Page 51 of Special Delivery
‘What’s this boom-boom-tap-tap crap we’re dancing to?’ asked James, appearing at the ute. In the light of the fire he was all jawline and cheekbones and glittering eyes. Poppy wished half-heartedly he was a tad less attractive; it kept causing embarrassing sensations under her skin. Then again, under the cover of almost-darkness and with a pleasantly tipsy buzz, it was prime time for a perve.
‘Who kidnapped you from the retirement village?!’ shrieked Kate. ‘You sound senile, Jimmy!’
‘I can’t keep dancing, sis. This music is making my ears bleed. It doesn’t have any lyrics, for god’s sake. You can’t just replace words with synthesisers and think that’ll make a song.’
‘I think the youth of today would beg to differ,’ said Kate, pointing at her cousins breakdancing in TikTok-style shuffles on the other side of the campfire.
‘Give me some Lynyrd Skynyrd or Garth Brooks over this crap any day,’ muttered James.
Poppy smiled. When she was in year ten she’d paid thirty dollars for the latest Garth Brooks CD and had studiously learned all the lyrics by heart.
‘Oi!’ yelled Kate to the dancing teenagers. ‘Can we get some music for the oldies over here?’ She turned back to James. ‘As thanks for taking control, I will expect a full dancefloor contribution from you.’ She strode over to the teenage aux cord controllers, and within seconds a familiar twang of guitar chords sounded across the melee.
‘Ah, good choice, kids.’ James eased himself up onto the ute tray next to Poppy. ‘“Sweet Home Alabama” was my theme song in high school.’
‘God, you are a loser,’ Kate teased as she rejoined them. ‘You’ve never even been to Alabama. How could it have been your theme song?’
‘It was in my cowboy phase.’
Kate cackled. ‘That’s right! The John Deere and belt buckle phase. How did you ever pick up?’
‘She has no idea what she’s talking about,’ James said to Poppy. ‘I was a stud.’
‘Wasbeing the operative word,’ Kate retorted.
James shrugged good-naturedly. ‘I peaked too early.’
Poppy chuckled, trying to ignore the flare of intrigue in her chest. Was that a confession that he’d been a massiveplayer—and was he still? Was that what ‘happily single’ meant? He definitely had player potential, in that he was over thirty and still had a full set of teeth. The fact he was here, though, with his family, was somehow comforting.
Poppy tipped more guava deliciousness down her throat as the stamping boots stirred clouds of dust around the campfire. The last notes of ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ rang out and James cheered and clapped his hand against his beer. Poppy grinned. Who cared if he was a player?Definitelynot her—especially when she was drinking stuff that tasted like sherbet and listening to embarrassingly sentimental music with people who loved it as much as she did. This was sofun. She hadn’t done anything like this in … well, years.
With Patrick, she had bounced around the same suburbs and workplaces and bougie travel destinations as their friends. Anyone new they met was already a friend of a friend—a PLU, as Patrick called them: People Like Us. They were people who drank craft beer and twenty-five-dollar cocktails, who holidayed in Aspen and Santorini, and drove Teslas to offset their air travel. Ugh, and Patrick drove the biggest Tesla of all. If there was a more ostentatious way of virtue-signalling, Poppy didn’t know it. But she’d stayed with him fornine years. She was the mother of his baby. It all seemed a blur now. He’d convinced her so easily that every day was an excuse for more fun, but that more fun required more money, and more money required more work, and more work required more opportunities to let off steam, and so the cycle continued. There wasn’t time to breathe or think because there was always another flashyevent to attend, another gift to be opened. It was a dizzying whirlwind which she’d let herself be caught up in—fornine years.
‘What’s your dancefloor song of choice, Poppy?’ asked Kate, breaking her train of thought. ‘What am I requesting next from the teenyboppers?’
‘Well,’ said Poppy slowly, dimly aware through the Cruiser buzz that no matter the crowd, her taste in music was generally considered embarrassing. But what the hell. ‘I do love “Wagon Wheel”.’
‘Yes!’ exclaimed Kate. ‘That is exactly what we need right now.’ She hoisted herself off the tray again.
‘“Wagon Wheel”, hey?’ asked James, looking at her sideways. His eyes danced with amusement.
Poppy shrugged. ‘I may be recently relocated from Sydney, but I am born and raised Central West—CentralBest,’ she clarified with a salute of her bottle.
‘You forget I’m born and raised Central West too,’ said James, a mischievous glint flashing across his eyes.
‘So?’
‘“Wagon Wheel” is my jam. And’—he paused dramatically—‘I’ve got some moves.’ He plonked his beer on the edge of the ute tray and grabbed her hand. ‘Come on, McKellar. Let’s show these young ones a thing or two.’
Poppy felt herself being dragged off the ute and pulled towards the makeshift dancefloor. Her body had no choice but to follow her hand. Her foot tripped over the uneven ground and her cheek bumped against the cotton of his jumper. She could smell his aftershave through the smoke.
‘Follow my lead,’ yelled James over the music as he tugged her wrist, propelling her towards him. She landed against his chest with an ungraceful head knock and he grabbed her other hand to spin her around.
With every beat of the music, James pulled her close then pushed her away, twirling her outwards then yanking her back. His hands guided her as their bodies moved in a chaotic rhythm, both of them shaking with laughter. Around them, boots swirled in the dust and everyone—Poppy included—roared the lyrics from the bottom of their lungs.
They twirled and dipped and swung and spun and it was exhilarating and exhausting and frankly surreal. It was like a time machine had pulled up and offered free rides to the noughties—pimples and alcohol poisoning not included. Poppy could hardly breathe she was laughing so hard.
At the final chorus, James spun Poppy to his chest, one hand on her back, the other clasping her hand and Poppy was suddenly aware of their closeness. She could see the fibres of his shirt, the creases around his eyes. Her singing dropped in volume as she realised their eyes were locked. James had gone quiet too. They were still dancing, swaying awkwardly together in the campfire glow, but singing seemed too frivolous now. She wanted to blink but she couldn’t. The song was going to end in less than thirty seconds. This would all be over in an instant. She felt James’s fingers tighten on hers. His eyes were glittering more than she’d ever seen. She looked at his lips.Fuck!She hadn’t meant to do that, but it had already happened! And the intensity in his eyes hadn’t wavered. Was his hand slipping towards her lower back?Shit!This nanosecond had become too intense. What was happening?!
