Cooking Eggs

"I climbed out a window, dodged a kangaroo, and flew across the country—all so my brother could stay home making breakfast."

The sleep on the plane had been fitful at best—one of those half-conscious states where you're never quite sure if you've actually been asleep or just resting your eyes whilst your brain continued churning through worries. I'd woken to the announcement that we were beginning our descent into Hobart, my neck stiff from the awkward angle against the window, my mouth dry with that particular unpleasant taste that came from sleeping with recycled air blowing across your face.

The touchdown had been smooth. The taxi to the gate unremarkable. The usual shuffle of passengers retrieving overhead luggage and queueing in the aisle, everyone suddenly desperate to exit despite having nowhere urgent to be. I'd let them go, taking my time, in no particular rush to face whatever awaited me in the terminal.

Now I stood by the arrival gate, scanning the crowd with that particular kind of searching that came from expecting to see a specific face. The Hobart airport wasn't large—smaller than Adelaide, certainly nothing like Sydney or Melbourne—but it was busy enough that faces blurred together, a sea of strangers punctuated by occasional reunions and embraces.

There. Jamie's hand lifted in a wave, and I found myself raising mine in automatic response. But my eyes kept searching, looking past Jamie, looking for the person who should have been there beside him.

Luke wasn't there.

The absence felt physical, a hollow space where my brother's presence should have been. I made my way towards Jamie, weaving through the scattered groups of people, my confusion mounting with each step.

"Where's Luke?" I asked as I reached him, unable to keep the concern from my voice.

Jamie's expression soured immediately, a flash of something—irritation? resentment?—crossing his features before he answered. "At home cooking eggs."

The words hit me oddly. Cooking eggs. The mundanity of it, the sheer ordinariness, clashed violently with the urgency that had characterised Luke's phone call yesterday. With the plane tickets bought at the last minute. With the cryptic references to serious problems and desperate need for support.

"Oh," I said, and heard the disappointment leaking through that single syllable.

Luke didn't drive. I knew that. Had always known it. He'd never gotten comfortable behind the wheel, never developed the casual relationship with cars that most people managed. It was one of his quirks, something I'd learned to work around over the years. But still—still—he could have made an exception. Could have asked Jamie to drive whilst he came along. Could have been here to meet me after flying me across the bloody country because he'd said it was urgent.

Instead, he was at home. Cooking eggs.

The frustration bubbled up, hot and immediate. I'd climbed out a window. Driven through the night. Nearly hit a kangaroo. Ignored Claire's increasingly frantic calls. Slept in my car because I couldn't face going to Dad's. All because Luke had said he needed me, had bought expensive plane tickets to prove how much he needed me.

And he couldn't even be bothered to come to the airport.

I looked at Jamie properly then, really looked at him. We didn't know each other well. Our relationship existed almost entirely through Luke, a secondary connection that had never quite developed into something independent. We were cordial when we had to be, friendly enough in group settings, but we'd never cultivated the kind of relationship where we'd seek each other out independently.

The thought of the car ride ahead—just the two of us, navigating conversation without Luke as buffer—was not appealing. At all.

More than that, though, the situation was confirming my worst fears about what I was walking into. Luke and Jamie were having problems. Serious enough that Luke had flown me down. But serious enough that Jamie looked sour at the mere mention of Luke's name. Serious enough that they apparently couldn't even coordinate picking me up from the airport together.

Christ. What had I gotten myself into?

"You ready then?" Jamie asked, already turning towards the exit. There was impatience in his voice, a subtle edge that suggested he wanted this over with as much as I did.

"Have to collect my suitcase," I said, glancing towards the baggage claim area visible through the terminal.

Jamie stopped, turning back with a confused expression. "Suitcase?" He wrinkled his nose slightly, as though I'd said something bizarre. "How long are you here for again?"

"Only two nights," I said quickly, hearing the defensive note creeping into my voice.

Even as I said it, something occurred to me that sent a fresh spike of anxiety through my chest. Luke hadn't sent the return tickets yet. He'd bought my flight down, forwarded the confirmation, but nothing about getting back to Adelaide. Had I misunderstood? Was I supposed to be staying longer? Had Luke assumed something different about the length of my visit?

