Crossing Lines

By the time the train finally pulls into Ashgrove, the sky is beginning to lighten at the edges. Not sunrise yet, just that strange grey softness that comes before it.

My body feels stiff and heavy in a way that goes beyond tired. It’s a relief to stand.

The carriage has emptied to only a handful of passengers. Someone boards carrying a takeaway coffee, the little plastic wheels of their travel case clattering against the metal lip of the doorway as they wrestle it aboard. I step onto the quiet platform, the doors hissing shut behind me.

The old brick station sits almost empty at this hour, its newer covered bus stops stretching along the edge of the carpark. Across the way, the shopping complex is mostly dark, except for a few early workers heading into the supermarket entrance.

Dad’s ute waits beneath one of the flickering lamps. Relief hits so suddenly it almost hurts. He climbs out the second he spots me. His salt-and-pepper hair is sticking up on one side, checked shirt under his usual vest, as though he’s rolled straight out of bed to come get me.

“There she is.”

I manage a small smile as I step toward him, feeling his eyes flick over me.

My long dark hair is twisted into a low bun, probably more messy than intentional after hours against the train headrest. The deep green of my eyes is mostly lost in the dim light, shadowed beneath makeup smudged from hours of sleep and tears. My wrinkled uniform, untucked now, hangs awkwardly from my small frame. And, of course, there’s the complete absence of luggage.

One dark eyebrow lifts slightly.

“You look wrecked.”

“Thanks.”

“Come on, let’s get you home.”

I smile despite myself as he reaches over to squeeze my shoulder once before opening the passenger door for me.

He turns the heater on full blast the second he starts the engine.

We drive in comfortable silence, leaving the quiet streets of Ashgrove behind.

We stop at the last traffic light on the road home. Out the window, the petrol station’s forecourt is lit even though the fast-food place beside it is still dark. Beyond it, the highway narrows into a tree-lined stretch, street lamps thinning until the buildings give way to paddocks and wire fences.

Dad glances across at me. His storm-blue eyes are dark in the low light, catching only the faint glow from the radio. His gaze drops pointedly to the tie still tight around my throat.

“New fashion statement?”

I blink before realising what he means.

“Oh.” I tug uselessly at it again.

“C’mere.”

He reaches across easily, rough fingers working the knot loose in seconds.

“There.”

The relief is immediate and I exhale harder than I mean to.

Dad pretends not to notice.

Twenty minutes later he turns off the highway and takes the first left, the gravel crunching beneath the tyres. The driveway runs alongside the wire boundary fence, the paddock opening out beside us.

The house comes into view at the top of the rise, weatherboard and, according to Mum and Dad, deep burgundy red. It’s not, it’s very definitely pink.

A couple of cows are grazing beyond the front garden, half-hidden among the tall grass and gums.

Dad follows the driveway around behind the house, where the clothesline and covered BBQ area sit between the gravel and Mum’s gardens.

Home smells like eucalyptus and woodsmoke and something sweet Mum must’ve baked yesterday. For the first time in what feels like forever, I can breathe.

I barely remember showering. Or changing clothes. Just the overwhelming comfort of climbing into my old bed while the house creaks softly around me. Mr Monkey sits there, propped against the pillow. His brown fur has gone thin in places from years of being dragged into bed every night.

When I wake again properly, sunlight spills warm across my bedroom carpet. The monkey lies cuddled up under the blankets against me.

For a few disoriented seconds, I forget everything. Then it all rushes back at once.

Jo. Our fight.

Bennett. The look on his face when I told him to go to hell.

The train. Running before I could change my mind.

I roll over and squint at my phone on the charger beside the bed.

Still nothing.

Something sharp twists low in my stomach before I lock the screen again.

Outside, the rhythmic clang of tools carries faintly through the open window. Dad’s already moving around in the yard.

I stay in bed for another ten minutes staring at the ceiling before finally forcing myself up. I wander into the kitchen in one of my old jumpers and a pair of leggings.

The kitchen looks exactly as it always has: spotless, colourful and a little more than behind the times. The old white fridge gleams beside the two standalone cupboards my parents always meant to replace. The cupboards have been acting as a pantry for years now.

Every wall is painted a different colour because, when they first moved in, they thought they’d renovate eventually. The green and yellow somehow survived the plan.

Mum is already at the bench, still in her pink plush dressing gown, her short brown hair sitting with the soft, fluffy body her blow-dryer always gives it. One side is held back with the little comb she favours.

“Hey Mum.” My voice comes out rough from sleep. “Sorry I called so late.”

Mum waves the apology away and pulls me into a firm hug. My chin is level with her ear, and I have to tilt my head slightly to bring my cheek against hers, still not quite used to being the ‘tall’ one.

“Oh sweetheart, I’m just glad you’re home.” She makes a face. “I tried to wait up to greet you properly, didn’t mean to fall back asleep.”

“You needed sleep, so did I.”

I stifle a yawn that tells us both that the few hours this morning wasn’t nearly enough.

Mum reaches automatically for the bread beside the toaster.

“A little something to eat?”

“You don’t have to—”

“Everly.”

The warning is gentle but familiar.

I give up, sliding onto one of the stools instead while she fusses quietly around the kitchen.

“Honestly,” she says after a moment, slicing thin strips of butter with extra concentration, “a little extra pain is hardly going to stop me looking after my baby while she’s home.”

“I could’ve waited until next weekend.”

“Mm.” Mum glances over her shoulder briefly. “And missed the surprise bonus Everly time? Absolutely not.”

Dad appears a minute later in faded blue overalls, his work boots already dusty with dry grass.

“Look who decided to rejoin the land of the living,” he says, popping a quick kiss on Mum’s cheek, reaching past her in the cramped space for the kettle.

