Page 57 of Broken Trails
It’s been a long-ass day. I spent the better part of it buried under the bonnet of a rusted-out Hilux some guy brought in from the edge of town.
Harrison and I worked on it most of the morning—well, I worked while he talked shit and sang along to whatever crap was on the radio. It wasn’t even midday before Joe threatened to cut the aux cord. It wasn’t the worst day at the shop, but it dragged on.
Later on, we had a Mazda come in with a seized brake calliper, and it took twice as long as it should have to repair. Imogen dropped by around lunch with food, said she’d been experimenting in the kitchen and wanted to “test” it on us.
Her pasta was good. Really fucking good. Creamy. Spicy. Something fancy. Harrison claimed he’d made it all himself the night before—until she threw a rag at his head and told him to sit down before she threw something harder, like a wrench, at him. All day, though, I’ve been distracted. Zoned out. Working on autopilot while my thoughts keep drifting back to Zoe. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried. Concerned. Fuck, it’s been eating at me. Sure, we’d had some good banter, but that doesn’t erase the fact that she’d had a full-blown panic attack and then carried on like nothing fucking happened. Harrison mentioned something happened at the bakery, that a bunch of women were running their mouths. When I pressed him, he said he wasn’t sure what was said, that Imogen hadn’t given him all the details. Now I’m left wondering what the fuck this town thinks it knows about her. What kind of comments were thrown around to leave her shaking in her own damn house? And the real truth? I don’t know her at all. Not really. I’ve got no fucking clue what she’s been through. What she’s hiding. What she’s survived. I’ve even been texting her… Well, if you could call it that. Technically, it started off with me asking about the cat—Sprinkles now—and then it just kept going. I’d dropped off more of that kitten food yesterday morning. Treats too. A couple of toys—nothing too over-the-top, just what the poor thing needed. Zoe had gotten nothing for her besides her food. Not one damn thing. No scratching post, no toys. Said she still didn’t think she’d be keeping her. That we were most definitely not co-parenting.
That it was just “temporary.” Right. Sprinkles, though? She had other ideas. The minute she spotted that silly feather stick with the bell on the end, she went absolutely nuts—zoomingacross the rug as if she’d been training for it. Zoe just stood there, arms crossed, eyeing me like I’d single-handedly ruined her peaceful silence. So, I stuck my tongue out at her. Mature? No. But the way her eyes narrowed and her lips twitched—almost into a smile—it felt like a win. She didn’t say thank you. Didn’t gush over the toys or the effort. She just rolled her eyes, muttered something about me spoiling the cat already, and walked off. But she didn’t throw anything out either.
Yesterday – 4:43 PM
Me: Did Sprinkles eat her treats today?
Zoe: She ate a few.
Me: That’s not a glowing review.
Zoe: She’s a cat. She eats. She naps. That’s kind of the deal.
Me: “Thank you, Michael.”
Me: “You’re welcome, Freckles.”
This morning – 10:12 AM
Me: I think Sprinkles misses me.
Zoe: I doubt it. She’s been asleep in the laundry basket for three hours.
Me: Avoidance. That hurts.
Today – 2:17 PM
Me: Just checking in. You… doing alright?
Zoe: I’m fine.
Me: …
Zoe: Still breathing and now caffeinated. Don’t worry, Price. I can handle myself.
And that’s more than I expected. I park the bike, twist the key, and let the engine die. The silence that follows is heavy, but her words still echo in my head. A few utes and cars are scattered across the dirt, parked with the kind of lazy, unhurried care that only small towns ever really master. I spot Harrison’s Tiguan near the fence line, Liv’s little hatch tucked beside it, and now my Ducati.
It’s not late yet—although the sun’s still dragging over the hills—but being March, the air bites sharper out here. Closer to the bush means we cop the cold quicker than the rest of the town. A chill works its way down the back of my neck. I should’ve brought a jumper.
Should’ve showered, too.
Yeah, I’m still in my work gear. I just couldn’t be fucked changing, and you best believe my hands stink of grease and coolant. Fingernails stained black. I round the back of their property, and just as I thought, the kids are already all over the place.
Joseph and Callie are knee-deep in a mud patch near the trough, shrieking with excitement. That is, until Taco comes tearing through, barrelling into them like a cannonball. Callie squeals, Joseph howls with laughter, and mud goes flying.
“Taco!” Harrison’s voice booms across the yard. “Mate, no! Not the kids—Taco, come! Now.” The dog tears across the grass toward him, tail wagging like he hasn’t just caused chaos. Harrison points a stern finger at him. “No running into the kids.”
I pause, taking in the sheer absurdity of it—my brother, a full-grown man, trying to reason with a dog like it’s an unruly teenager. Shaking my head, I glance around, half-scanning the familiar surroundings, and then stop cold. Because across the fire, curled up in a camping chair with her arms crossed is Zoe.
She has one knee tucked up, nursing a thermos, and there’s a flicker of conversation happening around her—Amelia on one side, Olivia on the other—but she’s not talking much. She’s just watching. Then again, she’s always watching. Our eyes meet for a fraction of a second before she looks away. Figures. I didn’t expect her to be here tonight, but I’m glad she is.
“Took your sweet time, mate.” Xavier claps me on the back. “Could’ve at least changed for dinner.”
