Page 2 of Meant to Be

HARLEY

The hammer slams one, two, three times before the nail is all the way in. The sun is unrelenting as it beats down on my back. I drag the back of my hand over my forehead and stand, my legs protesting from being in one position too long.

“Kid,” my supervisor roars over the sound of whirring machinery. “Take a break.”

Kid. I’ve worked for his construction company for almost four years, only a few months shy of finishing my apprenticeship. I work the longest hours, carry the most weight, and climb the highest cranes. And he still calls mekid.

Cupping my hand in a half-moon shape over my eyes, my gaze settles on a familiar ute parked in the lot. My father’s car. He must be inside the break room. Exhaling, I shake my head and throw a sloppy wave towards George, indicating I’m not taking a break.

“Suit yourself!” he shouts, shaking his head before disappearing inside.

My throat screams for water, but I’d rather pass out from dehydration than be in close proximity with my father. It’s been hard enough earning respect from these guys just from sharing his last name, let alone them overhearing the way he speaks to me.

It’s not like they don’t know. Everyone knows. But I’d rather not have one of our fights happen with a front-row audience.

Turning my back to the shed they’ve established as the break room, I continue working. Sweat drips into my eyes, and the sting makes me wince. I rub them heavily and sigh deeply through my nose. I glance down at my watch.

Only six hours to go.

* * *

An hour and a half after my shift has ended, the sun is slowly sinking into the horizon.

Slinging my arms over the handles of my bike, I turn the lighter over in my fingers, watching the glint off the gunmetal-grey shell. I strike my thumb against it and light the end of my cigarette. Settling it between my teeth, I suck in a deep breath and tilt my head back, letting the smoke pour from my lips and fade into the breeze.

My phone beeps. Brennon, most likely. My best friend of fourteen years, roommate of three.

Brennon:Drinks tonight?

Pushing my hand through my hair, I let my head hang forward. I should want to do this. Be social. Interact. But everything is sodullhere. The people. This place. Everything that is Fern Grove. Nothing interests me anymore.

It’s time to move on. But to where? To do what?

A few more months, a voice whispers.Your apprenticeship is almost finished. Just hang in there a little longer.

I’ve been telling myself this for two years now. After a few too many beers and a breakdown yesterday, I packed my bags. They’re stuffed inside my closet, hiding from Brennon’s peering eyes. I’m so close to walking away from this place. I just don’t have anywhere to go.

Harley:Working at the pub.

Brennon:Call in sick.

I shove my phone back in my pocket. Brennon’s lack of work ethic frustrates the hell out of me. He’s grown up in the safety net of wealth. He’s never had to work to survive, and it shows.

Every muscle in my body hurts. Working 6:00 AM to 4:00 PM in construction,and then 6:00 PM to 10:00 PMat the pub makes my body ache like it never has before. On days like this, it doesn’t seem worth it. But it is. The more financially independent I am, the sooner I can get the hell out of here. And never come back.

The bike rumbles to life, and I ride directly to work. Shrugging out of my leather jacket, I swing it over a chair in the break room before grabbing my key tag. I swipe the tag over the sensor and punch in my code.

“Evening,” Graham, the owner of the bar, greets me. Crow’s feet wrinkles sit on the corners of his eyes and his beard has grown longer and scruffier in the past six months than I’ve ever seen before.

“Hey,” I reply.

He looks tired as he passes me, clapping me on the shoulder before going out the back to clock off. My eyes settle on the bar, near-empty except for a couple of locals in the pokies room.

The pub is small and rundown, but that goes for basically all places in this town. It doesn’t make much sense to renovate when the town doesn’t get any tourists.

Robotically, I wipe down the tables, restock the fridges, and empty the dishwasher. When no more people have entered in the last hour, I rest against the bar and pull out my phone. I search for rooms to rent, making the radius a minimum of four hours from here. My thumb slides over the screen as I scroll, and I feel deflated when I see the prices of rentals.

Fern Grove is affordable and I halve the rent with Brennon, but when I move on my own, it will all be on me. As daunting as it is, it’s a goal I’m committed to achieving. I can’t stand to be here any longer, and I’m willing to make just about any sacrifice to get out. My loyalty to Brennon has been a big reason for me staying, but honestly, it’s not enough anymore.

The bell dings, indicating the arrival of customers, and I glance up to see Nick. Sighing, I slide my phone into my back pocket and move towards the register. Even after all these years, Nick and I have never comfortably met eyes.

My gaze dips over his neat button-up shirt and beige slacks. I don’t really have a valid reason for hating him, but I do.

“Your usual?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

Curling my hand around the schooner glass, I place it under the tap and hold it. I push it across the counter. He slides his card into the machine—which doesn’t have PayWave because Graham refuses to modernise even in the most basic form—and it takes several moments to flash approval. Without a word, Nick slinks over to the table furthest from the bar, where his father is already seated.

My gaze drifts towards the wet floor sign, and I’m half tempted to race past it so I fall and bang my head so hard I go into a coma for a few days. Or a year.