I just squint at him over heavily buttered toast.

He grins unapologetically.

“Fence came apart near the dam, give me a hand rolling wire?”

Honestly, the idea of doing something physical sounds infinitely better than sitting alone with my own thoughts.

“Sure.”

“Good girl.”

Outside, the air feels crisp and cool against my skin.

The property stretches quiet and familiar around us beneath pale morning sun as we climb the slope up the dusty path to the dam. Somewhere nearby a magpie chatters noisily from a gnarled pear tree in the old orchard.

Dad works mostly without talking while I help hold wire in place beside him. I’m grateful for it.

There’s comfort in the simplicity of the task.

Pull.

Hold.

Tie off.

Done.

At one point, the wire suddenly snaps back out of his grip again.

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters under his breath.

I instinctively step back well out of swinging range.

Dad looks over sharply.

“Did you just flinch?”

“Experience,” I say honestly, trying to hold back a smile.

“I am not that bad.”

His offended expression makes me snort.

“You threw the last fence stretcher into the dam.”

“That was one time.”

As I move back in beside him, I realise the tightness in my chest has eased, if only a little.

By the time we wind up the last length of wire, the sun sits higher in the sky. Dad gathers the leftover wire and tools, heading for the shed, while I drift toward the small goat paddock beside it.

Tabitha lifts her head the second she sees me approaching. Tall grass brushes softly against my borrowed gumboots as I step through the gate.

“There’s my girl.”

She ambles over without hesitation, pressing her head firmly against my hip while I scratch absentmindedly around her horns, behind her ears, under her furry little chin.

Dad leans against the fence nearby watching us.

“She’s been carrying on at the neighbour’s goat,” he says casually. “Little tart.”

A laugh huffs softly out of me.

“He escaped through the back fence the other week,” Dad continues. “But I reckon I caught him before anything happened.”

I rest my hand lightly against the soft white fur at Tabitha’s side. Warmth hums faintly beneath my palm. And something else, not movement exactly, just—

Knowing.

“Oh,” I say quietly.

Dad glances over.

“What?”

I look up at him.

“I bet you didn’t catch him in time.”

His eyebrows shoot upward.

He looks suspiciously at the goat.

Tabitha blinks back at him without shame.

“Traitor,” he mutters.

After dinner dishes have been cleared and Mum’s settled carefully into one of the dining chairs with her heat pack tucked against her side, Dad disappears down the hall before returning with the old poker tin balanced beneath one arm.

He rattles it meaningfully at me.

“You in?”

Dad taught me to play years ago during drought seasons and storm outages and long quiet weekends when there wasn’t much else to do.

Apparently I inherited his deeply unsettling ability to somehow know when everyone else is bluffing and Mum’s poker face.

Unfortunately tonight my brain feels like wet cement.

“I think I’m too tired to think that hard.”

“Coward,” Dad says.

“Your daughter’s running on next to no sleep. Be nice,” Mum murmurs from the table. Then, flexing one hand carefully: “Also my joints are already complaining at the thought of holding cards all night while you two quietly destroy each other.”

Dad considers for a second before disappearing again and returning with another box instead.

“Rummikub?”

“That I can do.”

Mum nods approvingly.

“Excellent. Something lower stakes.”

The familiar rhythm of the game settles around us. Tiles clack softly against the table.

Dad plays the same slow, methodical way he does everything else. Long silences while he studies the board like he’s mentally calculating every possible combination in existence.

If he suddenly starts dismantling half the runs already on the table, you know it’s over.

Mum’s the complete opposite. She plays like chaos theory. Tiles everywhere. Half-finished runs. Complete nonsense that somehow keeps becoming functional at the very last second.

On my turn, I study the tiles on my rack until the pattern finally clicks. One tile refuses to cooperate. I could do what Mum does and start rearranging half the board, but one quick scan tells me I’d probably make things worse.

I draw instead.

Dad watches Mum reorganise half the table with growing alarm.

“You make the board look like a crime scene.”

“And yet,” Mum replies serenely, placing her final tile down, “I still win.”

Dad stares at the board like he’s been personally betrayed.

I catch myself laughing before the sound even fully registers.

It feels strange after the last twenty-four hours.

Outside, night settles softly over the property while the kitchen glows warm around us. For a little while, everything else stays quiet.

No Jo.

No Bennett.

No replaying conversations until my chest hurts.

Just Mum humming absently while reorganising her tiles.

Dad trying to bluff everyone into believing he’s just about out.

Home.

Later, after the game’s been packed away and Dad’s wandered off to shower, I curl beneath the blankets in my old bed listening to the familiar creaks of the house settling around me.

A soft knock sounds against the doorframe.

Mum stands there in her dressing gown holding two mugs of tea.

I shift upright enough for her to sit beside me against the headboard, careful with her joints as she settles one of the mugs into my hands.

Peppermint. My favourite.

For a few minutes, neither of us says much.

The lamp beside my bed casts everything gold and soft while crickets hum faintly beyond the open window.

Mum waits me out patiently.

I stare down into my tea for a long moment before speaking.

“Jo and I... we had a fight.”

Author Note:

Hello, welcome to Book 2! 💚

Whether you’ve been with Everly since the beginning or you’ve just stumbled across her story, I’m so glad you’re here.

If this is your first visit to the Cross My Heart series, I’d definitely recommend starting with Book 1, At the Crossroads. While I’ll do my best to make this story enjoyable on its own, Book 2 builds on the relationships, mysteries, and emotional journey that began there.

New chapters will be posted weekly, and I can’t wait to share the next part of Everly’s journey with you.

As always, thank you so much for reading. Every comment, reaction, and favourite means more than you know. I hope you enjoy returning to Silvern. E x