.