"So, why the suitcase?" Jamie's chuckle softened the question slightly, made it sound more curious than critical.

"It's more of an overnight bag, really..." I offered, knowing even as I said it that it was a weak distinction. The bag was definitely a suitcase. Small, yes, but undeniably a piece of checked luggage rather than the carry-on backpack that would have made more sense for a two-night trip.

Truth was, I'd packed in a rush and a panic, throwing in anything that seemed potentially useful without really thinking about weight or volume. The result was overpacked and under-considered, much like this entire trip.

"Fair enough," Jamie said, accepting the explanation with a shrug. "I'll wait over there for you." He gestured towards a row of plastic chairs positioned against the windows overlooking the car park.

I nodded gratefully and headed for the baggage claim. The carousel was already moving, bags beginning their slow rotation as passengers crowded around looking for their luggage. I hung back slightly, giving myself space, and tried to collect my thoughts.

Luke was at home cooking eggs. Jamie seemed tense but not distraught. There was clearly friction between them, but nothing about Jamie's demeanour suggested crisis-level problems. So what was I doing here? What exactly had Luke needed me for that required emergency flights and dramatic phone calls?

My bag appeared sooner than expected—a small mercy in a morning that had been short on them. I grabbed it off the carousel, feeling its weight in my hand. Too heavy for two nights. Definitely too heavy. But it was packed now, and unpacking it in an airport seemed pointless.

I made my way back to where Jamie waited, the bag rolling behind me with that distinctive rumble of luggage wheels on tile. He stood as I approached, pocketing his phone, and we headed towards the car park without much conversation.

The parking pay machine became our first minor conflict. I pulled out coins, attempting to contribute, but Jamie waved me off. "Don't worry about it."

But I pushed the coins into his jeans pocket anyway, a small act of insistence that felt important even if it was petty. I wasn't going to be a complete burden. I could pay for parking, at least.

Jamie didn't comment, just retrieved his ticket and fed it into the machine whilst I stepped back and tried to read his face. He looked fine. Normal. Not like someone whose relationship was imploding. Not like someone dealing with the kind of crisis that required emergency family intervention.

Either Luke had dramatically overstated the situation, or Jamie was an excellent actor, or I was missing something fundamental about what was actually happening here.

The silver Honda Civic was parked in the short-term section, clean and unremarkable. Jamie unlocked it and I climbed into the passenger seat, my stomach twisting with an anxiety I couldn't quite justify. The car smelt faintly of air freshener—something citrus—and the interior was tidy in a way that suggested Jamie kept on top of such things.

This is going to be a long drive, I thought as Jamie started the engine.

I didn't actually know how far Berriedale was from the airport. Thirty minutes? Forty? However long it was, it would feel longer, trapped in this confined space with someone I barely knew, both of us carefully navigating around the elephant that was Luke and whatever problems he was having that had brought me here.

I reached over and opened the window, letting the cool Tasmanian air rush in. It was crisp, noticeably cooler than Broken Hill, carrying that hint of ocean and vegetation that marked island climates. The freshness of it was momentarily bracing, clearing some of the fog from my head.

July in Tasmania meant winter, though nothing like the brutal winters I'd read about in other parts of the world. Just cool, crisp, occasionally wet. The kind of weather that required a jacket but not serious cold-weather gear.

Jamie pulled out of the parking space and navigated towards the exit. The silence between us felt heavy, weighted with all the things neither of us was saying.

I should probably make conversation. Ask about work. Comment on the weather. Do any of the social niceties that would make this less awkward. But exhaustion and confusion made the effort feel monumental.

Instead, I watched Hobart slide past the window—low buildings, roundabouts, the peculiar architecture that marked Australian regional cities. Everything looked slightly unfamiliar, slightly foreign, despite being in the same country I'd woken up in this morning.

The sense of displacement was profound. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I'd been in my home in Broken Hill, arguing with Claire. Now I was in Tasmania, in Jamie's car, heading towards Luke who was apparently fine enough to cook eggs but troubled enough to have flown me interstate.

Nothing about this made sense.

And I had the growing, uncomfortable suspicion that when it finally did make sense, when Luke finally explained what was actually going on, I wasn't going to like the answer.